Page 37 of Right Up His Alley

“Damn, not your typical championship, am I right? Sore losers.” Dad says the last part under his breath.

“No, but given it’s a weekday night, and everyone is probably exhausted, I’m not surprised there are no banging pots and pans or loose streamers popping out of small plastic cannons to congratulate me.”

“Well, in that case, I’m going to go grab our trophy.” He pauses. “That’s if they even have one to give out? I’ll meet you out in the limo. Don’t take too long. I need to get back so I can watch some tapes of last year's USBC Tournament. A real bowling championship. Not whatever this was tonight.” Without another thought, he shuffles toward the counter where the announcer was set up.

Typical Brett Thorne behavior. Not even satisfied when I win.

I slip on my regular shoes, readying myself to head out, when I hear quick footsteps behind me. Gavin runs up, his face beaming. I didn’t even realize he was still here. “Mr. Truett,” he says, a little out of breath. “Thank you so much for teaching me how to bowl. I can’t wait to tell my friends at school tomorrow I met a celebrity!”

Before I can respond, he throws his arms around my leg in a quick hug, then takes off just as fast as he ran up to me. I stand there for a moment, watching him rejoin his mom and little brother. The feeling of helping someone, just as Mr. Jiménez once helped me, is better than the thrill of winning tonight’s top prize. As I step out of the alley, I can’t help but grin, already eager to tell Ezra all about it.

Ilook like a Smurf if he had one too many drinks at the bar and fell down three flights of stairs, bruising every inch of his body. Damien didn’t fare much better, and both of us underestimated how difficult it is to not make a mess while painting an entire bowling alley. Of course, his help cost me another favor at his parlor, but I was happy to oblige. It’s the only practice I get these days.

It took two whole days to paint the alley, since it needed multiple coats, and we didn’t finish until well into the evening on the second day. I hated keeping the alley closed, but what else could I do? I couldn’t have customers getting high on the fumes, hurting themselves, and then suing me for their medical expenses.

Honestly, it’s amazing what changing a coat of paint can do, though. I mean, it doesn’t magically fix everything, but it no longer looks like a neglected building with random marks and stains on the wall. Truett was right about the color. It’s exactly the shade Spare Time needed.

By the time Damien and I finally called it a night and headed home, it was already late. A dull, throbbing headache had settled behind my eyes, courtesy of the paint fumes that clung stubbornly to the back of my throat.

I’d originally planned to reopen the alley the next day, but there was no way the paint would be fully dry in time. And even if it was, the place needed at least a full day to air out. No one was stepping inside while it still smelled like chemicals. Which meant the alley would stay closed another day. It was the last thing on my mind before exhaustion pulled me under into a deep, well-earned sleep.

The next morning, the rich, savory aroma of huevos con chorizo and warm, buttery tortillas drifts into my room, pulling me from sleep before I’m fully ready to wake. My stomach tightens with sudden hunger, making the decision for me. There’s no going back to sleep with a smell like that lingering in the air. The promise of a homemade breakfast is all the motivation I need. Within minutes, I’ve dragged myself out of bed, thrown on some clothes, and am already making my way toward the kitchen, drawn in by the scent and the steady growl in my stomach.

Mom is in her usual flowy blue dress, mandil tied neatly over it to protect her clothes from flour. She hums along to the Tejano music, completely in her element.

“Morning, Mamá,” I say from behind her.

My mom jumps, turning around as if I’m a robber coming to steal her breakfast, rather than her son—who, admittedly, is coming to steal her breakfast.

“¡Ay, Dios mío! Mijo, why are you walking around scaring me? It’s not good for my heart,” she chastises, then scrunches up her nose at me as if she’s smelled something rotten. Or maybe she still smells the paint on me. I certainly do. “Why aren’t you ready to go to the alley, Ezra? You slept in today.”

It was only seven-thirty, but my mom is an early riser. She’s usually up by six every morning. She claims she likes to get her day started early, not wanting to miss even a minute of sunshine.

“I painted the alley⁠—”

“You did what?” My mom’s hand flings out, grabbing the counter to steady herself. She takes me in like she’s seeing a ghost—or my father. “Painted?”

Feeling awkward, I shift my weight from foot to foot, bringing my hand up to rub the back of my neck. “I mean, yeah.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. I didn’t expect her to react this way. “Truett and I have decided to renovate the alley a bit before the USBC guys come back to judge it.”

A knowing smile plays on my mom’s lips, eyes lighting up like a child who just received a new toy. I expect her to comment on the initiative I’m taking on the alley to get Spare Time ready for the next inspection. We both know how much the money would help us.

Except she focuses on the wrong thing. “Truett?” She nudges me, waggling her brows at me in a cartoonish fashion. “As in Truett Thorne, the little bowler who used to frequent Spare Time? He’s made quite a name for himself.”

Of course she knows who he is. Everyone in the bowling world does, so I nod.

“Is Truett a friend or a friend?” she pries, prodding for more information.

The warmth climbing up my neck doesn’t go unnoticed. Her eyes catch it instantly, and a giddy, almost childlike giggle slips past her lips. If there’s one thing my mother has always wanted for me, it’s a partner—someone to build a life with. She never cared whether that person was a man or a woman, only that I wouldn’t have to face the world alone.

Before she can get too excited, I quickly say, “He’s just a friend.” A friend I think about kissing and dragging into my bed, but a friend nonetheless.

My mother clearly doesn’t believe me. She pats my shoulder before beckoning me over to the stove. “Come. Eat. Tell me all about the remodeling and this man who has you taking an interest in our alley.” She says the last part with a knowing smirk.

My cheeks flush deeper despite my best efforts, basically confirming my attraction for this sunshine of a man even more. Because that’s what Truett is. The light to my darkness. Optimism to my pessimism. It should annoy me, and yet I find myself yearning for the next time I would see him again.

As expected, breakfast is delicious, and I eat enough for four people. I also manage to avoid in-depth conversations about Truett. It’s not like I’m trying to hide him or anything; I’ve just never been good at talking about these sorts of things. Plus, there’s not much to tell at the moment. Truett and I… whatever is brewing between us, it’s new and fragile. I’m not ready to put a name or label to it. Luckily, she noticed my reluctance to speak about him and didn’t push me. Probably for the first time in history.

However, she did ask me to take her to the alley today so she could see the freshly painted walls for herself, and I’m more than happy to oblige. Pride still hums beneath my skin from yesterday’s work, and I’m curious to see whether the sharp sting of paint fumes has faded at all.