Page 68 of Right Up His Alley

Damien appears behind him, tightening his belt and shaking his head. “Dude, I took a break to piss. I told you to stay in the chair,” he snaps. “And put your fucking shirt back on. I’m literally just tattooing your leg.”

What the fuck?

“Ezra?”

I don’t say anything else, not because I can’t, but because there’s too much racing through my head all at once. I can’t grab hold of a single thought long enough to speak it out into existence.

My jaw clenches as I look him over. There’s a new tattoo on his thigh, raw and swollen. The skin around it is red and irritated, the artwork clearly still unfinished. Damien stands off to the side, seemingly frustrated by Ezra’s drunken state.

“Truett, what’re you doin’ ‘ere?” His voice comes out loose and sloshed. His eyes land in my direction but don’t quite lock onto me, like he knows I’m there, but he can’t fully see me or even make out where my eyes are.

“I could ask the same of you.” I look over at Damien. “Do you always tattoo people when they are intoxicated?”

“Yo, I know what this looks like, and I can guaran-damn-tee you he wasn’t this smashed an hour ago when we started. He had like two shots, and when I stopped to hit the head, I came out, and his ass downed almost my entire bottle.” He turns to Ezra. “Bro, I definitely can’t finish your tattoo tonight. I’m sorry you’re going through whatever it is you’re going through. You know I’ve been there. But this…this isn’t the way to go. Truett⁠—”

At the sound of my name, Ezra scoffs, like I’m the reason he’s completely plastered.

Damien continues, “Truett, you think you can drive him back home?”

Ezra’s head wobbles between me and Damien. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes and lips move like he’s trying to argue. Nothing comes out. He shakes his head, exhaling short, angry bursts through his nostrils.

He clearly wants nothing to do with me right now, but I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant this kind of reaction. I can see Damien was put in a hard spot, so I don’t want to put too much blame on him. Grief is hard, and at least Ezra has someone he could go to who understands.

But I want to be that person for him.

Damien quickly cleans him up, making sure the start of his tattoo is protected. Ezra wrestles his shirt back on and stumbles toward the chair, tripping over himself as he pulls on his jeans, rolling them up so they don’t brush against his tattoo. He shuffles past me without a word, bumping my shoulder on the way. I glance at Damien to mouth, sorry, thank you, and he nods.

If his behavior toward me says anything, it’s that my entire world is about to crash in front of me. Since coming back home, I’ve wanted nothing more than to settle down and figure out whether bowling still has a place in my life moving forward. Connecting with Ezra, I’ve wanted us to build something… real. Especially with everything we’ve done in the alley…

And now this.

The real Ezra.

Cold, distant, and detached.

Was it all for nothing?

“Ezra?” Truett slowly pronounces my name like he’s moments away from losing it. “Your mom didn’t know where you were. You texted me you weren’t feeling well, but it looks to me like you’re drunk off your ass and ignoring me.”

I flinch and look down at the raw, irritated outline of the tattoo Damien had been in the middle of. It’s a sketch I drew of a sharpened dagger, tall and regal. Coiled around the blade is a dragon, his eyes burning with undefined purpose. It’s a piece I’ve been wanting for a while, but hadn’t committed on a spot… until today. I needed to feel the red-hot pain of a needle to distract myself from the whirlwind of emotions warring inside me.

That pain I can handle, but all the shit just thrown at me? I feel like I’m drowning. Which is why I numbed more of the pain with alcohol, even if Damien said it was a bad idea. The sober part of me knew it was, but I didn’t want to be sober. It hurt too damn much.

Truett looks at me expectantly, and for a moment, I forgot what he said. Slowly, his words come back to me. “You spoke to my mom?” I run a hand through my hair.

Truett purses his lips together. The hurt and judgment in his eyes slice through me, hurting more than the tattoo needle from earlier. It’s the genuine disappointment on his face that fucks me up. I don’t like disappointing him, but it seems to be a theme in my life currently.

Not able to make enough at the alley to pay bills.

Not upholding my father’s legacy.

Focusing on my dreams, rather than the very real reality in which I live.

Just add Truett to the list of people I’ve let down.

“You’re drunk,” he says again as if I’ve suddenly forgotten. I watch the light die in Truett’s eyes. He says nothing more; he just stands there, like he’s trying to hold himself together with nothing but the pieces I just smashed.

The regret is instant, sharp, but I don’t reach for him. I can’t. I don’t deserve to. He deserves better.