Page 72 of Right Up His Alley

I don’t stay standing. I don’t let myself linger there. I throw down a fifty-dollar bill before heading straight to the rack, grabbing a ball, and asking for permission to use Lane 2.

Ezra reappears from the back. Our eyes meet for half a second, and he tenses. It’s only been a little over a week, but he somehow looks older than before. Weighed down in a way I haven’t seen before. My heart aches for him, wanting to reach out and hug him. To tell him everything will be alright. But that’s not my place anymore.

Ezra composes himself first and looks away, and it feels like another knife to the heart. He keeps walking until he reaches his mom at the counter. He leans in and whispers something to her, then grabs his keys and repeatedly flips them over his finger on his way to the exit.

Mrs. Jiménez braces herself against the counter after he leaves, pressing her palms to her face before dragging in a long, exhausted breath.

The hours slip by without me noticing. Frame after frame, shot after shot. Some are clean; some are ugly. I adjust, reset, throw again. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, the sound of the ball gliding down the lane, the crack of the pins. A large part of me doesn’t even care where the ball lands. The way I’m throwing, I’m surprised they’ve all landed in my lane.

Although I talked myself into thinking I’m only here to practice, there is a bigger part of me—maybe more than I’d like to acknowledge—waiting for him to come back. Waiting for some stupid sign he’ll walk through that door and beg me to forget everything he said.

But I don’t think that will happen.

And so I keep throwing, keep fighting for the one thing already determined for me.

About an hour later, Ezra still hasn’t returned. I can’t stop myself from checking and double-checking the entrance, hoping to see him and also hoping I don’t. But when the door finally opens, I catch sight of someone unexpected slipping through. I can’t tell if I’m surprised or just… confused.

It’s my mom.

I blink, unsure if I’m seeing things. Then I wave her over. “Hey… what are you doing here?”

“Hey, sweetie,” she calls out as I meet her halfway. “I’ve been worried about you these past couple of days. You’ve been extra quiet. Carlada says you haven’t even been coming down for breakfast. I figured you’d be here.”

“Did Dad send you to check on me?” I roll my eyes.

“He did ask about you,” she says. “But, no, he didn’t send me. I am your mother. I’m fully capable of launching my own investigations.” She gestures toward the concessions area. “Also, does this place serve piña coladas?”

I stare at her.

“What?” she asks defensively. “Concerned mothers deserve tropical beverages.”

I shake my head, trying not to let my irritation over my father asking about me—or the fact that she knows me well enough to tell I’m hurting—bleed onto her. The part of her that is concerned takes precedence, and I love that about her, but I don’t have it in me to process everything that’s happened between me and Ezra. Not right now, at least.

“Ma, I’m starting to worry a little about you and your drinking.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “First your father starts monitoring me, now my own son? What’s next? An intervention? A celebrity rehab reality show?”

“I’m not trying to gang up on you.” The thought of teaming up with my father on anything right now sends a wave of irritation through my body.

“Well, it feels a little coordinated.”

“It’s just…” I shrug. “Now that I’m older and actually home more, I notice it.”

She studies me for a second, and some of the teasing slips from her face. “Baby,” she says, softer now, “I appreciate you caring. Really. But I promise you, I’m okay.” Then, just as quickly, the toughness snaps back into place. “And, for the record, nobody gets to tell me what I can and cannot drink. Especially the men in my life.”

“But—”

“Nope.” She points a finger at me. “I already have one husband trying to act like the Beverage Police. I refuse to have my son join the force.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

“There he is,” she says immediately, like she won something. “That’s the face I’ve been missing these past couple of days.”

I shake my head again. “You’re impossible.”