Page 88 of Right Up His Alley

Fuck, I love him. No, love isn’t a strong enough word for how I feel about Truett. My feelings can’t be put into words. It’s scary feeling this way about someone, but scarier still is the thought of losing him.

I nearly lost Truett once because of my own fear. I won’t let that happen again. And if that means I need to speak with my mom, then so be it. Doesn’t make the feeling of wanting to throw up go away.

“I’ll talk to her,” I say at last. Truett grins, but before he can get too excited, I hold up a hand. “I’ll talk to her once we close. And I want you with me when I speak with her. Please.” It’s within his right to tell me no, but I hope he doesn’t. This isn’t something I want to do without him. I could use his strength.

Truett seems to mull it over and, after a beat of silence, nods. “If you want me there, I’ll be there. Let’s go make sure everything is running smoothly before our mothers do something else that will make us go viral. God forbid they’re left to their own devices.” He shudders like the thought terrifies him.

Despite myself, I laugh. “Yeah, that could be bad. We better go out and babysit them.” I wipe away the last of my tears, only slightly embarrassed about my little panic attack. Once I’m ready, Truett takes my hand and leads me back to the alley.

It still catches me off guard—how packed the alley is. Every lane is taken, the clatter of pins echoing. The air smells like fryer oil and cheap nacho cheese, and our rack of bowling balls, usually stocked with every size and color, is nearly picked clean.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my mother behind the kitchen window with Mrs. Helen, talking to customers and cutting pizzas like she’s running a popular authentic Italian pizzeria. Her hair’s pulled back in a tight bun, her apron stained from the sudden rush. She doesn’t look up because she’s far too busy dealing with customers. Which is fine by me. I’m not ready for that conversation. Not right now. I will talk to her—just... not yet.

I throw myself into work, for once happy for the distraction. Truett—apparently my new employee—grabs a shirt from behind the front desk with our logo on it and pulls it over his head. He goes out to interact with the patrons, gravitating toward the families with children as he asks to cut in and teach them some bowling techniques. He looks happy. Genuinely happy. My heart warms at the sight, loving that my boyfriend has found his calling.

I’m in constant motion—bouncing between the front desk, unclogging the ball return gutters, hauling overflowing trash bags to the dumpster out back, and chatting with customers who seem in no rush to leave. The alley hums with energy, the buzz of conversation and crashing pins never letting up. Time slips by without me noticing.

When I finally flip the sign to “Closed,” the place is still half full, bowlers determined to finish their last games. For the first time in years—maybe ever—we stay open a full hour past closing. By the time the final group packs up and heads out the door, the weight of the day hits me all at once. Exhaustion drapes over me like a heavy coat, and I finally let myself breathe.

“Well, today was a rush, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Thorne—Rachel—says, popping out of seemingly nowhere. Despite the hectic nature of the day, she still looks poised and put together, minus the small stain on the collar of her shirt. “I haven’t worked that hard since I was a teenager.” She laughs. “If I were you, Ezra, I would think about hiring some more employees. I think you’ll start drawing in more crowds in the next couple of months. Call it mother’s intuition.” She pats my shoulder a little awkwardly. “Tell my son my feet are killing me, and I’ll be waiting for him in the car.” With that, Rachel takes her leave, disappearing from the alley.

Finally, a moment alone, my gaze sweeps over the lanes. There are a few items that need to be sanitized or put away, but for the most part, we kept the space relatively clean during the day. Mrs. Helen walks past me with her purse and keys, offering me a smile. “Congratulations on the success of the alley. Such a fun day. I’m assuming you’ll take your mother home?”

I smile at our neighbor. “Yes, I will. Thank you for all your help today.”

Mrs. Helen nods once before heading out the door. When I turn around, I find Truett and my mother sitting in the arcade with two fizzy sodas between them on the table. They both look exhausted, but the matching smiles on their faces soften the weariness around their eyes.

My stomach knots, nerves coming with a vengeance. I’m tempted to walk through the doors and not look back… but that only delays the inevitable. My decision is made for me when both Truett and my mom look toward me as if sensing my internal dilemma.

Here goes fucking everything.

My legs move before my mind can catch up, like I’m being pulled forward by some invisible force. I don’t stop until I’m standing in front of the empty chair at the table. Sitting down feels like trying to move through water—heavy, slow, deliberate—but I manage to lower myself into the seat, aware of both their eyes on me like spotlights.

My fingers thrum against the table, a nervous tic I’ve never been able to shake. I can’t bring myself to look at my mom. Maybe that makes me a coward, but I keep my gaze fixed on anything but her. Then I feel Truett’s hand wrap around mine—steady and grounding—stopping my thrumming motion.

I let out a shaky breath. “Mom, we need to talk.”

“Seems so.” I can’t make out her tone. Is she already angry? Upset?

I take another deep breath. Why is this so fucking hard?

“Mom… I…” I trail off, instinctually looking at Truett, needing his strength. He squeezes my hand as if to say, I’m here. Once again, I take a deep breath. “It’s about the alley. I know how much this alley means to you and how much it meant to dad. How it was his pride and joy⁠—”

“Mijo, no. You were his pride and joy. This alley? This was something he started so he could spend more time at home and less time on the road. Remember how he used to be a semi driver? You were so young, so maybe you don’t. He thought Spare Time would allow him to have more time with you.”

My head snaps to attention, brows furrowed. “Dad used to be a semi driver? How did I not know this?”

Mom just shrugs. “It was long ago. You were so small. It feels like a lifetime ago.” Her smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes. I know speaking about Dad is hard on her. They had been together since high school, and I can’t imagine the pain of being separated from your soulmate and forced to do life without them.

“Well, the point still stands. Dad loved this alley, and people loved Dad. He had a way of making this alley come alive. People came here to bowl, sure, but they also came for Dad. He created a sense of community because of how much he loved what he did. When he died—” my voice cracks.

Grief is strange. My father’s been gone for a year now. I’ve learned to cope with the loss, but sometimes it comes out of nowhere, and the stabbing pain feels as fresh as the day it happened. The grief never leaves; it always lingers just around the corner, waiting for its moment to strike.

My mom reaches for the hand Truett isn’t holding. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s crying. The dam holding my tears back is close to bursting. “I’ve wanted to make him proud. I’ve only ever wanted to make you both proud of me. You’ve given me so much in this life, and I need to return it.”

“That’s not your job.”

“But—”