Page 34 of Right Up His Alley

Truett looks at the clock behind the cashier, then looks back at me. “I should probably get going after we take these to your car.”

“Yeah,” I say, even though part of me wants to stretch this out just a little longer. “You’ve got… preparations.”

“Something like that.”

We head outside together, the heat already settling in despite the early hour. His fancy car looks as out of place as ever in a parking lot like this, all sleek lines and polished red, while I stand there thinking about peeling wall paint and scuffed floors. He moves between those worlds easily. I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in either of them. If I even fit.

Once we reach our cars, we load the paint into my trunk. I shove my hands into my pockets to keep myself grounded. “Text me when you’re back.” I’m aiming for nonchalant and hoping it sounds that way. There’s more I want to say, but the words don’t come.

“I will.”

The dread around us stays longer than it should, stretching just enough to make me think something else might happen—something more than a simple goodbye in a paint store parking lot. But then he smiles, easy and bright, and slides into his car.

“Don’t go changing your mind now and paint the place Barbie pink while I’m gone, Ken,” he says once the window is down.

I snort, stepping back. “That will never happen.”

He lingers for a second longer before pulling out of the lot, lifting his hand in a small wave. I watch until the car disappears. Then I exhale and roll my shoulders back, forcing my priorities back into place. Midnight blue. Four gallons of it. An entire alley to cover in one night.

Not exactly the kind of canvas I want.

I’d rather be working with ink. Skin instead of walls. Arms, backs, the curve of a shoulder, the soft buzz of a machine in my hand instead of a damn paint roller.

Something I know I’d prefer to spend all night doing. Something that actually means something to me.

Maybe I should call Damien. See if he can spare a few hours, or at least keep me company. I’m sure he’d ask for some more of my time in return, sweeping the parlor’s floors and switching out used supplies with new ones. It’d be another favor added to the list, but those are the kind I don’t mind owing him.

If I just keep moving, keep busy tonight, then maybe I won’t think about Truett not being here. Or even why I’m starting to feel like I need him to be.

Arriving at Albuquerque’s City Open Championship, I push open the doors to the alley. For the first time in a long time, I feel actual dread walking into a bowling alley. Even with a likely win here in New Mexico—and after a full day spent in the back of a limousine with my father—I can’t shake the distress from the awkward goodbye Ezra and I shared this morning.

I would rather be at Spare Time painting its walls, but of course I’m stuck, registered for a competition I honestly don’t give two shits about. The look on Ezra’s face, even though it was blank for the most part, still told me everything I needed to know. I was letting him down by not being there to help him with the first major project.

It’s not like I broke the exact promise I made. I only told him I’d not compete in the national championship if it meant Spare Time would be chosen. But I still feel terrible leaving him to paint by himself. I shouldn’t have led him on. The registration for the City Open happened so fast, and I’ve been so caught up pouring my energy into Spare Time that I never discussed my plans with Ezra. When Brett Thorne tells me to jump, I still don’t know how to say I’d rather not. And now here I am, standing in a place that looks more like a swanky hotel lobby than a bowling alley, wishing I were back at the drab lanes of Spare Time.

“Alright, I’ll take care of registration,” Dad says, barely slowing as he heads toward the check-in counter. “Go get your shoes on and start practicing.”

He’s already halfway across the alley before I can say anything. Not that it matters. He doesn’t expect a response from me, only perfect obedience.

I let out a slow breath, adjusting my grip on my duffel as I glance around. The walls are lined with framed artwork, but not the cheesy kind I usually see in alleys. No cartoon bowling pins with goofy faces or bowling balls designed as planets. Instead, there’s a mural stretching across the far wall, a stylized painting of a strike in motion, with blurred streaks of color giving it this cool sense of movement. I snap a quick picture on my phone. Ezra would absolutely hate this place. It’s not at all how he’d want to see our place turn out. I can’t wait to see his face when I show him.

Our place.

It’s not like I consider Spare Time as mine in the ownership kind of way, but I do feel I’m allowed to think of it as a sanctuary. In the same way a child thinks of their parents’ home as theirs, that’s how I like to think of the alley. I’m proud to be a part of the legacy Arsenio Jiménez left behind.

But it’s more than the legacy. It’s about the feelings and memories Spare Time holds for me. I can’t help but think back to my early days, hearing Mr. Jiménez loud and clear as he taught me the basics of bowling. His voice was always steady, patient, paternal—unlike that of my dictator father. Ezra may have some feelings toward his dad for pushing him into the family business, but pushy isn’t how I remember him.

Sitting in the back of a limousine for ten straight hours has left the calf muscles in my legs cramping. I stretch them out first, then begin to unlace my sneakers.

The seating area is modern, with cushioned benches instead of stiff plastic chairs I’ve spent way too many hours in before. My ass lets out a thank you in advance. The ball return is sleek, the monitors above the lanes aren’t lagging with outdated animations, and there’s this clean, open feel to the whole place. This center has style, and I can’t wait to tell Ezra all about it when I get home.

I slide on my bowling shoes and tighten the laces, glancing toward the lanes Dad wants me to study and analyze.

Oil patterns. Board markings. Pin reactions.

That’s what I should be focused on.

Or at least that’s what Brett Thorne believes I should be doing.