Page 66 of Right Up His Alley

Permanently.

It’s better than I initially thought it would be. It’s no naked mermaid stabbing a wolf with a crucifix or one of Ezra’s dark JFK assassination tattoos, but I like my little badass bowling pin.

I finally drag myself upright, my hair a mess, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. As I search for Ezra’s name in my contacts, the anticipation of hearing his voice to start my day sends an exciting chill up the back of my neck. If he’s not at the alley already, I’d be surprised. There are a few more fixes to complete before the Congress makes their decision.

The phone rings. Then rings one more time before it shoots to his voicemail. If there’s one thing I know about Gen-Z phone etiquette, it’s that you never leave a message if you actually want the other person to know why you’re calling, so I hang up before the beep.

Instead, I type out a quick text so he can read it when he has time.

Good morning…hope everything is going well at Spare Time

I pull my tablet from the floor beside the bed. My inbox is full. It’s flooded with congratulations emails, requests for sponsorships, and invitations to bowling league events. Invitations that are a whole lot easier to decline than ones that come from my father.

I see a notification from my bank pop up, showing a deposit of ten thousand dollars into my account. Normally, I wouldn’t notice the money because I’d make another couple thousand in a day or two, going from one competition to the next on the road, saving up from the wins. But this paycheck isn’t just going to sit in the bank this time. I have big plans for it, even though I’m pretty sure Ezra won’t be too happy with what I have in mind. Still, it’ll be easier to ask forgiveness than permission, especially if Spare Time gets another modernized update out of it before the Congress makes their decision.

Call it an investment. It’s me doing what I want, what I’m drawn to do. Settling down.

I have several tabs open in my internet browser, all web listings for the wall art I’ve been eyeing for the alley these past couple of days. One page shows two massive wall-sized bowling-themed paintings involving a ball and pins. Both include high-energy air-brushed concepts with bold, vibrant geometric patterns. Exactly the 80s vibe we want for the alley. I can already picture them in Spare Time with one up against the wall near Lane 1, the other stretching down the wall near Lane 15.

They’d add so much character to the place. Making it feel newer. Like it’s not just crawling out of the past, but stepping into something a little more alive. I grin to myself, tapping the thumbnails to zoom in. I can’t help but think how much Ezra is going to love this style. It's him. He’s dark, unapologetic, but he’s more electric than neon. Or at least that's how he makes me feel.

It’s one of the things I love about him.

…Like about him. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, Truett.

I reach for my phone again, hoping to see a reply. But I don’t. The text is unread, just sitting there waiting for a response. I bet he’s working on getting the bumper on Lane 14 fixed. It’s something we talked about this weekend. With it not retracting properly, Ezra’s decision to call a local mechanic to evaluate the issue was a good one. I’m sure it just needs a worn-out spring replaced, but I’ll leave that for the technicians to figure out.

Right now, I need to decide if I should buy these paintings or not.

Oh, what the hell. Let’s get ‘em.

I follow the check-out prompts and choose the date for delivery. In three to five days, I’ll be seeing the surprise on Ezra’s face, and it’ll all be worth it. The website makes a swishing sound before a screen-wide red ribbon flashes across, thanking me for my purchase.

I toss the covers aside and plant my feet on the floor right beside my bed. My phone’s still in my hand. It’s heavy in a way that makes me feel silly waiting for a single text. I set it on the nightstand, the screen down, like that’ll keep me from checking it three more times before I put clothes on.

Downstairs, the smoky and sharp smell hits me first, like toasted bread and heated meat. Carlada’s in the kitchen, plating a breakfast sandwich with that same uncanny gift she’s had since I was ten, always knowing exactly what I’m craving.

Carlada is the kind of woman who claims space without effort, even though she’s shorter than almost everyone in the room. Loud jewelry she refuses to take off while cooking, louder opinions she’s not ashamed of having, and a voice rough around the edges like she’s spent her whole life yelling across crowded kitchens. Besides my mom, she’s the only other person to put my father in his place when he steps out of line. She acts tough, but there’s a softness to her. Usually in the way she feeds people. Or the way she says my name when she checks to see if I’m okay.

“There he is.” She smiles without looking up. “Better not let your father catch you sleeping in.”

I laugh under my breath and rub the back of my neck. “It’s still early. It’s only nine o’clock. Plus, I’m an adult.”

“Well, Mr. Adult, your father has already left for the day.” She hands me the plate. I mouth, Oh, thank god, exhaling under my breath. “Eat up,” she adds.

I take a bite of the croissant.

“So, tell me about this new boyfriend of yours?”

I inhale a flake of pastry so violently I start coughing into my fist. “Excuse me?”

“Your mother told me about some manager of a bowling alley with a nice ass. You’ve been spending a lot of time there, and I’m sure you like nice asses, so I’ve deduced he’s your boyfriend now.”

Warmth travels up my neck and floods my cheeks. I’ve always confided in Carlada whenever there was a special guy in my life, but with Ezra, I’ve kept us hush-hush. Not because Carlada would run off and tell the USBC, but because I can’t risk anyone finding out. Besides, I can’t deny there’s something sexy about keeping us a secret.

“When I’m actually allowed to say, I promise,” I take another bite, though this time I make sure to chew before swallowing, “you’ll be one of the first to know.”

She smiles and nods. I thank her, then ask if she can pack my sandwich to go. When I mention I’m heading to the alley to see Ezra, she lets out a mischievous little giggle. I glance at my phone again. This time, not to look for a response, but to see the time so I can plan my arrival. Yet, I can’t help but glance at the chat just out of curiosity. I see the message I sent is still marked as unread.