Page 75 of Right Up His Alley

I couldn’t bear to look at him for another second. Since then, when I think about how I couldn’t find the strength to just look into his beautiful brown eyes and apologize for everything I’ve said and done, I want to throw up.

But every morning since we ended whatever was between us, before I walk through the doors of Spare Time, I do the same thing: I shove all those thoughts deep down and lock them away in some stupid metaphoric box.

I get to the alley an hour earlier than normal because staying home means more time to face my mother’s sadness about how distant we’ve become. I can’t take that look anymore, especially since I’m still upset she kept me in the dark for so long, so I’ve found myself in the habit of skipping breakfast and heading in early.

The lights come to life as soon as I flip the switch, no buzzing sound or dull bulbs. It took me an entire day last week, and I had to learn by following a YouTube video, but I finally fixed the lighting in the alley. The space looks brighter, and it no longer sounds like the bulbs will explode at any moment. Despite my foul mood, I smile.

At least one thing has turned out alright since Truett and I stopped speaking. I hope he took note of the lights when he was here.

I make my way to the counter and power on the computer. After a few moments, it roars to life, and I pull up our check-in system. As I do, a notification at the top of the screen catches my attention. One new email. I click on it. Once it loads, I quickly scan the contents.

And my heart plummets. Right out of my ass.

It’s not a birthday party inquiry like I first assumed. No, it’s from the official USBC email address—the same one that sent over the rules and regulations weeks ago.

My stomach drops before I even finish reading it.

The email is a reminder that they’re coming for a visit today. Today.

A sharp wave of panic crashes into me so fast my chest tightens. I knew this was the day of the inspection. I’d circled it on my calendar, thought about it constantly, lost sleep over it. But somehow, it still didn’t feel real until now. Until this exact moment, staring at the email on my screen like it’s a ticking countdown.

Spare Time has changed so much since that first visit. Fresh coats of paint brighten the walls, we have functioning pinsetters I spent a weekend working on, the lighting is finally fixed, and the kitchen and arcade gleam with new appliances and furniture. The improvements are obvious, but all they do is make me think of Truett. The memory of him grips my chest, sudden and sharp. I wish he were here with me now, standing beside me while the USBC officials inspect the lanes. In such a short time, he became someone who steadies me without trying.

But I pushed him away.

And now he’s doing exactly what I asked of him.

I just never imagined it would hurt this much.

Despite the improvements to the alley, there is still much more that needs to be done. The bathrooms could use a deep cleaning, the front desk has more chips on it than paint, and some lanes still need to be polished and waxed with new cans of Fabulon lane finish that aren’t expired. I suppose none of that matters now—it’s judgment day.

The email states they’ll be here at 9 a.m. sharp. A quick glance at my watch tells me I only have thirty minutes. My heart beats rapidly in my chest, but the fear of losing the money attached to being the chosen alley spurs me on. I head straight to the janitorial closet and grab a sanitizer bottle and a rag. This whole alley is about to shine as bright as a fucking star.

I start in the bathroom—opting to wear gloves in here. I wipe down the sinks and finish with the toilet seats. They are passable, but they’re due for a major spring cleaning soon. Once both bathrooms are done, I switch out my rag and start to wipe down the counters and tables. I contemplated vacuuming, but my time is swiftly running out.

Fuck, I’m not ready.

I want Truett here.

He can’t be here, you fucking idiot.

Truett was with me during the first inspection, effortlessly handling the parts I struggled with most. He knew exactly how to talk to these men, how to laugh at the right moments and keep the conversation flowing smoothly, his genuine love for the alley shining through in every word. When my nerves locked my throat shut, he stepped in without hesitation, carrying the conversation like it was nothing. He made the inspectors feel welcomed the second they walked through the doors, winning them over with his warm smile and bubbly personality. Two things I don’t have.

Voices carry in from the front entrance, pulling me out of my thoughts. For a moment, I think it’s Truett. That he magically sensed I needed him, and he’s here diving into loud, obnoxious small talk with the reps and to hold my hand through this damn inspection, pretending like I never broke his heart.

But, of course, Truett isn’t one of the guys chatting as they stride across the alley toward the counter. Three men in formalwear are. One is the same man who visited the first time, while the other two are new to me. The new guys carry neon-green clipboards, while the other—Mr. Weathers, I think—gestures around like he’s giving them a tour. His eyes roam across the alley until they land on me, rag and disinfectant bottle in hand. Mr. Weathers offers a wave, and without waiting for permission, he tosses his bag onto one of the lane’s settees.

“Mr. Jiménez, good to see you again,” he says with polite enthusiasm.

I nod. “You as well, Mr. Weathers.”

“These two gents are Rafael and Grant.” He gestures to the men behind him, who both give me a curt wave. “As you might have guessed, they’re from the bowling association as well. I suspect you received our email about the inspection today. Is now a good time?”

As if I actually have a say in the matter. I want to scream no, but that would automatically disqualify me. I can’t lose my chances, slim as they are. “Now is a great time,” I lie far too easily.

“Great,” Mr. Weather says in an overly cheerful voice. “No need to show us around. We are just going to walk around the area and take notes. Much like last time.” He and his fellow associates walk by me, swiveling their necks to look from wall to wall. “I see you’ve updated some things since the last visit.” Mr. Weathers looks down at his clipboard, clearly reading something. “The wall color is new, yes?”

“Yeah, fresh paint. Goes with the flooring better,” I say lamely, my tongue feeling like lead in my mouth. I feel so out of my element here. My dad was good at this shit. Not me.