Page 81 of Right Up His Alley

There are a few grumbles, a dramatic sigh or two, but thankfully, no one throws a bag of chips at me, or worse, a bowling ball. Most flash me understanding smiles, content to wait a little longer until help shows up. They shuffle back to their lanes, and I take a second to breathe. Just a second. Then I’m off again, already behind on my next task.

By the time I get through six more groups, all lanes have been claimed. The chatter and laughter in the alley convey joy and excitement as people compete in friendly—and sometimes not so friendly—games. There’s still a line of people waiting for space, and I have no system in place for a waitlist. I’ve never needed one before.

What the fuck did my dad do? He was old school, so he probably made a list by hand.

I scramble behind the desk and find blank sheets of paper and a few pens to have the crowd sign up with their names and party numbers. It’s not the most efficient way, but it works for now. At least until I can figure out a better system.

Just as the last group puts their name on the list, the front doors open again. I freeze, wondering if this is a second influx of people, but immediately sag in relief when I see Mom and Mrs. Helen walk in.

My mom’s eyes are wide, darting from lane to lane as laughter, music, and the crash of bowling pins echo around us. There’s a childlike wonder sparkling in her eyes that I haven’t seen in over a year, the kind that makes her look lighter somehow, like grief isn’t weighing so heavily on her shoulders for once. Her smile trembles as she takes everything in, one hand pressed against her chest like she’s trying to hold together the overwhelming happiness shining across her face.

When her gaze finally lands on me, her eyes glisten with tears. “This is your father’s doing,” she says once she’s close enough to pull me into a hug. “I know he’s watching over us. I know he’d be proud of you, son.”

I bristle at her words, not feeling like I deserve the praise. I’m still lying about my own happiness and wants. I still don’t love the alley like my father loved the alley. But I don’t say any of this because my mom clearly finds comfort in this story she’s created. I’m not going to take that from her.

After a moment, Mom pulls away from me, gently squeezing my shoulder. “Mrs. Helen and I will work in the kitchen. You man the front desk. You are better with computers. If anything comes up and we need your help, we’ll find you.”

As guilty as I feel for asking my mom to work when she should be enjoying her day doing her favorite hobbies, I’m also extremely grateful for her presence here. I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you, Mamá. And…” I pause. “I’m sorry I got upset with you. You were only trying to…”

She puts her hand up to silence me, then places it on my shoulder. The squeeze she gives is enough to let me know that everything is all right between us, not to mention the way she’s looking at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time. With one last smile, she and Mrs. Helen scurry off to the kitchen. Having her here brings my anxiety down to a more manageable level, though it’s impossible to ignore.

I quickly fall back into my routine—constantly scanning the lanes, crossing names off the list, and making adjustments on the fly. The first two hours are nonstop, a steady stream of traffic that keeps me on my feet and moving without pause. By the third hour, the pace finally starts to ease a little. There are still names on the waiting list and new customers trickling in, but I finally have a moment to catch my breath. I still haven’t figured out why all these people woke up and suddenly became bowling enthusiasts, but I’m thankful for their patronage. It’ll go a long way in being able to save up for bills.

My break doesn’t last as long as I would have liked because, a moment later, the bell above the doors rings again.

I try to hide my tired groan as I push myself off the wooden bench. “Welcome to Spare Time; there’s a wait—” The words die on my tongue when I look up and see a familiar face. And yet, I don’t think I’ve ever actually spoken with her. She’s tall, maybe middle-aged, and pretty. There’s an aura of entitlement around her, but it’s surprisingly not off-putting. Her blue eyes—I swear I’ve seen them before—dart around the alley as if looking for something or someone.

Finally, they land on me, and her face brightens. “You must be Ezra.” She offers me her manicured hand, which I take. “You are exactly what I pictured. You have your mother’s eyes and your father’s jawline.”

My brow furrows in confusion. “You know my parents?”

“Oh, yes. You missed quite the party the other day. Your mother can throw back some piña coladas,” she laughs, “and your father, he was such a good man. I’m sorry about your loss. He was a great teacher. Got my son to love the game.”

I search her face for where I know her from—a Spare Time regular, a family friend, the USBC—but nothing comes up.

She squints slightly as she takes me in. “Ah, darlin’, you don’t know who I am, do you?” There’s a slight pout on her features, like she can’t possibly believe I’ve no idea who she is. There’s nothing arrogant in the way she asks, though.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Should I?”

“You most certainly should. @ThorneyPins? I guess I’m also your new social media volunteer and guru for Spare Time.”

“Guru? We don’t have social⁠—”

She waves her hand. “Now you do, sweetie. I’m⁠—”

Before she can answer, the front door to the alley bursts open again. A cluster of colorful balloons fills the doorway, completely hiding the face of whoever is carrying them. One balloon breaks free, drifting lazily upward until it brushes the ceiling—where it hovers, slowly sinking as the helium inside fades over time.

“Ah, there he is now.” The woman beams, only heightening my confusion. “He was trying to tame the balloons when I got out of the car.”

The person holding the balloons jogs the small distance between the doors to the counter, nearly tripping over a wayward toddler who escaped from his mother’s lap. “Sorry!” a voice I recognize says.

My body tenses. Everything else around me fades to a dull ring, and time stops completely. I can’t think… can’t breathe, but my body moves on its own accord, pulled by an invisible rope connecting two people. I can’t focus on anything other than the hidden person behind the balloons.

It couldn’t be him.

I told him to go. Made him believe I didn’t love him or need him anymore. I watched the moment his heart broke—felt mine split right alongside it.

He should hate me. After everything I said, everything I did to push him away, he had every reason to disappear forever.