Keep My Heart in San Francisco

by Amelia Diane Coombs

  Hustling. The word alone throws me. “Enlighten me,” I say, the pulse of nerves making my hands shake. I cross my arms so Beckett can’t see my weakness.

  Beckett glances darkly at Bigmouth’s closed doors. “Not here.”

  Wow, dramatic.

  I tread behind Beckett as we walk along the street and stop at a parked junker near an expired meter. The car is a patchy blue, from the eighties by the condition. A Honda Accord. “Nice ride,” I say sarcastically.

  “You’re just jealous I have one,” Beckett fires back, rounding to the other side of his shitty little car.

  He has a point. Having been held back in kindergarten, Beckett turned sixteen last year, before our fight. We couldn’t wait until his provisional license period was over. City driving sucks, and parking is worse, but there’s something to be said for the freedom of having your own car. Or so I’ve been told. I don’t even have my learner’s permit.

  Beckett leans across the seat and unlocks the passenger door from the inside, popping it open. I duck into the Accord, which smells of coffee and something warm and spicy, like cinnamon breath mints. Not bad, but weird. Like this entire situation.

  “Can this deathtrap make it up the hills?”

  Beckett turns on the radio. His phone has a cassette player adapter plugged into the headphone jack, and he studies the screen before selecting a song. Father John Misty’s “Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings.” I introduced him to the singer, and the fact that he still listens to him irks the hell out of me.

  The car lurches as Beckett shifts into gear, and he flashes me a smile. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  Oh my God, I’m going to die.

  At least the music is appropriate.

  * * *

  “How have you never been to Dynamo’s?” Beckett’s accusation rivals Black Francis’s hoarse scream in “Hey” on the Pixies’ Doolittle album playing through the speakers.

  The Accord chugs up a hill, and my knuckles whiten as I clutch the seat’s edge. “Stop making it sound like I’ve broken a law. It’s a doughnut place.”

  Beckett laughs. “That’s where you are so, so wrong.”

  On Saturdays, street parking’s the worst, but we find a spot a few blocks away.

  Beckett lopes beside me, his stride longer than mine. When he’s not looking, I study him. He’s dressed nicer today than usual. Jeans without various stains. A long-sleeve with mismatched, chipped buttons. His loose curls become tousled in the wind.

  The whole package is messy and categorically endearing; my heart thuds faster. I blame the uphill walk and misplaced hormones. Because even if Beckett Porter is mildly attractive, his looks no longer have any effect on me. Who cares if he’s gotten marginally more handsome over the past year? He’s still a pain in my ass. He still ruined our friendship.

  We stand in line at the outdoor counter, and I am loath to admit the eclectic doughnut menu sounds tasty: Coconut Macadamia Nut, Hazelnut Lavender, Chocolate Rose, and more. I place an order for a plain coffee. Just to spite him.

  “Black coffee?” Beckett scoffs. “Nope, you are not coming here just for black coffee.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I insist, even as the sugary smell makes my mouth water against my will.

  Beckett sighs and sways his head side to side. “You’ve always been an awful liar. We’ll need to fix that.” He pushes me aside and orders a Meyer Lemon Huckleberry, a Maple Bacon, and a second large coffee.

  Typical Beckett. Acting like he knows everything about me. Maybe he knew everything about sophomore-year Chuck Wilson, but a lot can happen—and change—in a year. I’m not the same person. Sophomore-year Chuck preferred full-name Caroline until winter break, and she was far more trusting than I am now.

  After getting our doughnuts and coffee, Beckett snags the last open table out on the garden patio. He takes a plastic knife and cuts the pastries in half, handing me one of each.

  “These are the best in the city, and it’s the ideal time of day to eat doughnuts. It’d be a crime if you didn’t try them.”

  “A crime? Aren’t you okay with those?”

  “Ha-ha,” he says. “Doughnuts are too sweet for breakfast, but most shops close or run out of the good stuff past one or two. Thus, early afternoon is key doughnut-consumption time.”

  “Right.” I tentatively nibble into the first doughnut.

  He wolfs his down in two bites.

  “Don’t choke.”

  Beckett points at me, chewing and swallowing. “Aw, Chuck, you care about my well-being.”

  “Nope. I don’t know the Heimlich maneuver, and I don’t have the morgue’s number on speed dial.”

  Beckett howls with laughter, garnering glares from the other patrons, and my lips twitch with a grin. “I can’t believe you’ve never been here,” he says, eyes rolling back in his head as he finishes his second half. “Actually, I believe it considering you live at that bowling alley.”

  “I do not,” I reply. “I go places.”

  “Yeah?” Beckett pushes his hair from his eyes. “Where?”

  Copious estate sales. Berkeley for their thrift stores. That art-house movie theater in the Oakland Hills. The San Francisco Public Library. But I’m not defending myself to Beckett.

  To change the subject, I say, “These aren’t half bad.”

  “They’re the best things on this planet.”

  “How could you tell?” I say. “You inhaled them.”

  Beckett smacks his lips. “I got a little mouth feel before I swallowed. Delicious.”

  “You’re disgusting. Also, ‘mouth feel’? Really?”

  “I’m not disgusting. I’m rather charming.” He leans back in his chair, self-satisfied. I can’t help but smirk at the crumbled glaze clinging to his upper lip. Huh. Beckett has facial hair now? When did that happen?

  “And humble.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like to brag.”

  The smirk grows into a full-blown grin, and I hide my smile behind the rim of my mug. I will not smile for Beckett Porter. Despite the warmth in my chest, goose bumps line my arms. Like my central nervous system is running on overdrive.

  “Can I ask you something?” Beckett’s eyes flit from my lips to my eyes, and those goose bumps multiply.

  “Sure,” I say, trying to keep things light. “But we need to focus before all this sugar and caffeine puts me in a coma.”

  “I apologized for what happened at that party. Not immediately, but I apologized.”

  All my warmth and goose bumps disappear. Every tamped-down emotion that’s lived inside my chest the past year bubbles to the surface. Today, with Beckett, has felt way too normal, too much like it was before we tore our friendship apart. I was right to be upset with him, wasn’t I? Because I’m starting to second-guess myself, and it’s making me cold-sweat through my T-shirt.

  “Why’d you have to ruin our friendship over a mistake?” Beckett continues. “A shitty mistake, yeah, but I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Except you did.” My voice cracks, and I hate myself. Don’t get upset, I school myself. Not in front of him. I squeeze the chunk of doughnut so tight it turns to mush between my fingers. “You may have not started them, but the rumors about my mom—about me, my mental health—were your fault.”

  Beckett scratches his neck. “I didn’t lie—”

  “Fuck you.” The words escape, more hostile than intended, but really I’m trying not to cry. I hate that he still has this effect on me. I scramble to gather my things. Why did I think I could do this? This was a mistake.

  “Chuck.” Beckett reaches for me, but I back away. “Leave if you want. I’m not holding you hostage. You’re here because you want to hear me out. But first I’d like to clear the air.”

  After taking a deep breath, blinking to hide the rush of pain, the swirling mixture of resentment and sadness fades. Slightly. I drop back into my seat. “I need the money, but we don’t need to dredge up the past to work together. I just… I can’t deal with
what happened between us. Not right now.”

  “If not now, when? Chuck, I need some closure here. Please,” Beckett says, his tone bordering on desperate. “After I apologized to you and your dad, you refused to acknowledge my existence.” He picks at the sheet of wax paper that came with our doughnuts. Tears it to shreds. “Your dad accepted my apology, but you never did. Why can’t you forgive me?”

  My heart swoops with guilt, but the aftertaste is a familiar prickle of resentment. After what he did, I couldn’t trust him. And if I couldn’t trust him, we could never be friends again. What was the point in forgiving him if our friendship was over?

  “I can’t forgive you because I don’t, and I’m not looking to ease your guilty conscience.”

  I thought saying those words would make me feel better. Slam the door shut on our situation for good, locking it up so tight that Beckett would never have a chance of breaking it down. But all I’m left feeling is hopeless. And kind of like an asshole. Thinking these things about Beckett is one thing. Saying them to his face is another.

  Beckett stares at me, his brows scrunched together. Like he’s trying to solve a difficult math problem. “Fine,” he says after a moment. “But don’t put all the blame on me. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I exhale slowly, glancing at my lap, at my fingers twisted and knotted together. Why does this hurt so much? I want to say something powerful, but all I say is, “You were my best friend, Beckett. My only friend.”

  “And you were mine.” He piles the slivers of wax paper into a miniature mountain, face downcast. “I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry.” He lifts his eyes, and our gazes clash.

  I study his face and wish I were better at reading him. A year ago, Beckett’s face was like a well-loved book. Now I’m lost as to how to interpret the slant of his lips or the way his hands fidget.

  When I say nothing, he offers a small smile. “So. You’re still pissed.”

  I shrug with one shoulder. Am I still pissed? A mixture of things ache in my chest, and I remind myself to breathe. To not get overwhelmed. My emotions are like cotton, fuzzing up my head, diluting my thought processes, and I can’t have that right now.

  Beckett lifts both palms and makes a beckoning motion. “Come on, let it all out.”

  “What?”

  “Get all the anger out. Wipe the slate clean.” He squints, like he’s preparing to be slapped.

  The funny thing is, I’m not upset anymore. I’m just… done. We’ll never get back to the way things were, so what’s the point? Besides, do I even want to be his friend again if I’m hauling ass to Arizona?

  I lean over the bistro table and flick his fingers. “Quit being dramatic.”

  Beckett lowers his hands. “I’m trying to set the record straight. Are we good?”

  “Good?” I repeat.

  “We don’t have to be best friends again. Or even friends. But we should trust each other.” His voice drops. “Hustling isn’t for the faint of heart, Wilson.”

  “How do you propose we do this? Run some trust-fall exercises?” I joke, nerves exposed at that word—trust.

  “No, but seriously,” he replies. “If we’re on the same page, if we can trust each other, then we can proceed. There’s a small game tomorrow night.” He pauses until I meet his eye. “What do you say?”

  Tomorrow night? That’s way too soon. Then again, we only have nine days left. My biggest fear is not being good enough to hustle, losing whatever money we bet. Swallowing hard, I say, “I’m rusty. Can we practice?”

  Beckett’s mouth upturns with a smile. “How about tonight? Bigmouth’s after closing? You can practice, and we’ll go over the mechanics of a hustle. How to play the other players. How to act.”

  “Fine. Tonight should work.” Shifting in my seat, I ask, “What’s in this for you? This can’t all be for Willa’s summer camp money.”

  “Camp’s expensive, man,” he says with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m never having kids.”

  “Like anyone would want to have kids with you,” I mutter.

  Beckett laughs, folding his arms behind his head. Lazily, like he’s comfortable in this super-weird situation. He stretches his legs out, and beneath the table, his foot knocks into mine.

  The brief contact is nice—all warm and familiar—and I shift my legs out of reach. “If I agree to this, then you have to agree it’s strictly business. We bowl, we hustle, and we go our separate ways. Deal?”

  His smile flickers, a rare shift for his annoyingly sunny disposition. He scrubs his hand against his chin and says, “If that’s what you want.”

  I ignore the depression of my ribs against my heart and hold out my hand. Trust is overrated. Who says I have to like Beckett to use him? Who needs trust when you have a mutually beneficial goal?

  “I trust you,” I lie, and we shake.

  This was either the best decision I’ve ever made, or the worst.

  I have a strong feeling it may be both.

  Six

  BECKETT AND I part ways with the plan to meet up tonight at Bigmouth’s after closing. He offered to give me a ride, but I needed space. We just spent more time together in one day than we have in a year. Despite the rainy deluge, I walk to the Twenty-Fourth Street Mission BART. Once I’m sublevel, I lean against a column and wait for the Daly City train, which will drop me at the Glen Park station by Bigmouth’s. The redbrick floors squeak as commuters hurry to and from their trains, the air musty with the sweet, earthy scent of fresh rain on concrete.

  The rain plastered my hair to my skull, and normally I’d be freaking out over wearing my sparkly sequined platforms in the storm, but what’s happening inside my chest is way more distressing.

  All the physical distance between us can’t keep Beckett’s disappointment from lingering. But… I just can’t let it go. Pain lingers, and I’m used to resenting him—I’m not sure what my life would look like if I stopped.

  After getting off at Glen Park, I walk the familiar path to Bigmouth’s. The exterior bowling alley sign with its blue neon is reflected in the puddles, and I follow it to the door. Inside, I’m greeted by the uneven crash of pins echoing across the lanes. Nothing has changed in the last two hours, and it’s painfully slow for a Saturday.

  Dad waves me over from the register. “Wow, it must really be coming down out there.”

  A raindrop rolls down my nose. I brush it off with the back of my hand. “Cats and dogs.”

  “How’d your project go?”

  “Oh, uh, fine? We still have a lot of work,” I say, hating that Beckett’s forced me into lying. “Sorry for bailing earlier.”

  Dad’s grin is warm. Almost erases the ache in my chest. “No need to apologize. I’m real happy to see you hanging out with Beckett again. He’s a great kid.”

  I doubt Dad would say that if he knew what we were really up to. “Dad, we’re not friends again. You understand that, right?”

  “Whatever you say, Caroline.”

  I’ve asked my dad to call me Chuck so many times I’ve lost count. He thinks it’s not feminine. Doesn’t grasp the concept that—shocker—I don’t want to be called my mom’s name. This is one battle I’ll always lose, so I’ve given up.

  “Thanks for letting me off the hook. If you’d like, I can close tonight and do inventory?”

  “That’d be fantastic,” Dad says, scooting out from behind the counter. Even though my clothes are soaked, he pulls me into a hug. “Thank you.”

  I rest my head on his shoulder. “Anytime.”

  The rest of the evening passes quickly. I spend ten minutes trying to dry my overalls with the hand dryer in the bathroom. Dinner consists of free nachos and a soda. We serve only three other groups of customers, and Dad leaves around eight.

  When it’s just me, I text Beckett that he can come by. He doesn’t show up right away. All the customers are gone, but we’re open until ten. I clean up the lanes. I spray bowling shoes with dual shots of disinfectant and Febreze. Inventory takes only fifteen minutes.
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  Half the lights are on timers and already winked out, leaving the alley in moody half darkness. In the silence, I can hear the rain pattering on the tin roof, sloshing against the windows. I underestimated how creepy it is to be alone this late in the bowling alley. The storm only amps up the creep factor. All those big mouths on the wall? I’m surprised this place hasn’t shown up in my nightmares.

  When Beckett knocks—three loud, booming taps—I jump like a freaking cartoon character. I locked up for security, so I hurry down the entry to let him in.

  Rain smacks the cement, dribbling off the overhang as Beckett steps inside.

  “What took you so long?” I shut the door behind him, flipping the latch. “It’s late.”

  “Chill out. I thought you wanted me here after closing.” Shaking off the rainwater, he walks into the main part of the alley. Stubborn droplets cling to his curls. He plops down on a couch and unlaces his sodden sneakers. “I had to put Willa to bed, and there was an accident on the Bay Bridge.”

  “What were you doing on the bridge?” I gather two pairs of shoes from the cubbies behind the register.

  “Uh,” he replies, drawing it out, “we moved to Berkeley.”

  I hand him his shoes. “Since when?”

  “After my dad left town and never came home.”

  I lower myself beside him. “Beckett, I had no idea.” The guilt is thick. Beckett’s dad must’ve left in the last year. The year when I ignored his existence.

  “It’s fine,” he says, but it’s not fine. Not at all.

  “When did he leave?” I snap and unsnap the button on my overalls pocket.

  Beckett exhales loudly. “About a week after that party, after our fight. I figured you knew? Heard from someone, or your dad?”

  “Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not like I—”

  “Cared?”

  Ouch.

  “I wasn’t going to say that. But I didn’t know. Honest.”

  “Would it have changed things?”

  When I don’t answer, Beckett leans forward to tie his shoelaces. We’re close enough that I inhale the dampness of his clothes, the warmth of his skin, mixed with deodorant. The same deodorant he’s always worn. My brain insists the Beckett sitting beside me is the same Beckett from sophomore year, just because he smells the same. Damn olfactory system. Swirling up all these old and bruising memories.