Keep My Heart in San Francisco

by Amelia Diane Coombs

  My mom had a commitment problem and never graduated from the California College of the Arts. Instead, she met my dad, and six months later they were married. But from what little Dad’s told me over the years, she dreamed of owning a clothing store in the city, selling vintage threads alongside her own designs.

  This hits close—too close—to the cordoned-off corners of my heart.

  Fortunately, I can’t dwell.

  I’ve got bowlers to hustle.

  Zipping up my army coat, I exit through the kitchen door. Beckett’s parked on the opposite side of the rainy street.

  “Hey,” I say, dropping into the passenger seat. My heartbeat thuds out of rhythm, kicking up an unwanted racket. I never thought I’d be happy hanging out with Beckett again, but this is preferable to drowning in the negativity that is my headspace. I dump my belongings and untouched banana in the back, pulling out the mannequin head. “Check it out.”

  “Did you have to bring the wig with the head?”

  “It keeps it from getting tangled,” I insist, smoothing my fingers through the strands and returning the wig to the bag. But that’s only one reason—I know how much the heads freak Beckett out.

  “Creepy.” He shudders comically. “You up to run errands?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Not like I have a choice.

  “I have to grab a few things around the city before picking up dinner for my mom and Willa.”

  We both grow quiet for a moment. When I agreed to kill time before the hustle with Beckett, I figured I might be visiting the Porters’ new house, but I didn’t consider seeing his mom. I haven’t seen Mrs. Porter in over a year, and the threat of an unwanted social situation makes me want to duck and roll out of the moving car. And yet I’m curious.

  “You sure your mom won’t mind?” I say.

  “Nah, not at all. You know what? She still asks about you.”

  “Really?”

  “Trust me, I don’t understand the woman’s fascination.” Beckett winks at me. “You’re pretty boring.”

  I ignore him the rest of the drive.

  * * *

  Beckett assures me he’s only running a few basic errands. We stop by a specialty grocery store, a laundromat in Chinatown, Costco for a huge can of Folgers coffee, and a pet store for a box of small mice. Their nails scurry and scratch, and it takes all my willpower not to pop open the car door and release them into the wild.

  Well, the wild of the Potrero Petco parking garage.

  After wrapping up our errands, we drive over the Bay Bridge, classics playing on an oldies station and crackling through static. As we get closer to the East Bay, the rain picks up, sleeting down. I bundle my jacket into a ball and rest my head against the window, listening to the music and the pitter-patter of raindrops on glass.

  Beckett stops at a Thai restaurant, and I wait in the car. He dashes through the shower and returns dripping, carrying two large to-go bags.

  “Gotta love the unpredictability of this weather,” he says with a rueful laugh, tossing his hair back and flicking water everywhere, including on me. “Here, I ordered extra. Fuel for tonight.” He slides the warm bags onto my lap and settles into the driver’s seat.

  “Oh!” My hands start sweating, but maybe it’s because of the food. “You didn’t have to do that. I have a banana—”

  “I got shrimp spring rolls, no cilantro.” Beckett pulls onto a surface street, squinting as the rain flows like overturned buckets.

  “You remembered,” I say, staring at the to-go food. There goes my politeness theory. I glimpse my reflection in the side mirror, mortified at the blush coloring my cheeks.

  “Your hatred of cilantro is legendary,” he says. “Just you wait. I’ll be ninety, senile, and I’ll still remember how much Chuck Wilson hates cilantro.”

  “What? It’s disgusting!” I pretend to gag. “The smell alone.”

  He laughs, glancing from the road and catching my gaze with his. Something strange and heated blossoms behind my sternum. Something like memories and the warm-flush glow of happiness. Despite digging in my heels, fighting this, my body likes being near him.

  My brain, however, isn’t as easily convinced.

  But I can’t deny that there’s a comfort, a familiarity, that Beckett brings. He’s a light shining on the shadowed parts of me I forgot existed.

  We don’t speak the rest of the drive, but I’m acutely aware of the Accord’s cramped bucket seats and how Beckett’s sleeve brushes mine when he adjusts the radio or heater.

  The Porters live in an old, run-down part of Berkeley. The house is a tiny single story with lots of ancient trees swathing the property in dark leaves. The grass is lush and springy under my feet, the pathway to the porch grown over by the lawn.

  “We’re renting,” Beckett explains as he leads me to the front door. “It’s cheaper than the city, and quieter. Closer to her caretaking gig too.”

  Despite the exterior, the house is downright charming. The entry hall has wooden floors, the walls painted a rustic blue. From the paintings to the tchotchkes on the shelves, everything is neat and tidy.

  “Hey! I’m home.” Beckett drops his keys into an abalone shell on a side table. “I brought company.”

  A small girl with lanky limbs and brown curls swings around the corner. “Are those my mice?” Willa asks her brother.

  He presses his lips together and holds out the box. “Here’s the sacrificial offering, m’lady.”

  “Wait, what are the mice for?” I ask, horrified.

  “They’re for Lester,” Willa says. She breaks out in a grin when she notices me. “Chuck!”

  “Hi, Willa.” I crouch, and she tosses her arms around my neck. Willa wasn’t even six years old when I last saw her. But somehow, in the past year, she’s sprouted a foot, her hair wild tangles reaching her waist.

  “Hey, do you want to watch me feed my snake?”

  Beckett must see my horrified reaction. “Willa, chill-a, okay? Chuck just got here, and we brought Thai from Lucky House. Let’s postpone the mice murder until after dinner.”

  Willa pouts. “Fine,” she huffs, and disappears down a hallway.

  “What kid has a pet snake?” I readjust the take-out bags in my arms.

  “That’s some big talk coming from the girl who collects mannequin heads.”

  I smack Beckett with a take-out bag, but he laughs. “Watch it! Willa wanted a cat, but that was a no-go.”

  “Oh right, you’re allergic.” I feign forgetting until just this moment. “Tell Willa she can come visit JP whenever she wants.”

  He tilts his head. “JP?”

  “My cat.”

  “You got a cat? I thought you hated cats.”

  “No, I pretended to hate cats out of solidarity because your immune system can’t handle them,” I say. “I was really missing out.”

  “I can’t believe you’re a cat person now,” he says in mock disgust, holding his hand to his heart. “Traitor.”

  We’re stopped in the cramped hallway, and he steps even closer. I step backward, bumping into the wall. Beckett is standing so close I can see the faint dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose. Smell that familiar scent of deodorant—spicy and warm. Feel his hand settle on my forearm. “What’re you doing?” I ask, not sure if I’m asking him or myself. Because why am I still standing here?

  Beckett plucks something off my jacket. He backs away, his thumb and forefinger pinched together. In them, a single white cat hair. “You’re going to kill me, Chuck Wilson.”

  Flushed, I manage to say, “My master plan is working brilliantly, then.”

  He rolls his eyes, then takes off down the hall.

  After my heart calms, I follow him into a brightly decorated kitchen.

  Mrs. Porter is dressed in denim jeans and a loose white top. Her light brown hair is frizzy and piled on her head, and her face is youthfully lined. Her eyes are large and pale gray, free from the weight of makeup. The only thing missing from my mental images of the w
oman in front of me are the Minnie Mouse scrubs she always wore. When she smiles, it dazzles her face.

  “Welcome home, kiddo,” she says to Beckett, standing up from the small table. It’s neat with a lacy white tablecloth, yellow-patterned plates, and water glasses. As if she was expecting company. “Chuck! So wonderful to see you!”

  “Hey, Mrs. Porter.” I give an awkward wave from my hip.

  Mrs. Porter beams like a freaking lighthouse, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “It’s so nice to see you, honey.” To Beckett, she says, “See, I told you she’d come over to dinner if you asked nicely!”

  Beckett palms the back of his neck and stares at the wall. He’s embarrassed—the tips of his ears are turning bright red. Huh. I forgot how he blushes—light on the cheeks but fire-engine red when the blood hits his earlobes.

  “Uh—” Confused, I look away from Beckett and smile at Mrs. Porter. “Nice to see you, too. Thanks for having me.”

  Mrs. Porter hurries across the kitchen and latches me into a tight hug. “Look at you! I knew you’d grow up to be beautiful. Didn’t I tell you that, Beckett?”

  “Mom, please stop,” Beckett mutters, throwing me an apologetic glance before unloading the bags on the kitchen counter next to an old stovetop from the fifties. Its ancientness matches the large lime-green fridge.

  Haltingly, Mrs. Porter’s grip loosens, and I slide away. She brushes back a lock of my hair that’s fallen across my cheek. “I’m so happy you’re here. We’ve missed you.”

  Before I can reply, she lifts the takeout from my arms. I shrug off my damp jacket, heavy with rain, and hang it on the back of the closest chair.

  Beckett smiles and turns to his mom, going over what he picked up. “I’ll drop the dry cleaning in your room, okay?”

  Mrs. Porter smiles. “Thank you.”

  Then we’re alone.

  I stare at an empty water glass on the table. “I hope it’s okay Beckett invited me.”

  “Okay?” She laughs, moving to open the fridge. “This is great.”

  I manage a smile. “I appreciate it.” Unable to stop fidgeting, I twist my fingers together. “Apparently I’m culpable for some future mouse murders. I handpicked those mice.”

  Mrs. Porter tosses her head back and laughs. “Willa loves that snake. God knows why.”

  Well. I’m officially out of small-talk topics.

  Thankfully Beckett and Willa break the silence seconds later. They sit on either side of me, and Mrs. Porter pops open the containers and sets them in the center of the table before sitting.

  “Chuck, how’s junior year treating you?” Mrs. Porter asks, digging into her coconut curry.

  I finish chewing a spring roll and swallow. “Not bad.”

  Mrs. Porter grins, and the corners of her mouth curve in parentheses. “I feel like it’s been ages since I saw you last.”

  “A year,” Beckett answers, studying his place mat.

  “Right!” Mrs. Porter snaps her fingers. “That play with Beckett sophomore year. You two were so cute.”

  Beckett and I groan in unison. The play. Beckett starred in our tenth grade’s spring production of Grease. It was hilarious because he lacks the swagger of any proper Danny Zuko. He’s a great actor, but he can’t sing to save his life. But I’m not groaning because it was embarrassing—the play was the night our friendship ended.

  “Chuck wasn’t in the play,” he points out.

  I glare at him. “Excuse me. I helped with the costumes.”

  “Only because you got turned down to play the role of Sandy.” Beckett is so smug, and his gray eyes gleam with mischief. He’s missed ragging on me.

  I mouth Fuck you and shove down another spring roll. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t missed this, but that play is my sorest of spots.

  “What’re you up to these days?” Mrs. Porter asks, oblivious to our silent exchange.

  “Other than school? I work at my dad’s bowling alley on weekends.”

  “Oh right!” She studies my face, and I swear I catch the flash of a memory surfacing. “How’s your dad? And your aunt?”

  “They’re good,” I say, but I question whether or not this is the truth. Nervously, I double down on my lie and add, “Super good.”

  “Where’s your mom?” Willa asks. “Did she leave like our dad?”

  The table falls silent.

  Beside me, Beckett stills. “You know what, Willa? Let’s feed Lester now. I’m sure Chuck—”

  I cut him off. “It’s fine.” But it’s not. This question always hurts, no matter how many times I’ve answered it. “My mom passed away when I was young.”

  “What happened?”

  “Willa, that’s not polite dinner conversation.” Turning to me with a worried expression, Mrs. Porter says, “I’m so sorry, Chuck.”

  Even though it happened fourteen years ago, and I’ve lived longer without her than I ever did with her, it’s one of those wounds that refuses to heal.

  Dad told me the truth about how my mom died during the winter break of sophomore year. Something he’d kept from me for almost thirteen years. He even omitted her cause of death in the obituary. No one likes hearing those stories. Except, they do. They thrive off them, knowing they’re not that pathetic. To them, suicide is for the weak. How fucked up is that?

  My eyes are wet, my breath hitching in my chest. I push away from the table. “Excuse me, uh, where’s the bathroom?”

  “Down the hall,” Mrs. Porter says, eyes crinkled in motherly concern, which only makes me feel worse. “Are you feeling all right, honey?”

  Beckett pops up. “Let me show you.” He follows me, stopping in front of a closed door. “Hey, you okay?” He reaches for my arm.

  And just like that, I’m back on a stranger’s driveway, Beckett running after me and asking me Are you okay? “No, because I need to pee and you’re blocking the door.”

  “Chuck,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” It’s hard keeping my voice level, and it grows louder, shaky. “Why are you sorry? Why do you still care?”

  Beckett can’t look me in the eye and steps aside, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I never—” He breaks off. “I’m trying to make up for the last year, okay?”

  “Well, don’t! I didn’t ask for this!”

  He tosses his hands up in the air. “What is wrong with you?”

  The bathroom door is unblocked, and I push past him, shutting myself inside without answering.

  Because excellent question. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I perch on the edge of the tub, tears blurring my vision, and I’m afraid to blink. To let them fall. Because I am not crying in Beckett Porter’s bathroom. That’d be pathetic. Except that’s exactly what I’m doing.

  I slump forward and exhale a haggard, wet breath.

  The emotion is overwhelming, the push of pain starting at my heart and spreading through my limbs. Tearing at my chest. This is why I was hesitant about teaming up with Beckett. We have too much history—he hurts me, so I hurt him right back. I already lost my best friend once, and I don’t want to relive that pain.

  The accidental heartbreak.

  It was my idea to audition for Grease. After a rough winter, scraping through my first depressive episode—not to mention dealing with the truth that my mom died by suicide—I jumped at the opportunity for some fun. Spring was happening, more daylight, my depression was ebbing away. But I had an ulterior motive: my unrequited and secret crush on Beckett.

  The previous August, Beckett’s parents had invited me on their end-of-summer trip to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, and my dad let me go with them. On the last day, Beckett and I split a funnel cake on the beach, and when I got powdered sugar on my nose, he leaned in and brushed it off with his thumb.

  Sitting there, with our faces so close I could smell the sunscreen on his cheeks, I realized how badly I wanted him to kiss me.

  But he never did.

  So, Grease. I had this whole v
ision in my head—with the two of us cast as the leads, we would kiss. And maybe, just maybe, if we kissed, he’d realize he liked me, too. But I didn’t even get a supporting role, and Beckett landed the role of Danny.

  Opposite him was Heidi Schilling. Blond with an amazing voice—a real-life Sandy. While I worked on costumes, Beckett ran lines and blocked scenes with Heidi. After rehearsals, though, he would peel away from the crowd and we’d hang out at Bigmouth’s together, eating French fries and making new music playlists, proving he was still mine.

  Since we swing danced every weekend at Golden Gate Park, I helped him practice his moves for the dance numbers. After the production of Grease, Heidi’s parents held a wrap party with the cast and crew at their house, where Beckett promised to dance with me before the night was over. I was used to dancing among strangers at the park and wasn’t eager to make a fool out of myself in front of my classmates, but I agreed.

  My dad dropped us off, but we got separated. After failing at small talk with Heidi’s parents, I searched for Beckett in the strange house. I was on the bottom floor when I peeked into the den, finding him along with most of the play’s cast. Perched on the arm of the couch, with Heidi Schilling leaning up against him, Beckett was saying, “My friend’s mom was bipolar, and she killed herself.”

  I swear, hearing those words was like someone electrocuted me. For a moment I went still. Everything—my blood, my heart, my brain. Then, as I thawed back to life, my fingers slipping around the unopened can of 7 Up in my hand, tears filled my eyes. I told Beckett that in confidence. I trusted him. And now he was throwing that away, why—to get close to some girl? To impress her in some twisted way? Or was this just casual gossip to him? That wasn’t the Beckett I knew, but the Beck I knew wouldn’t say those things either. I just couldn’t make sense of the scene before me.

  “Really? Whose mom?” Heidi pressed her Rydell High–sweatered boobs closer against Beckett’s arm.

  Before answering, Beckett glanced around the den. The second he spotted me, he pushed Heidi away and stumbled to his feet.

  “Chuck—” he started saying, but I didn’t want to hear it.