Keep My Heart in San Francisco

by Amelia Diane Coombs

  Beckett nods me over, his expression grim. “What’re you doing? We aren’t supposed to bet more.”

  “We’re going to win.” I eye the scoreboard with confidence. “They don’t think I’m a threat. This is working.” My giddiness would embarrass me if we weren’t about to cash in.

  Beckett’s pissed. “We had a plan. In the future, you do not deviate from the plan, okay? It could get us into trouble.”

  “It’s an extra forty dollars,” I insist. “Besides, who made you boss?”

  Beckett gives an annoyed shake of his head and shoots his last frame. He gets lucky, the first shot setting up an easy split, which he almost converts into a spare, but a single pin is left standing. He slumps into his seat and pulls the tie from his curls.

  Count shoots his final frame, but at this point he’s tipsy, and he doesn’t bowl a second. Their lead has dwindled, but my palms still sweat as I do the mental math. I need to punch out to win. No room for error.

  I approach the lane and grab my ball. Drop the charade. I draw my arm back, swinging it forward and releasing the ball. My follow-through isn’t great, but I shoot a strike.

  “Hell yeah!” Jumping in the air, I clap my hands together.

  “Fuck,” one friend says with a disbelieving laugh.

  Count narrows his eyes. “Guess you got lucky.”

  I hold my fingers out over the blower to slick the sweat away. “Guess so.”

  Beckett leans forward in his seat, hands clasped tight.

  My unease is a twisted and thorny knot in my chest as I set up my shot and take a second to settle my thoughts. Sure, being lucky is better than being good, but being both is great. I shoot another strike and ten more pins fall, electricity charging within me. Behind, swearing erupts, and after a beat I turn around.

  I smile—easy when my insides are beaming—and run over to Beckett, who’s no longer pissed. No, his face is stretched wide with a smile. And I can barely remember why I was so mad at him earlier tonight. In the high of the win, I don’t push him away as he lifts me off my feet and spins me.

  My heart palpitates when he whispers, “You did it, Chuck.” His lips accidentally graze my jaw before he sets me down, and I’m flushed and tingly.

  What is he doing?

  What am I doing?

  Why do I feel this way?

  “What was that?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral while my head rings with alarm bells. The way his arms felt around my waist, the warmth of his lips on my jaw—it all felt good. And I’m freaking out.

  “Um.” Beckett shifts away from me and studies the sticky floor, his curls curtaining against his cheeks. “I’m just excited. That you won,” he says, lifting his chin to meet my gaze.

  My face is hot, and I wipe my sweaty palms off on my dress. “It’s whatever. Just, uh, don’t do it again.”

  “Two strikes, huh?” Count says loudly, his eyes darting suspiciously.

  “Beginner’s luck. The actual worst, am I right?” Beckett replies.

  Innocent. Stay innocent. I pick up the glorious hunk of money off the table. The original two-hundred-and-forty pot, plus the eighty dollars in the side bet, totaling three hundred and twenty dollars. Minus what we bet and paid to play, that’s a pure net profit of one hundred and seventy-five dollars.

  This is a start. The start of guaranteeing my future in San Francisco.

  Count’s pale face spots with pinpricks of red. “If I find out you hustled us?”

  “Hustle?” I repeat, as if the word is foreign, and tuck the winnings into my bra. “What’s he talking about?”

  Beckett places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” To Count he adds, “You had us until the last frame.”

  “Fuck,” Count swears again, and fists his hands. Phil chugs his beer. The nameless friends are amused more than anything else, exchanging money from separate side bets.

  The money in my bra has a palpable weight. Money I won illegally.

  “Maybe we’ll see you guys around,” Beckett tells Count.

  “Nice to meet you,” I add, and the guy who’s been checking me out stops us. More specifically, he stops me. He’s not bad-looking, but too old, college-age.

  “Hey, I’m Matt,” he says, and grins. “Have you ever been on a motorcycle?”

  Is he trying to flirt with me? That’s got to be the worst pickup line.

  Beckett grunts, a noise somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “Sorry, Matt, but—”

  “Why don’t you let Caroline answer for herself?” Matt hulks over Beckett, who’s tall, but this guy is bigger. Wider, like he plays football or something.

  Hearing my full name—my mother’s name—is the verbal equivalent of having a bucket of ice water dumped on my head. “No,” I say loudly. “Uh, no thank you.” I grab Beckett’s hand and drag him toward the door.

  “This is why we should have a boyfriend-girlfriend act,” he mutters. “Do you want to deal with creeps all week?”

  My heart twists. A year ago, being Beckett’s girlfriend was everything I wanted. I hate that it still hurts hearing those words thrown around casually. It’s true that I don’t want more run-ins with guys like Matt, but I can also tell it’ll make Beckett happy. “Yeah, okay.”

  We’re outside, and I focus on my adrenaline. It fills me like a shaken can of soda. Together we cross the parking lot, and Beckett tosses the bowling bag into the trunk.

  I hop into the front seat of the Accord.

  “Really? Fine?” he asks from the driver’s seat.

  I have no desire to dwell on rules or acts or anything other than the winnings I extract from my bra. “Yes, fine. Now, are you going to congratulate me or what?”

  “You were damn impressive, Wilson.” He holds up his hand for a high five and I slap his palm. It’s safe to say that after tonight, our no-touching rule has officially been lifted.

  As we leave the Road’s parking lot, I release a bottled-up sigh. “Holy shit.”

  “I knew you could do it.” He smacks the steering wheel. “I knew it.”

  “About the side bet—”

  Beckett shakes his head. “Let’s try sticking to the plan, okay? We’re a team, and we need to be on the same page every second.”

  I nod and slip the curly blond wig off, securing it on the mannequin head. “Noted.”

  “I’m too wired to go home,” Beckett says as he steers the car toward Lake Merritt. “Wanna check out the lake?”

  “Uh.” My body is buzzy and energetic, and oddly, I don’t want to go home just yet. Spending more time with Beckett probably isn’t advisable. And yet I find myself saying, “Sure. I’m already breaking curfew. Guess another hour can’t hurt.”

  Something is shifting between us. What, I’m not quite sure. But despite what happened at his house earlier tonight, it’s like we’re on solid ground for the first time in a year. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit curious to find out what this shift means.

  At a red light, Beckett turns, wearing this beaming grin. “Great job tonight.”

  “Thanks.” I can’t contain my smile, and it’s hard to stay mad at Beckett right now. He helped me win and get one step closer to saving Bigmouth’s.

  The happiness stretches my face, and my cheeks ache.

  Nine

  WHEN PEOPLE THINK of Oakland, they might imagine the violence of Fruitvale or the sporty coliseum, but certain areas are magnificent. Lake Merritt is a hidden gem of the East Bay, a tidal lagoon that was the first wildlife refuge in the United States.

  Beckett parks on a side street near the water, and I grab my coat from the back seat.

  The clock has officially ticked over into midnight, my curfew on weekends and holiday breaks, but the streets mill with people heading to and from bars, others leaving the many concert venues within walking distance. The fog hardly touches us here in the East Bay. The buildings are lower, more spread out, and as we near the lake, the sky is wide and cracked open, a constellation globe.

/>   Moonlight reflects algae and trash on the shore, and my nostrils fill with a swampy smell. But brilliant little lights hang in the trees circling the water, and music pours from a house on the hill. A few people drunkenly walk about, but it’s quieter than I’d expected.

  “You doin’ okay?” Beckett asks, tilting his chin as we cross the sidewalk and grass cushions our steps.

  I grin and push my hair back. “Yeah, I am.”

  “You did awesome. The look on their faces?” He laughs, wildly and loudly. “Fucking priceless. We should’ve been doing this a long time ago,” he says, and plunks down on a damp plot near the shore.

  The slick strands of grass poke through my dress and tickle my ankles as I sit beside him.

  “Impossible considering we stopped being friends until recently.” I chew the inside of my cheek. Did I really tell him we’re friends again? Then again, we kind of are. The realization isn’t unwelcome, but scary. Friend territory is dangerous. The proverbial gateway drug of relationships.

  Beckett looks at me sideways, hurt etching his features. “I’ve apologized, but you’ve never…”

  “Never what?”

  “Apologized for how you treated me,” he says, dead serious. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know it was an accident,” I say, cutting him off. “But I was still processing, so imagine how awful it was for me to hear you talking about it like it was no big deal.”

  Since I’d only recently found out the truth about my mom before our fight, I wasn’t ready to share that information with strangers. My dad had avoided the truth for so long—dodging questions, letting me believe Mom died in a car accident—that when it all came spilling out, I didn’t know how to cope.

  Dad lies when he’s trying to protect me. He lied then, and he’s lying now. Shielding me from the reality that our family business is failing and we’ll probably be leaving San Francisco in a few months. I hate being lied to. Like I’m not strong enough for the truth.

  Beckett drops his chin to his chest. “I realize that now, and you know I’m sorry. I was trying to do a good thing. Heidi Schilling was calling one of our teachers bipolar because she was mean, like a negative adjective—and I just wanted her to understand.”

  I’ve wondered about his motivations and, once I’d calmed down, came to a similar conclusion. But hearing his side of the events clears up any lingering questions. A year ago I couldn’t even say the word “bipolar” without panicking and my eyes misting. I wasn’t ever ashamed… just afraid. I didn’t want to look this thing—this big, scary thing—in the face. Not even with Beckett.

  “Thank you,” I say, embarrassed by my hoarse voice. “Last year it was all too new, too upsetting. I couldn’t deal with—”

  “Hey.” Beckett nudges my foot with his. “You don’t need to explain. I can’t claim to understand what you were going through, but I know how much you were hurting. Honestly, I shouldn’t have said anything, but I wanted Heidi to understand how powerful words are. You taught me that.”

  At this, the last bit of my animosity falls away. I wasn’t ready before, but maybe I am now. I can try forgiving.

  “I’m sorry,” I confess, the words foreign on my tongue. But they feel good, freeing. Like I’m leaving something heavy behind. “For not hearing you out. For ignoring you. For throwing a can of soda at you.”

  “Apology accepted,” he says, that small smile lifting at the corners. A crack of laughter explodes from the house behind us, and he adds, “I have a scar. That was one heavy 7 Up.” He ducks his head and pulls his curls aside. A tiny silver half-moon mars his temple.

  Did I seriously hit him in the head? Yikes. I didn’t think my aim was that good. “Shit. Sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I’ve heard ladies dig scars,” he jokes, and I roll my eyes.

  Silence falls again, and while I feel better, forgiveness isn’t a concept I’m familiar with. Being face-to-face with Beckett forces me to realize I might’ve made a mistake shutting him out the past year. I’m justified in my hurt, but I think I hurt Beckett more than I realized when I cut him out of my life.

  Thankfully, the urge to cry has passed, but I blink several times just to make sure. “I wish you’d found a way to tell me sooner. That I would have let you tell me sooner.”

  He toys with the elastic on his wrist. Snaps it against his skin. “Sounds like we’re both wishing for the same thing. Maybe instead of regretting the past, we should try to do better by each other in the future?”

  “I’d… like that.” I push my bangs from my eyes, the strands heavy with sweat from being trapped beneath the wig. The admission leaves my heart hammering, my stomach queasy. “So, how’ve you been the past year?” I ask jokingly. Instantly, I regret following up his kind and emotionally bare moment with some flimsy attempt at humor.

  To my relief, Beckett laughs. “Other than my dad leaving and my mom losing her job, I guess I’m good?” His gaze follows the nervous fretting of my hands messing with my bangs before settling on my face. “I don’t know. I’ve missed you.”

  My stomach warms, but I say, “Oh? Whenever I saw you at school, which was rare, it didn’t seem like you missed me.” I press him to really tell me the truth. Tell me what’s happened in the past year—especially with school. Because suddenly, I want to know. Badly.

  “Trust me, I missed you. And as for my less-than-stellar attendance record, that wasn’t about you,” Beckett explains, but adds lightly, “School and me don’t get along.”

  “I’ve noticed. Are you really not doing the whole college thing?”

  “C’mon, I’m not winning any attendance awards.”

  “I’ll take that as a no. Why not?”

  Beckett shrugs lopsidedly and twines his fingers through the grass, ripping blades free. “I don’t have the money to pay for school or the grades for a scholarship. And being a truant doesn’t sway in your favor.”

  “What’s up with that? The truancy? The fighting? You’re smarter than that.” The more we talk, the calmer I become. The threat of tears fades completely, which is a damn relief because I’ve already cried once today. I can’t cry again in front of Beckett. Even if we’re opening up, crying feels like a weakness. And I’d really like Beckett to see me as strong.

  His lips quirk in amusement. “Gee, thanks. But I blew it by sophomore year. Once your grades are that bad, there’s no digging yourself out of an academic black hole. As for the fighting…”

  “You’re the most stoic person I know.” I tuck my knees into my chest. “Someone must’ve seriously pissed you off if you threw a punch.”

  “Yeah.” He focuses intently on ripping free strands of grass.

  “Because of your dad leaving?”

  Beckett takes a hitching breath. “Donnie Mathers was talking shit. About you. About that night.”

  “Oh,” I say because words have officially failed me, and goose bumps flush over my skin.

  Beckett stood up for me. Not only once, but twice—that I know of. He was suspended for that fight in May or June. So close to the end of the school year he didn’t return until the start of this year. This was after he came to Bigmouth’s and apologized to my dad while I locked myself in the bathroom, refusing to talk to him. After I ignored his calls and texts, his notes slipped into my backpack.

  Wiping his hands off on his jeans, he glances at me. “I shouldn’t have hit him, but he deserved it.”

  “Why?” I ask softly. “I was pretty awful to you.” I was reactive; I pushed him away, hurt him because he hurt me. And my hurt defined so much of the past year. How I treated Beckett. How I viewed myself.

  “You might’ve been done being my best friend,” Beckett says, eyes meeting mine, “but I wasn’t done being yours.”

  The tears prick at my eyes again, and we both fall silent. I tilt my head back. Stare at the cracked-open sky as his words press me into the earth. Unsure of how to respond to this comment, I say, “I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to leave here. Move to A
rizona.”

  Beckett shifts, and the cadence of his breathing slows. “You’d be okay, you know. It’d suck and I’d personally hate it, but you’d be okay.”

  A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Yeah? How come you sound so certain? I think I might combust the second I step foot outside of California.”

  “I know you pretty well. You’re… tough. Even with a year missing in my encyclopedic knowledge of Chuck Wilson, I’m kind of an expert.”

  My smile grows. “You don’t know everything about me.”

  Beckett cocks his head. “Oh really?” he says skeptically. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  I shift in the grass, contemplating my options. It’d be nice having Beckett understand why I was so emotional the night of the party, that I felt romantically betrayed, which is ridiculous because he was never mine. At least, not in that way. “I liked you. Last year.”

  No response.

  Nervously, I glance at him. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. He stares straight ahead, eyebrows knitted. “Beckett?”

  Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve done it. I’ve stunned Beckett Porter into silence.

  Beckett drags his hand across his mouth. “Wow. That’s—”

  Panic tightens my chest, and before he can tell me how unrealistic my crush was, I say it for him. “Ridiculous, huh? I wanted to clear the air, you know, get it all out there. Obviously, all those feelings are long dead.” I press my eyes shut, cursing myself. Yes, clearing the air is a good way to start off a rekindled friendship, but maybe some secrets aren’t worth sharing.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, glancing sideways at me. “That they’re dead? Because people are always saying not to mix business with pleasure.” His tone is light, but it doesn’t match the unreadable look in his eyes.

  Swallowing down the small amount of pain that accompanies unreciprocated feelings—even dead ones—I say, “One hundred percent.”

  “One hundred percent,” he repeats. “That’s pretty damn sure.” He gives me this funny grin before retraining his attention on the lake, his forearms folded over his knees.

  I study Beckett’s profile. The mess of his curls. The aquiline arch on his nose. The way his lips are slightly parted. No longer smiling, but not frowning either. His utter lack of a reaction is confusing. If anything, I expected laughter or surprise. Instead, I get indifference.