Keep My Heart in San Francisco

by Amelia Diane Coombs

  I’m over him. So why am I disappointed?

  The music from the house party shifts from techno-pop to indie. Calming and melodic. The grass is gross and damp, but I lie on my back and pillow my arms behind my head. “See, you don’t know everything about me,” I say, pushing my confusing feelings aside.

  “Nope, I did not. You’ve got me there.” Beckett lies down beside me, both of us staring up at the sky.

  After a moment I say, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What happened with your mom’s job?”

  “The hospital laid her off, and she hasn’t been able to find another full-time nursing gig.” Beckett rests his hands on his stomach, fingers tapping against his ribs. “She’s struggled since my dad left, so that hasn’t helped. She still works, but as a caretaker for an old woman in Alameda. Odd hours, crappy pay. That’s why I help out.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. A lot has happened. But you, my partner in crime, don’t need to worry about it. I’ve got everything under control at home.” Beckett’s trying to be flip, but it doesn’t work. “Speaking of, I’m sorry about dinner. Willa doesn’t have the best grasp of social norms.”

  “Must run in the family,” I joke, and he laughs. “And it’s fine. She didn’t know.”

  Beckett rips more grass, shredding the leaves. “You wanna talk about it?”

  “No. I mean, you of all people know what happened. What else is there to say?”

  I knot my fingers into the grass, grounding myself, and dirt shoves beneath my nails. The funny thing is, there’s a lot to talk about. To unpack. I’m not sure Beckett’s the person to have this conversation with.

  And yet I find myself saying, “I’m still afraid.”

  Beckett stills. “Of what?”

  “Turning out like her. The past year, my dad and my aunt have watched me. They’re afraid I’ll have the same problems. Those kinds of disorders, they can be familial. The fact I’ve already been depressed—clinically depressed—means something isn’t right. In my brain. All I can think about is, what else might be wrong, you know?”

  The silence is heavy, and I can’t stop staring at the sky. The stars are endless pockets of hope.

  He clears his throat. “I thought maybe now that some time has passed, you were feeling better? About her?”

  “I’m… getting there. But I don’t want to end up like her,” I whisper.

  The thought of worsening mental health scares me—that I’ll experience the other side of the coin with mania—but it’s more than that. It’s the thought that one day, my depressive episodes will become so bad that I’ll stop getting out of bed. For good. That even if I have a happy life and a family that loves me, it won’t be enough.

  “You’re nothing like your mom—not from what little you’ve told me about her,” he says, but the words pass right through me. “Your depression hasn’t gotten worse, has it?”

  “No,” I reply quickly. “I’m not… No. And it’s not just the depression.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Sometimes more severe symptoms can manifest in your late teens and early twenties. When I cut off my hair last summer, I second-guessed myself. Was I cutting it because I wanted short hair, or because I was making impulsive decisions? Little things like that.”

  I’m surprised how good it feels to talk about these things with someone other than a therapist. I don’t talk to my dad about this stuff. When I was really suffering with my depression, Dad made sure I went to therapy. Now he thinks I’m all better and rarely checks in with me as a human. For whatever reason, Beckett still cares. He’s here for me, even though I gave him every reason not to be.

  “I think it’s smart to recognize what you might be up against. But don’t let fear stop you from living.” The back of Beckett’s hand brushes against mine. A zap of electricity bursts between us, and my heart stills briefly in my chest. Like it stops for a moment to catch its breath.

  “For what it’s worth,” he adds, voice low, “I like your short hair.”

  I turn my head until my cheek is flush with the grass and immediately wish I hadn’t. Because Beckett does the same and our noses nearly touch. We’re close enough I could count the long lashes curling away from his gray eyes. The rings of steel, the variations of silver, rimming his pupils.

  I force my mind to stay on topic—actually, I’m frantic for a different topic. It’s like trying to locate a signal in a storm of static. I break the connection and fold both hands on my stomach. “So, partners in crime, huh?”

  “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Beckett scratches his ear, smile strained.

  “Yeah,” I say, “it definitely does.”

  * * *

  I’ve never missed curfew in my entire life. But this spring break is one of many firsts, and by the time Beckett pulls up to the curb down the street from the yellow house, it’s past one in the morning. Before I go, I collect my belongings, the back of my dress still damp from the grass near the lake.

  “What should I do with the winnings?” I tap the money clip against my leg.

  Beckett’s hand twists on the wheel. “Keep it. You don’t have a little sister with no sense of boundaries. When the week’s over we’ll split everything. Sound good?”

  “Yeah. You’ll text me when you find out more about the other games?”

  He hides a yawn and says, “For sure. I’m still digging around with my old betting contacts.” He snaps the elastic on his wrist.

  “Awesome.” I push open the passenger-side door. “See you tomorrow?”

  Beckett’s expression is relaxed and sleepy. Calm. “Without a doubt. You’re working, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Think your dad will let you off for another day of historical research?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Cool, cool.” Beckett fiddles with the radio. “I’ll try stopping by. Rest up tonight, okay? This week will be a hurricane.”

  “Those are ominous parting words.”

  “Good night, Chuck,” he says with a laugh.

  “Night.” I wave and slam the door shut, walking toward the house with my arms wrapped around myself.

  If I leave San Francisco, it will be hard enough. But if we repair our friendship, it’ll be downright brutal. And if this works? If we stay? Can Beckett and I return to what we had, given the chance? Is that what I want?

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  I yelp, clutching my chest. The air is skunky and pungent. Fiona. “What the hell?” Squinting, I peer around the side of the house. Aunt Fiona huddles in the gated-off alleyway, sitting on this little stone bench in our miniature cactus garden.

  “So, you and Beckett.” The joint’s cherry glows as she inhales. Aunt Fee adored Beckett, and like my dad, she was Team Beckett all the way. “What’s going on with you two? You finally friends again?”

  “Hardly.” Something shifted tonight, but I don’t quite have a label for it yet.

  Aunt Fiona doesn’t press, just draws a drag off her joint. I’m struck with the urge to tell her everything. About the back rent and the eviction. About how we’re trying to turn five hundred dollars into ten thousand in seven days.

  The urge passes and I stay silent, hoarding my lies. If Aunt Fiona found out what Beckett and I were up to, she wouldn’t let me out of her sight.

  Aunt Fee takes another hit from her joint before dropping it into an ashtray shaped like an octopus. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  My arm linked with Fee’s, we sneak in through the kitchen side door. My bones and muscles ache, and I smell like beer and cigarettes from the Road. And something mustier and greener—wet grass from the lake.

  MONDAY, APRIL 23 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 7

  Ten

  THE X ON my hand refuses to fade, despite my attempts at washing and scrubbing this morning. The skin’s mottled pink, the inked lines a shade lighter than last night. It’s a glarin
g distraction—and reminder—at work this morning.

  On Mondays, a local bus of geriatrics makes the rounds, and Bigmouth’s hosts several lanes of elderly bowlers. Today is no different. After I give the seniors their discounts, I watch them set up, curious why Beckett hasn’t shown his annoying face yet.

  An older customer pops two quarters into the jukebox and Bobby Darin wobbles to life through the ancient speakers. Bored, I lean my elbows on the counter, propping my chin up in my hand. I didn’t bring any sewing, and my library book only has a chapter left. I assumed Beckett would be here to amuse me or get me out of work. I was wrong on both counts.

  After last night I don’t resent or hate him anymore. Actually, I’ve begun wondering if I ever really hated him in the first place. The end result is me sick with confusion and guilt. And beneath it all is the hope that we can be us again. The hope might be the scariest part.

  Right before I break for lunch, my phone buzzes on the counter, inching across the surface with each vibration. At first I think it’s Mila checking in, but Beckett’s name appears.

  BECKETT PORTER: When’s your next break?

  After a year of silence, it’s still weird when his name graces the screen of my phone. Strange, but exciting.

  ME: I’m due for my thirty. You around?

  BECKETT PORTER: Awesome. Coffee’s on me. Meet outside in five?

  After checking on the geriatrics, I hurry down the hallway. I rap my knuckles on Dad’s office door, and he calls, “Come in.”

  I ease the door open and lean inside. “Hey, Dad, can I take my thirty?”

  Dad’s reclining in his desk chair and pushes his glasses onto his balding head. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle. “Of course. Come give your old man a hug.”

  There are shadows beneath his eyes, and his fingers shake in that way, his tell of needing nicotine. Something about the narrow slope of his shoulders, the graying along his temples, sparks worry deep in my chest. Dad’s fading before my eyes. A carbon copy of what he once was.

  I wipe the sweat off my palms and cross the office. When I hug Dad, I sneak a peek at whatever he’s working on. The accounting books. An abundance of red, numerous negative signs, and next Monday’s date—the day our lease ends—circled in ink on his calendar. Seven days. I wish I could tell him I’m trying to help. Trying to earn the money, because damn, he looks beaten. False hope is the worst thing in the world, and I keep it to myself. Besides, we’ve barely made any money yet.

  “Have fun with Beckett?” Dad sets his glasses on the desk. He rubs his scalp, pulling at the rare strands of dark hair.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Caroline, I’m thrilled you’re spending time with Beckett again,” he says, “but Aunt Fiona said you were out late?”

  I hesitate, but he doesn’t call me out on missing curfew, so I guess Aunt Fee didn’t completely rat on me. “We were just studying.”

  Dad nods slowly, relaxing in his chair. He folds his hands over the pooch of his stomach. “Right, but I’ve been thinking. If I move a few things around financially, we can find a way for you to return to therapy.”

  My eyebrows knit. Between my insistence that I was doing better—which was the truth—and the financial strain weekly therapy appointments put on Dad’s bank account, I stopped sessions six months ago. Why now? What exactly is going on that we have money for therapy and not for Bigmouth’s?

  “Dad, it’s not worth the money.”

  “That’s not your decision to make,” he says gruffly. “I’ve been meaning to bring this up for a while. You’re going to be a senior next year, there are changes on the horizon, and I’d worry a hell of a lot less if I knew you had someone to talk to again.”

  Changes on the horizon? Does he mean Bigmouth’s closing? Arizona?

  “Fine.” My stomach clenches; Dad’s not asking, he’s telling. But if I’m agreeing to this, I should at least benefit. “If I return to therapy, you’d be okay with me spending more time outside of the house and the bowling alley?”

  “That’s fair.” Dad smiles. “You still have to make curfew, though.”

  “I’ll e-mail the therapist,” I promise. If weekly sessions mean more freedom while I work to save Bigmouth’s, then I’m fine with it. But I’m still haunted by his comment about change—first on Thursday and now again today—and why he suddenly has money for my therapy. My gaze drops to the accounting books. “I was thinking, there’s a lot of DIY improvements I can help you out with around here. Maybe during summer break?”

  Dad slides some papers over the accounting books. “That’s sweet, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “Why not?” I challenge, all too aware I’m pushing, but I just want to see that he cares.

  “Caroline—”

  “Dad,” I cut him off. “I don’t mind.”

  “We’re not having this conversation,” he says, and opens his laptop. Shutting me out. “Besides, business isn’t great, and no amount of your DIY projects is going to change that.”

  I turn on my heel and storm out of the office. Dad calls after me, but I push forward. Hoping with enough distance, my anger might fade away. How is he okay with this? Why isn’t he trying? Instead, he putters around in his stained clothes, mourning Bigmouth’s before it’s even dead.

  I snatch my purse and jacket from the register and toss the service bell on the counter. In case anyone needs help, Dad will hear it from his office. Yeah, 80 percent of my job can be done by a small metal bell. How depressing.

  Outside, I breathe in two lungfuls of clean, calming air. You’d never guess San Francisco is days away from May by the looks of the sky and the roiling, blustering wind. I tuck my jacket closer around my body. Dad might not want or accept my help, but he’s getting it. I’m tougher than he is, and I’m not backing down. I’m going to earn the money for our back rent so Dad can keep Bigmouth’s—and all the memories imprinted in its walls—and I can stay in San Francisco. End of story.

  “Hey.” Beckett jogs from the block where he parked. “You good to head out?”

  “Yeah.” I fall into step with him, and we cross the street. “Coffee?”

  He tilts his chin toward Any Beans Necessary, the café I worked at last summer. “Are you okay? You look, um, angry?”

  I loosen a sigh and give Beckett an abbreviated version of my talk with Dad. “It’s just frustrating watching him roll over, you know?” I let him open the door, and the aroma of coffee is a slap in the face.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to burden you,” Beckett points out as we get in line.

  As usual, Any Beans Necessary is packed to the gills. Spring break in San Francisco draws locals and tourists alike, and the line is one gigantic mass of people.

  I cross my arms, unconvinced. “Maybe.”

  When it’s my turn, I order a large coffee. Before I pay, Beckett nudges in front of me and orders the same, pulling dollar bills from his wallet.

  “You didn’t have to pay for me,” I say as he crumples the receipt into his back pocket. My confession from last night still weighs on me, as well as Beckett’s non-reaction. While he seems totally unaffected, him buying me stuff feels too romantic for my liking, which is very confusing for my current-day feelings.

  “I know I didn’t,” he says with a wink, and grabs the drip coffee from the counter, pressing it into my palms. “Just accept the free coffee, Wilson.”

  Grumbling, I nod my thanks and we climb upstairs. Any Beans Necessary has a quieter and less hectic second story. The only couch is taken, and we settle at a bistro table.

  Beckett wastes no time getting to the point of this coffee meeting, spreading the notebook out between us. “We should attend these three games. Tonight, Wednesday, and Thursday.”

  I study the notes and sip my coffee. “Not tomorrow?”

  “Nah, my mom’s working her caretaker gig, and Willa has a sleepover. I’m on Willa Watch as her chauffeur.”

  “Okay.” I tap the sheet of paper. “What about Friday?”
>
  At this he grimaces. “There’s a game, but the buy-in is three thousand.”

  I balk and drop my jaw. “Like in dollars?”

  Beckett snorts. “No, magical beans,” he says, and I sigh my annoyance. “But if we win enough money at the games I mentioned, we won’t have to risk it.”

  “Yeah, three thousand dollars is a little rich for my blood.” I study the notebook. “Hey, who’s this?” I tap my fingernail against the only name I’ve seen on multiple pages. Wilkes.

  Beckett closes the notebook. “Someone we won’t run into.”

  “Why? Who is he?”

  He lowers his voice. “There’s one guy who pulls the strings around San Francisco with illegal betting. A gambler with a nasty reputation. But these games are below him; don’t worry about him.”

  “How come you know so much about this guy?” I prompt. “Or any of this, really. Betting on bowlers isn’t like putting money on the ponies.”

  Beckett reaches his legs out beneath the table. “You wanna hear something wild?” He sips his coffee. “I’m pretty sure my dad was a hustler.”

  “Oh, come on.” I give him a pointed look. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

  “The notebook?” He taps the composition notebook. “It was his.”

  “No way.” I pick up the notebook and turn it over in my hands. “How’d you find out?”

  “I’ve never seen him hustle or anything; at first it was just a hunch. But after he left town, I found the notebook in his study. Last summer I began checking out all the alleys he listed, trying to find him or someone who knew him.”

  I hand the notebook to Beckett. “And did you?”

  “I found a few people who’d either been conned by him or conned with him.” He thumbs the worn pages. “At first I was frustrated because I wasn’t getting any information. That’s why I started betting. People were more willing to talk on an even playing field. Winning was a nice upside.”