I roll this information over in my head as it fills in the gaps of my knowledge. “Did anyone know what happened?”
Beckett squints. “Kind of? I heard, from several sources, that he knew Wilkes.”
“Ah, the threads connect,” I say, intrigued. “Go on.”
“I don’t know much, but my dad was in a lot of debt—possibly with Wilkes. Before he left, he was having money troubles, and I heard him talking about a guy named Wilkes on the phone. I didn’t think much of it, not until he left.”
“You’re not trying to meet Wilkes, are you? Find out about your dad?”
“Hell no,” Beckett says with a shake of his head. “Everyone I’ve spoken with has warned me away from him. And you remember my dad—he was tough. If he felt the need to leave town, he must’ve been threatened. I have no desire to get involved in my dad’s shit. Doesn’t mean I don’t hope he’ll come home one day, though.”
“Have you ever reached out to him?”
“Back when he first left, but he changed his number.” His gray eyes are wide, hopeful. “But I should at least try, right?”
“Yeah. I doubt your dad actually wanted to leave you guys,” I say, even if I have no idea if that’s the truth or not. Mr. Porter wasn’t always the most reliable dad. He struggled to hold down a full-time job, drank a lot. But he loved his kids.
Beckett gives me a tight smile before staring into his coffee mug. “Thanks.”
After we drain our coffees, we go over tonight’s game: the Dust Bowl in the Tenderloin District. But since the game’s at midnight, I have to come up with a cover story. Aunt Fiona is really my only option, so I carefully construct a text message.
“Keep your lies simple,” Beckett coaches. “Too many details make people suspicious. Simplicity is key.”
“Here goes nothing.” I read over my message once before hitting send.
ME: Hey, Beckett invited me to a party tonight. Can you cover me if I miss curfew?
I cross my fingers. Come on, Fiona, time to be the cool aunt.
AUNT FEE: Are you guys dating?! Tell me what’s going on and I’ll cover for you.
ME: We’re going to a party together. Nothing more.
AUNT FEE: Fine. But if your “nothing more” turns into something more, I approve.
ME: Not happening.
AUNT FEE: Why not?! He was always cute. Does he still have great hair?
I reread the message, shaking my head in disbelief.
Beckett perks up. “What’d she say?”
“Nothing.” I fumble trying to exit out of the message, but he spins the phone around.
A sly smile blooms across his face. The tips of his ears steadily turn pink. “Cute?”
I hold my hands up. “Hey, I didn’t type that.”
“Great hair?” he continues.
My cheeks prickle with heat. “What? You have nice hair. People notice these things.” I rub my neck, skin hot underneath my palms.
It’s not that I like Beckett. We’re friends again, and just barely. Too much is on the line. Whatever spark I felt last night can be chalked up to faulty wiring. Okay, and some possibly unresolved feelings from before.
“Right, right.” Beckett slides the phone back. “Are you one of those people, by chance?”
Embarrassingly, my face warms. I redirect the conversation by asking, “Hey, what conditioner do you use?” There’s no doubt he’s just teasing me, armed with my confession from last night, but it still makes me blush.
Beckett’s eyes narrow. “What? No idea. It’s a two-in-one thing.” He leans across the table with a cocky grin. “What’re you going to say?”
Ignoring him, I clutch my phone against my chest and type a reply.
ME: Thanks for the unwanted opinion. Are you covering for me? Y/N?
AUNT FEE: Yes, I got you.
AUNT FEE: Be safe and text when you get home, okay? Don’t forget to have fun!
“We’re good for tonight.” I drop the phone in my purse, away from his curious gaze.
“The game could go late. Will that be enough?”
“I mean, it has to be. I have to look at the bigger picture. If I can’t come up with the money…” I trail off, shaking my head. “Arizona isn’t an option.”
Beckett picks up his coffee and palms the mug, his gaze soft as it meets mine. “Why Arizona?”
“My dad’s parents live down there,” I explain, picking at my napkin. “I can’t imagine not living here. This city is my home. I can’t leave.”
From its fraught history to the Gold Rush boom to the 1906 earthquake to the AIDs crisis, San Francisco’s had a rough life. A city felled by earthquakes and scorched by fire. A city that built itself back up. A city so diverse, welcoming, and unique. Streets without judgment, nights without limits. I can’t imagine living somewhere that isn’t steeped in diversity like San Francisco. A city where I can be myself.
I might not know who Chuck Wilson is yet, but if I’m ever going to find her, it’ll be here in San Francisco.
As if Beckett can read my mind, he says, “Then we’re sure as hell finding a way for you to stay. I promise.”
And damn it, I believe him.
Eleven
UNLIKE THE ROAD, the Dust Bowl is a proper bowling alley.
The building is red brick and ancient, with three stories of residential above; loud music pumps from the metal-barred windows. Beckett and I observe the building as we wait across the street for the sidewalk signal to change. I try my best not to act intimidated. This is my first solo game, and my nerves won’t let me forget it.
I’m rarely out this late, and it never ceases to amaze me how this city stays awake when everyone else has long since gone to bed. The lights. The crowded seats at corner restaurants. The groupings of friends waiting for taxis or rideshares, stomping their feet to stay warm as they wait for the light to turn.
“You have any trouble with your dad?” Beckett asks, leaning against the streetlamp pole.
“Nope. He was out when I left, and Aunt Fiona’s covering me. We should be good.” I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I’d worn something warmer than a flimsy caftan.
Back in the car, Beckett had me dab whiskey on my skin from an airplane-size bottle to help sell my drunken state—another facet of the hustle. Who knows if it’ll work, but I smell disgusting.
“On a scale of one to ten, how happy is your aunt that you’re hanging out with cute guys with amazing hair?” he asks, casting me a teasing grin.
I smack his arm. Now that we’ve cleared the air, it’s frightening how comfortable we are with each other. How easy, how seamless, it’s been to fall into our old dynamic. “Who said ‘amazing’? You’re so full of yourself.”
His grin is wide, the tips of his ears pink. “I’m the right amount of full,” he corrects me. “And admit it, my hair is amazing.”
I eye his curls and the light turns. “Eh, it’s okay.”
Inside the Dust Bowl, the low ceiling is claustrophobic, and the bar’s in a separate room guarded by a dour-looking bouncer. There are thirty-six lanes in the darkened alley. Weak overheads illuminate the building, but special bulbs give everything an electric glow. Black lights. Beckett smiles and his teeth are super white.
Unlike last night, I’m supposed to be Beckett’s girlfriend. I know I agreed to this, but I didn’t exactly consider how much touching would be involved. His hand pressing against my lower back as we pay the cashier. The outside of his thigh pressing into mine as we sit, scoping out the competition. Tucking the wig’s hair behind my ear, promising to be right back, before he goes to chat up the other players.
All these small, very confusing actions.
We’re stationed at lane seven. Half the people are here to drink and have a good time. The others are here to gamble. You can tell from their severe facial expressions, the discreet piles of money underneath beer coasters, and the overall air of hostility.
I bowl shitty, just like we planned. When I hit a spare, I loudly
broadcast how I can take anyone in the bowling alley. Beckett pretends to be wary when the guys he’s been chatting up agree to play me. No one questions our story. He was right. Simple lies work. No one gives me lingering glances, either.
Beckett joins me at our lane and says, “You’ll be playing against Earl, Sandy, and Ace, those three at lane eight. Go introduce yourself. Get close enough for them to smell the alcohol, act drunk, got it?”
I raise a brow at their names. Did we stumble into a fifties movie? “Sure thing.”
“Hey, guys,” I say, careful to slur my words, and lean over the seats separating us. “I’m Caroline.”
“Earl,” says the oldest of the trio, a short man in his thirties with patchy black hair and a whitening goatee. From the way his face recoils, I’m betting he detects the whiskey soaked into my shirt, skin, and strands of the wig.
The other guy is in his late twenties and has a shaved head. “I’m Sandy. What’s your name again?”
“Caroline.” I smile and trip, clutching Sandy’s shoulder for support. “Gosh, I am so sorry.”
Sandy grins. “No problem, sweetheart.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so whatever acidic response I’d love to lob at Sandy stays unspoken. I’m no one’s sweetheart.
Ace is younger and gives me an appraising look. “Ace. Nice to meet you.”
“Babe, you have the cash?” Beckett asks from our lane.
Babe? That’s so unnecessary. I glare at him but pull the money clip from my bag. “One hundred sound fair?” With a twist of my wrist, I drop the clip in front of our opponents. “Oops!”
Beckett scoops up the cash. “Gotta be more careful.”
After he tucks my one hundred dollars in the table’s built-in cup holder, the other men do the same. Earl slides a coaster over the stash. The Dust Bowl isn’t as ignorant about any illegal activities as the Road, but we’re not letting that stop us.
The scoreboard screens hang side by side, and Beckett already programmed my name into the machine. Whoever ends with the highest score wins the whole pot. No team tonight. Just me, a green ball, and my left hook.
The guys offer to go first.
“Intimidation tactic,” Beckett whispers, his arm loose around my waist. I focus on the game instead of his hand on my hip. The way the heat of his palm melts through the fabric like it’s not even there.
Earl bowls a strike, Sandy a spare, and Ace another strike. “It’s working.”
Beckett surprises me by turning and leaning his forehead against mine. The toes of his loafers press against my bowling shoes, and this close up, his breath is cinnamon. His eyes find mine and lock on with an intensity that turns my stomach upside down.
Instinct tells me to move because—hello—his mouth is maybe two inches from mine, but I’m supposed to be Beckett’s girlfriend. Besides, this isn’t real; he’s just pretending. I slide my hand up his arm, cupping the back of his neck. I really shouldn’t like this. But holy shit, do I like this.
“Stay confident,” he murmurs. “These guys are no better bowlers than Count and Phil. Just cockier with more cash. Keep your average higher than last time, but don’t pull anything impressive. A seven-two split? Don’t go for the spare.”
I nod, and my nose bumps his.
“Now, I’m going to buy those gentlemen a beer.” Beckett squeezes my arm before stepping away.
“With what ID?” Flushed, I try to focus. What just happened?
“My fake ID. I got you one too.” He grins slyly. “Some bowling alleys might be twenty-one and over. I picked it up today; it’s in my bag.”
After I bowl my first turn, Beckett heads to the bar. The pins take a moment to reset, and I dip into the bowling bag and find the fake ID, wrinkling my nose at the picture. He used my yearbook photo from this year. They took them at the end of September, and I look painfully sixteen. I turned seventeen this February, but I doubt it matters—I don’t look any older. I tuck the ID into my wallet anyway.
Beckett returns several frames later with the beers, his eyes flitting to the scoreboard. He’s carrying five, one for each of us. He sips his and perches on the seats, talking to the guys as they bowl. They’re wary of drinking, but when I force myself to take a gulp of the warm, foamy liquid, the three men sip their own.
But I don’t swallow it. When they’re not looking, I spit it back into the cup.
Like the Road, I increase my game by the sixth frame. By now Beckett’s purchased a second round of beers, his dumped in a fake potted plant. The men pay little attention, and I’m having déjà vu from the Road.
Between turns, when my mind is at ease, I experience these shock-like moments of earlier when Beckett put his forehead to mine. How easy, natural, it felt. How good it felt. Of all the things I shouldn’t be thinking about, it’s earlier. But if you tell someone not to think of an elephant, what do they think about? An elephant.
Beckett’s my elephant.
Later. I can unpack whatever the hell happened later. I take a convincing faux sip of my beer and eye the scoreboard. All three guys have a lead on me, but as I improve, they get sloppier. Ace is ten pins ahead of me. Sandy thirty. Earl forty.
During my seventh frame, I bowl a split, knocking over the pins and earning myself a spare. I need the lead. I can’t find myself in the same position as Saturday, where everything hinged on the final tenth frame.
“Getting lucky?” Ace calls.
Earl studies the scoreboard, then approaches the foul line.
I shrug and pretend to sip my beer, spilling droplets on my caftan. That beer better not stain.
Beckett turns his back to the guys, narrows his eyes at me, and subtly shakes his head. He wants me to hold off, but with four hundred dollars on the line, I’m not leaving anything to chance. And it’s not like I bowled a strike. It was an easy spare.
“Third round?” Beckett offers as Earl bowls.
When Ace begins to say yes, Earl cuts him off. “Thanks, but we’ve had enough. Might want to watch out for your girl. She looks hammered.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, drunk-girl loud. For the first time, I wish I were drunk. It’s a lightning-quick desire, one I tamp down just as fast as it appeared. I don’t drink, ever. It’s a pastime of my mom’s I don’t dare experience. I just wish I could escape from my mind—somehow. I can’t stop replaying that moment. How, I’m pretty sure, Beckett smiled when I cupped the back of his neck. Focus.
Except I can’t. If Beckett smiled, what did it mean? That he’s a good actor? I already know how well he can sell a lie. For Beckett, this charade must be easy. He doesn’t have any old and unresolved feelings that might complicate things. I can’t let myself be fooled into thinking this is real.
Beckett pushes up from his seat and pulls me to him. His fingers loop around my wrist. “You good?”
“I’m nervous.” This much is true. I shake free from his grip, thinking clearer now that we’re not touching.
“Deep breaths. You got this in the bag. Try to not lose, okay?”
“Thanks. I was totally planning on losing,” I say sarcastically. “You need to give better pep talks; you’re shit at this.”
Beckett’s gray eyes narrow. “What did I do?”
Okay, so I’m not really mad about the pep talk. I’m nervous and confused, and pushing him away right now solves one of my problems. I grab the bottle of water from his bowling bag. “Forget it.”
“Chuck—”
“You’re distracting me, okay?”
Whatever annoyance was on his face disappears. “You find me distracting?” he teases, mouth curving into the cockiest of smiles. This right here is why my friendship with Beckett was always so confusing. He’s always been an accidental flirt, and it’s particularly grating tonight.
“That’s not what I meant!” Blushing, I chug half the water bottle so I don’t have to speak. Beckett keeps grinning, but he doesn’t say anything else. Why is he so freaking annoying? I’m the one playing, not him. It’s easy
for him to joke around, act like tonight is no biggie.
The annoyance fuels me, and just to spite Beckett, I go for the strike. My left hook sweeps across the lane, smacking into the headpin. All ten pins spiral away, leaving an empty frame. Without their beers to distract them, all three men watched me throw that strike.
“Wow, that was lucky!” I say in faux surprise, not meeting Beckett’s gaze as I sit beside him. The men murmur, but none approach or question me.
“Chuck,” Beckett says in a low, warning tone.
Crossing my arms, I sit forward and pay attention to the game instead of indulging Beckett’s disapproval. The hawkeyed men start paying me more attention, but I don’t back down. I don’t care if I’m not following Beckett’s precious plan anymore.
When the men get up to bowl the tenth frame, they do far better than I anticipated. They still have a lead—troubling considering I’ve actually been playing well the last few frames. I need another strike. Bad.
Don’t overthink it.
During my last frame, I throw the ball; five pins fall, revealing a split.
The men behind me howl with laughter.
Everyone thinks the toughest split to convert is a seven-ten. Yeah, that’s a lie. The toughest is the one at the end of my lane, the Greek Church—pins four, six, seven, nine, and ten—resembling ancient religious architecture. I don’t see the resemblance. Just one hell of a shot.
Beckett runs over. “This isn’t good.”
“No shit.” The return spits out my ball, and I push him aside. I can’t deal with him right now. “I’ve got this.”
He holds up his hands and backs away.
After swallowing the dried spit in my throat, I make my move.
When I approach the foul line, my foot, clad in a cheap rental shoe, lurches forward onto the oiled lanes.
“Foul,” Earl yells from the sidelines. “She crossed the line.”
I turn to defend myself, but the world slips, ripped out from underneath me. The green ball bounces away, and all the air is knocked out of my body as my back hits the floor. I manage not to slam my skull against the platform. What the hell just happened? Stunned, I stare up at the ceiling. The rafters. A saggy Mylar balloon in the shape of a frog bobs near a light fixture.
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 11