Tuesdays aren’t busy for Bigmouth’s. We don’t have the geriatrics from Monday, the knitting club stops by on Wednesdays, and Thursday’s league night. Fridays can be busy. Same with Saturday nights. I wouldn’t be surprised if a tumbleweed blew through here. However, that might be too much action for a Tuesday.
Since it’s dead, I’m in the back, squaring off with a bunch of nasty bowling shoes. Before I get cleaning, I prop open the window so I don’t pass out from all the chemicals. First the antifungal. Then a disinfectant that makes my eyes water. I top off the cleaning cocktail with a dousing of Febreze.
Collecting the shoes, I carry them out front to the register and slip behind the counter, organizing them in the cubbies. Someone behind me whistles tunelessly, and I glance over my shoulder, spotting Beckett as he heads in my direction.
I smile. Then panic. Because I most definitely look like a wreck. My red lipstick was a poor choice even if it’s my signature color. Today it only stresses the other extremes. Lifeless pallor, crappy eye-makeup application, the cystic hormone pimple living on my chin. Ugh, why do I care? Why should I care what I look like in front of Beckett? I shouldn’t care, but I do. Like, a frightening amount.
“Hey!” Beckett approaches the register with crates filled with Pepsi, Mountain Dew, and variety packs of Gatorade balanced on his hip. The clipboard slides precariously on top of the bottles, and he hoists the entire thing onto the counter. “I’d ask you to sign, but…” He trails off with a knowing grin.
“Come along.” I shove the remaining shoes into the cubbies and lead him to Dad’s office. Beckett’s first delivery was only five days ago, but our dynamic is light-years different. Falling back into what we once had.
“What’re you doing after work?” He flips the clipboard back and forth, the attached pen flying.
“Nothing really.” I’ll probably swap my dress for pajamas and binge Antiques Roadshow until I fall asleep, but even I know how boring that sounds. “You’re watching Willa, right?”
“Unfortunately,” he jokes. “You off at six?”
We stop at my dad’s office. “Yep. Sooner if things stay dead.”
“Come in,” Dad calls, and we push inside. “Hey there, Porter. Need my autograph?”
Beckett presents the clipboard, and Dad loops his signature on the form. He glances between us. “How’s your project going?”
As I say, “Not bad,” Beckett says, “Terribly.”
Backtracking, he adds, “What I meant is we could benefit from extra time.” Beckett clutches the clipboard to his chest.
“I guess you can leave at four today,” Dad says to me.
I glance at the wall clock—that’s in an hour—and side-eye Beckett. Why is he smuggling me out of work when there isn’t a game tonight? I swear, I can never get a read on the guy.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I need to close early anyway.”
“Why?” What’s with Dad closing early lately? We’re trying to make money and, you know, not shut down. This feels counterproductive.
“Okay, Caroline.” Dad exhales and shuts his laptop. “If you must know, four months ago your aunt introduced me to her yoga instructor.” Oh God, my dad is blushing. “Leigh and I hit it off, and things are starting to become serious.… I’ve been waiting for the best time to tell you.”
I blink, my eyelids sliding over sandpaper eyeballs. “What? You’ve been seeing her for four months and you never told me? What the hell, Dad?”
Beckett keeps hugging the clipboard and takes a few exaggerated steps backward, but as he tries to leave the office, I clutch the hem of his shirt. Nice try. He’s not leaving me here to endure this awkwardness alone.
“I wasn’t going to say anything unless—”
“It got serious,” I say, nodding stiffly. “Right. Okay.”
I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth, biting hard. Dad hasn’t dated much since Mom died. Sure, that was fourteen years ago, but there’s something deeply unsettling about your parent dating. Especially when they lied about it for months.
The Wilson family has a serious problem with the truth.
Maybe it’s different if your parents divorced, if you watched their former relationship dissolve in the acid of a split. Dad doesn’t talk about Mom often, but he keeps their wedding photo on his bedside table. From what Aunt Fee has told me, Mom was Dad’s tragic true love. He loves her. A love without an end. How do you move on from that?
Dad’s few attempts at dating have never amounted to much, and I figured he was waiting until I left for college. But this is just plain odd. My dad, the greaseball in a bowling shirt, going out with a yoga instructor? And who goes out on a Tuesday? Who the hell is this woman to shut down Bigmouth’s Bowl?
“Fine.” I trip on the carpet as I back away and steady myself using the doorframe. “Have fun.”
“Caroline,” Dad says, his voice sharp. “Don’t get weird on me.”
“I’m great.” I give him a fake smile. “Do you mind if I leave now? There’s no one here, and this is Beckett’s last delivery.” I have no idea if that’s true, but I can’t be here anymore.
Dad glances at the clock, frowning. “I’m not sure.”
“I e-mailed the therapist,” I say, hoping this’ll remind him of the leniency he promised. This is technically a lie because I forgot, but I intend to e-mail her. Eventually.
“That’s fantastic, hon.” Dad’s genuinely pleased, eyes crinkling at the corners. Guilt stabs me in the stomach, but it vanishes when I remember all his lies. “I guess it’s fine if you leave.”
“Cool. See you tonight.” I grab Beckett’s arm and wheel him out the door.
“Um, are you okay?” Beckett asks.
“Mm-hmm, I’m peachy.”
“So you claim.” He thumps the clipboard against his thighs as he walks. “Think of it this way: the more time he spends with Yoga Leigh, the less likely he’ll be wondering where you keep disappearing off to for the rest of spring break.”
“Not a bad point.” We reach the counter and the crates of drinks. “Do you need help with these?”
Beckett eyes them. “Storage closet?”
“Sure. It should be unlocked.” I balance a crate on my hip and help Beckett put them away. “Do you know when Bigmouth’s contract ends with Schulman’s?”
“No, but they’re generally yearlong contracts renewed in June. Why?”
My hope fades. I hoist the crate onto the shelf and say, “I thought if he was still getting deliveries, maybe he renewed his contract and knows something I don’t.”
Beckett slides the other crate onto the shelf. “Unless he renews this June, I have no idea. Sorry.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.” I nudge the storage room door shut. “My dad’s given up on this place.”
If Dad’s been dating Yoga Leigh for the past few months, then he clearly isn’t invested in saving Bigmouth’s. His priorities lie elsewhere. The late nights, closing early, the phone calls he didn’t want me to overhear… The realization stings.
I collect my belongings and toss the useless bell on the counter for our nonexistent clientele.
“This was my last stop, but I have to return the van to the warehouse. Wanna come with?” Beckett hooks his thumbs in his jean pockets. “I have a couple of hours until I need to pick up Willa.”
When I glance around the lobby, my gaze lands heavy on one of the many framed photographs. Bigmouth’s thirty-year anniversary. My mom posing beside the jukebox, her smile infectious. My parents kissing in front of the neon sign outside, the BIGMOUTH’S BOWL sign new and luminous.
I rake my fingers through my hair, nostrils flaring. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
I’ve never welcomed the similarities and parallels between me and my mom. They upset me on a cellular level. But there was always one small comfort. If Dad loved Mom, then he’d always love me. I want my dad to be happy. I really do. But why can’t he be happy with someone more like Mom? If Dad wants normal
and perfect, can he still love someone like me?
Fourteen
BECKETT INSISTS AN afternoon in Dolores Park will help me unwind, as he nicely put it at the warehouse, where I walked in anxious circles around him. Perched between the stately Spanish buildings of the Mission and the rainbow-splashed Castro, Dolores Park is one of my favorite places in the city.
Emerald-green grass slopes upward with strips of sidewalk breaking the lawn in a U-shape. Cement stairways lead to higher grounds, and tennis courts showcase barefooted and shirtless men lobbing a ball back and forth. For late April, it’s sunnier than normal, which all of San Francisco seems to be taking advantage of.
The park is packed, and we find a spot on the outskirts of Hipster Hill. Beckett spreads out a blanket on the stubbly grass, and we sit. I tuck my legs to my chest and rest my chin on my kneecaps. Here, in the park, I’m infinitely calmer than I was at Bigmouth’s. For a few hours, I don’t want to think about Yoga Leigh, my dad, and his pathetic attempts to protect me.
I close my eyes for a moment and feel the breeze whistling through the air.
A Frisbee soars across the sky. On the other end of the park, kites fly. Sounds wholesome until you look closer and see two naked men constructing a Slip’n Slide down one hill. We even have a nudist that comes to the bowling alley. Dad lets him bowl as long as he’s wearing his city-issued sock (yeah, disgusting), but here in Dolores Park, people bare all.
“You want your sewing?” Beckett asks, holding out the tote bag with my sewing kit.
“No thanks.” I shift until my cheek rests against my knees comfortably. “You were right the other night, when you mentioned sewing being my passion.”
“Yeah?” Beckett stretches his forearms back.
“I was supposed to go on a tour at FIDM, but I chickened out.” I sigh heavily.
“What about Bigmouth’s? You sure you don’t want to enter the family business?”
“The bowling business is dying. At least the way my dad runs it. We don’t have a liquor license. People bowl to get drunk and have fun, not hang out in a stale warehouse with a broken cigarette machine.”
“Don’t be so certain. Trends are cyclical. Maybe good old-fashioned bowling will make a comeback.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
Beckett pulls a water bottle out from his backpack and takes a swig. “Like us hanging out again?” he asks, offering me the bottle.
“Exactly like us hanging out together.” I grab the water bottle and take a sip before realizing I’m sharing germs with Beckett. “I guess it’s weird. How things turned out. A week ago, I couldn’t stand to look at you, let alone talk and hang out with you.”
“Past tense,” Beckett observes with a smug grin. He ditched his work uniform in the car and wears a plain blue shirt with fraying seams. It’s frustrating how his T-shirt brings hidden elements of blue in his gray eyes to light.
“It’s not funny! Last year… sucked.”
“Hey, it sucked for me, too! I’m glad we’ve made it here, though.” Beckett shifts on the blanket, and his shoulder brushes against mine. Maybe it’s static electricity from our clothes, but something sparks and I feel the charge throughout my body.
Here. He means back to each other. I hang my head back, reveling at the weirdness of Beckett and me hanging out in our free time. Without the pretense of bowling, making money, or saving Bigmouth’s. We’re us again, two friends sharing a blanket and sitting beneath the San Franciscan sky. After my sleepless night yesterday, I’m more certain than ever that I want Beckett back, even if this ends, even if it all falls apart, even if I move to Arizona.
That want? It scares the shit out of me.
“You could’ve fooled me.” I relax ever so slightly until my side presses solidly against his. “From my point of view, you moved on, made friends—”
“Not friend friends,” he says. “Superficial friends. I wanted to seem like I was okay with losing you.” He drops his voice to add, “I wasn’t okay.”
“And now?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
Beckett grins, squinting as the sun hits his eyes. “I’m sitting here with you, aren’t I?”
“You are so cheesy,” I deflect, unable to tame the happy flush his words ignited.
“Psh,” he scoffs. “Like you don’t love it.”
I shift in the grass so I can face him. Because while I might enjoy the thrill of him saying those words, I have to remember that Beckett’s like this with literally everyone. Friends. Strangers on the street. Checkout cashiers at the grocery store. An accidental flirt to the very end. “I don’t,” I say resolutely, lifting my chin.
“Mmm, see, this is where we disagree.” Beckett’s smile stretches even wider, and he casually rests his hand on my knee. “I think you’re forgetting that I know an awful lot about you.”
I stare at his hand, brows pinched. Then he tickles me.
Caught between surprise and laughter, I fall backward into the grass. “You asshole! I told you that in confidence.”
I’m not ticklish like a normal person. My ribs or the bottom of my feet do nothing. But my knees are hypersensitive, something I made the mistake of telling Beckett years ago. So I take aim at his sides, tickling him back in revenge. It takes only a second of retaliation for him to abandon my knees, scooting a safe distance away from me.
“Truce?” he asks, his chest heaving from laughter and his curls mussed.
“Uh-huh.” I push upright, picking grass from my hair. “Not funny! I’m never telling you anything ever again,” I tease, leaning over and trying to smack his arm, but he catches my hand and curls my palm to his chest.
For a second I think it’s a mistake. A midair collision of our two hands. That he’ll let go. Instead, he presses my hand to his sternum. To the space above his heart. Warmth radiates between us, my fingers limp.
“You wanna know something?” he asks, his gaze tracking up from our hands and settling on my face.
“Sure.” My voice is faint. The busyness of Dolores, and all I see is Beckett. All I smell is the warmth of his body and the cinnamon on his breath. All I feel is his hand pressing mine to his heart.
“You haven’t laughed, not once, the past few days. I’ve missed that sound.” His shirt is oh so soft, and there’s the thud thud thud of his heart. Or is that my heart? “I just… wanted to hear you laugh.”
Beckett loosens his grip on my wrist and laces his fingers through mine. Friends don’t hold hands, right? We certainly didn’t hold hands before. “After I tried apologizing, your dad told me to give you space until you came around. But I’m afraid I gave you too much space, and I lost you.”
I look anywhere but at him. At the blanket, a My Little Pony beach towel I sincerely hope belongs to Willa. At the guy wandering between picnic blankets with a backpack selling edibles. Anywhere, everywhere, other than our intertwined hands.
Goose bumps ridge my skin, and I inhale sharply. “You didn’t lose me, Beck. I’m right here.”
The strange thing is, no part of me—not even my overactive and judgmental brain—wants to pull apart. My hand stays still. Locked with Beckett’s. Twice the size of mine and pleasantly warm, especially now that the breeze is picking up, a whistling chill.
How did we get here? We’re holding hands. The sensation of his skin against mine reminds me of our girlfriend-boyfriend hustling act. Reminds me of how Beckett’s hands have affected me in ways I’m not proud of. How they lingered warm against the curve of my hips, the low indent of my back. Flexing in anger when I piss him off. Gripping me and spinning me off my feet in the bowling alley.
We’re friends—faux dating on hustling nights—but today’s a regular Tuesday. We’re in public, sitting atop the grassy knoll of Dolores Park holding hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m nervous, so nervous, but in an excited, hopeful way. The constant yarn ball of panic that’s lived in my chest the last five days is unwinding.
My gaze flickers toward his mouth, a
nd no matter how much I try backtracking, it’s too late. My mind has already gone there, a place where I spent most of sophomore year. What would it be like to press my lips against Beckett’s? It would be so easy to lean over and kiss him.
Shit. I can’t be thinking this. Beckett and I are finally friends again—complicated, potentially non-platonic friends, but we can’t be doing this. Maybe not ever, but especially not right now. We’re partners in crime. If hustling is a business, that makes us partners.
And thou shalt not kiss thy hustling partner.
Fifteen
I RETURN HOME from the park before sunset with my body a confusing hormonal mindfuck, and I’m too muddled to dissect what happened, or didn’t happen, until I sleep for a solid eight hours. Or ten. Or maybe I’ll sleep an entire day to be safe.
I’m accosted by a strange scent the second I open the front door. Not Aunt Fiona’s cooking. Worse. Ugh—the cologne Aunt Fee and I made the mistake of buying for Dad’s birthday. I almost forgot about his date with Yoga Leigh. After slipping off my shoes, I follow the stench.
Dad stands in the hall by the mirror, rearranging his scant hair across his forehead. I blink in surprise. He’s dressed in slacks and a button-down. Dad rarely wears anything other than his uniform of a stained bowling shirt and cargo shorts. Or basketball shorts if it’s laundry day.
“Hey.” I try to keep my tone neutral. “When’s your date?”
“I’m leaving to pick up Leigh in five minutes.” Dad meets my reflection’s gaze in the mirror. “How’s that history project going?”
The way he phrases the question makes me wonder if he knows it’s complete and utter bullshit. “Fine. New pants?”
“How’d you guess?”
I reach over and rip off the tag, and Dad’s cheeks flush red.
There’s something horrifying about watching your parents blush. I prefer to pretend my dad isn’t human, thank you very much. Yet here he is, wearing new pants and sweating through his one fancy shirt. I hope for Yoga Leigh’s sake he’s wearing deodorant. Then again, she won’t be able to smell his nervous flop-sweat or the stench of stale cigarettes over all that cologne.
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