Now I have my answer. Was his recent behavior really that different? Or have I just gone too long without any real-life contact outside of my dad and Fiona to know what’s normal and what’s not? Without saying goodbye, I climb out of the car and shut the door behind me.
I run up the hill to the yellow house, my body full of conflicted and confusing feelings. I’m nauseated with the embarrassment of it all. For once, I put myself out there, and look where it got me. The crushing blow is all too familiar to what I felt last year.
Aunt Fiona’s at the kitchen table when I walk inside.
“Whoa,” she says, taking in my wild-eyed appearance, her spoon dripping milk into the cereal bowl. “Are you okay?”
“Boys are assholes.” The anger comes more naturally than the bruised hurt spreading throughout my body.
My aunt laughs. “Have truer words ever been spoken? C’mere.”
All I want to do is scream into a pillow, but I join Aunt Fee in the kitchen. She pours me a bowl of cereal, covers me in a chenille blanket from the couch. “Spill. What happened?”
“I messed up,” I whisper into my cereal bowl. “This stuff with Beckett is… really confusing.”
Settled across from me, Fee asks, “You wanna talk about it?”
Luckily, I avoided going into detail about our fake relationship earlier. Now I edit out anything incriminating about our hustling, using a party cover story, and give her some background before venting. “I’m so socially incompetent; I totally misread his signals.”
“Maybe not! Let me get this straight. You’re at this party,” Aunt Fiona says, and my mind is so jumbled I almost correct her, “and you tried kissing him?”
Setting the bowl aside, I drop my forehead to the table. “Yes. It was humiliating! It was impulsive, but I did it anyway.” That would make an excellent title for my future memoir. Chuck Wilson: It Was Impulsive, but I Did It Anyway.
“You’re so dramatic. Sit up,” Fiona demands. I comply, but pout at her. “Okay, were you guys alone?”
I shake my head. “No. There were a lot of people around. Kind of watching?”
Steepling her fingers beneath her chin like an armchair therapist, she asks, “Did you ever think he didn’t want a bunch of strangers watching you kiss?”
“Beckett wouldn’t care.” He’s blissfully unaware and doesn’t care what other people think about him. He’s always been my exact opposite in that regard.
“How do you know? Did he say he didn’t want to kiss you?”
“I mean, not in those exact words.” Staring at the milk in the cereal bowl, at the faded marshmallows, I sigh. “When he dropped me off, he told me he cared about me. As a friend.”
“Chuck, look at me.”
I lift my chin and look my aunt in the eye. Her braid is frizzing, draped over one shoulder, and her green eyes are kind. “What?”
“You’re awesome, okay? I might be biased because you’re my niece and I love you, but you are certifiably awesome. If Beckett doesn’t have feelings for you, it’s his loss. But do you want to lose him as a friend—again—over this?”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “No.”
“Then talk to him. As a species, boys are dense. Teenage boys are even denser. Try telling him how this made you feel. You won’t be able to move forward—with friendship or otherwise—if you ignore what happened.” Aunt Fee shrugs. “That’s my take. Feel free to ignore it.”
“Thank you.” After dumping my cereal in the sink, I hug my aunt, resting my chin on her shoulder.
Sure, sometimes Aunt Fee gets it wrong (the tampon incident still haunts me to this day), but she helps more than she knows. Fiona put her life on hold for us. For me. In moments like these, when she talks me down, I wonder how I’ll ever be able to repay her.
“I love you, Fee.”
“Love you too, kid,” she says, and hugs me even tighter.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I curl up on my bed beside Jean Paul and let myself cry. Aunt Fiona helped calm me down and see the situation more clearly, but I’m still overflowing with emotions. There’s no worse feeling than offering up all the insecure parts of yourself, only to be rejected.
Lying there, I replay the moment over and over again. Fresh and more painful each time I mentally roll back the night. I can’t always give in to my impulses, no matter how persuasive they seem in the moment. And trust me, they were pretty damn persuasive. Intoxicating, almost. Thinking before speaking or acting has never been my forte.
Nothing’s changed, and I can’t believe I thought otherwise.
Why did I think Beckett would ever want me?
I’m unkissable. I’ve never kissed anyone before! I don’t know what I was thinking, putting myself out there. I didn’t think he’d turn me down. I really didn’t think—at all. You want to know how many attractive and redeeming qualities I have? Zero. I talk too loud and too fast. My brain is several layers of fucked up and complicated. Not to mention my frizzy hair, and I’m short—and not in a cute and delicate way.
Beckett can do way better than me.
My old therapist, Sarah, used to call this negative self-talk.
Fine by me.
I deserve every ugly word.
THURSDAY, APRIL 26 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 4
Seventeen
I HAVE AN emotional hangover.
Stuck between hating myself and hating Beckett, I’m entirely unpleasant to be around. Dad commented several times about my grouchiness before he left to have lunch with Yoga Leigh. I told him I was on my period and that was the end of that. No more questions asked. Now he and the yogi are at Greens Restaurant, a fancy vegetarian place across town. Things seem serious between them, and it leaves me equally nervous and nauseated. My blog snooping the other night humanized Leigh, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with the situation.
Beckett’s texted several times, but I don’t open my messaging app. I’m not ready yet, not prepared to relive last night in writing.
Slouched against the counter, I scroll through Instagram with one hand, the other propping up my chin.
The bell above the door jangles, but I’m in the middle of reading one of Mila’s most recent posts on her personal Instagram. I know social media is all about algorithms and manipulating your brain chemistry to rely on likes and upvotes, but man, that doesn’t stop it from making me feel like crap. Mila’s life is literally picture perfect.
Footsteps echo throughout the entry, but Dad’s not around, and no longer caring about appearing unprofessional, I keep my eyes glued to my phone. No one is here bowling, and whoever walked in probably just wants to use our bathroom or something.
When the person clears their throat, my gaze flits up. Beckett. For some reason, my heart lifts in happiness over seeing him again. Must be muscle memory, because I’m not happy. No, I’m conflicted. Extremely and emotionally conflicted. But I force a frown and say, “What’re you doing here?”
Beckett strolls up to the register. “Hey…” His backpack is slung over one shoulder, and he’s carrying a plastic bag from CVS. “Um, are you due for a break?”
“Nope.” I return my attention to my Instagram feed, tapping a random photo twice to like it. I’m acting petulant and immature, but I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now. We’re friends, which is great, and I wholly intend on trying to maintain our friendship. But last night was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Ideally, I want to ignore any unnecessary one-on-one time until our hustles are over. Then, when I know if I’ll be staying in the city, I’ll figure out how to save our friendship.
Turns out Beckett has other plans.
In my peripheral vision, I see him lean against the counter. Closer to me. The air smells of his deodorant and the rain clinging to his jacket.
“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word. “Is there any chance you can help me with something?”
“Beckett,” I say with a sigh. “I’m working.”
“There’s no
one here.” He spreads his arms out to encompass the empty alley. “Besides, I can’t dye my hair on my own. I mean, I could, but it’d probably end poorly. I know how much you like my hair, so yeah, I figured—”
I squint at him, and my iciness slips. “Wait, what’re you prattling on about?”
Beckett grabs something from the CVS bag and sets it on the counter. A box of hair dye. Blue hair dye. “We should work on my disguise for tonight’s game.”
“You want me to dye your hair?”
“Yup.”
Glancing between the box of semipermanent hair dye and Beckett’s confusingly hopeful face, I nod. “Fine.” I pocket my phone, snatch the box of hair dye off the counter, and lead Beckett to the handicapped bathroom down the hall from Dad’s office.
Beckett trails me, and I push open the door. The single stall is small, barely large enough for two people, but it has its own counter and sink. He slips inside and dumps the CVS bag on the counter. A pack of alligator clips tumbles out, along with a cheap travel blow-dryer.
We’re quiet as we set up. Beckett fetches the stool from behind the register and gets situated while I study the box of hair dye. I’ve never dyed someone’s hair before. Doesn’t seem too complicated. And if I end up burning Beckett’s scalp? Oh well.
The tiniest bit of guilt slithers into my chest as I prep the “Blue Jeans” hair dye. Beckett’s not to blame for not kissing me. I’d probably be more upset if he kissed me but didn’t have feelings for me. At least this way, we’re kind of honest with each other. We can move past this. Eventually. When I’m not as upset. That day is not today, however.
After sectioning off his hair with the alligator clips, I snap on the rubber gloves that came with the hair dye and dip my fingers into the plastic bowl of dark-blue cream. “Okay, here goes nothing,” I mutter, smearing the dye into Beckett’s curls. He shifts as I massage the dye closer to his scalp, trying to get his roots. The heat of his body, the weight of his head, stirs up the desperate yearning I’ve failed to bury. His eyes are closed—totally surrendered to me—and I’m embarrassed by how much I still want him.
Every breath, every movement, is louder than gunfire.
I should’ve put on music.
After a few agonizing minutes, Beckett clears his throat and asks, “How’s it going?”
“Good,” I say, grimacing at my squeaky, nervous voice. After I check to make sure the section is fully covered, I unclip the next. I squirt out more dye from the tube and a small drop lands on the counter. Shit. I might need to bleach the counter before Dad gets back.
The hair dye smells like blueberries, and under any other circumstance, this might be kind of fun. And in another world? Almost romantic. Lightning cracks outside. The small window in the bathroom is rectangular, high up on the wall. Temperamental rain patters against the pane.
As I work my way through his hair, I’m glad there isn’t a mirror in the bathroom—Beckett can’t see my pained facial expression if he were to open his eyes. I like him, which is the worst idea ever. What’s even the point of crushes? More important, how can I make it go away?
“Ouch. You’re pulling kind of hard,” Beckett says in alarm. “On my hair?”
“Oh, sorry.” That was actually an accident. I grimace and try to be more careful. After unclipping the third and final section of hair and coating the curls in hair dye, the job is done. I strip off the gloves, toss them in the bowl, and wash up. The dye needs to sit for another five minutes.
“Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
I dry my hands with a paper towel, standing behind Beckett so I don’t have to look him in the face. “Okay?”
“I already saved up enough money for Willa’s summer camp.”
“What?” My heart aches. Does this mean he’s done hustling? But why would I be dyeing his hair if he was quitting? “When?”
Beckett tugs at the elastic on his wrist. “Like three months ago; I sold some of my comics. But that’s beside the point—”
“Wait, three months ago?” I interrupt. “Then why—”
“This was never about the money, Chuck.” He moves to run his fingers through his hair but drops them before he covers his hands in blue dye. “All of this was for you. I just wanted to help you.”
“Okay… but why’d you lie?” Suddenly nervous, I chew on the inside of my cheek.
“I figured being up front wouldn’t go over well,” he explains. “Not until we talked things out. So I lied.”
My mouth tightens, and embarrassingly, my eyes burn. I wish I were infuriated by this—I hate being lied to. But I’m not mad. Beckett’s right. I would’ve been even more hesitant if I’d known he wanted to do this only to help me. He really is a good friend and undoubtedly one of the best people I know. We’ll never be more than just friends. And if that’s all I can have, I’ll take it.
“You really did all this because you missed me?”
“No, I did this because I was done missing you,” Beckett says, and his voice cracks. “I gave you a year. I got that job at Schulman’s because of you, Chuck. I needed a job, yeah, but I needed you more. I thought… if I worked for Schulman’s, you’d see me every week and you’d realize you missed me, too.”
“Oh.” I lean my back against the counter because I don’t trust my legs to hold me upright. “And the hustling?”
“Last week, after we overheard your dad and that landlord guy, you said you might have to leave San Francisco. I needed a way to make it right—make us right—and if I could do that while helping you stay in the city, then I had to try. I had my dad’s notebook, my old betting contacts.…” Beckett trails off with a shrug, twisting in the seat to look at me. His eyes are shiny and hopeful.
The alarm on my phone goes off—the five minutes are up.
“Chuck?” he prompts, drawing his brows closer.
“I need to focus on your hair.” Partially a lie, but I need time to collect my thoughts. Wrangle my emotions. I don’t know what to make of his confession, but for now I instruct Beckett to lean over the sink. I turn on the tap, and he ducks beneath the stream of lukewarm water. I already ditched my gloves, so with bare hands I rinse the blue dye until the water runs clear. My cuticles gain a blue hue.
With a fistful of paper towels, I dry the excess water from his curls, and Beckett straightens. His wet hair is too dark to tell if the dye took. But he has this rumpled, apprehensive look about him that makes me light-headed. Then again, we’re trapped in a small room with chemicals, so it’s probably that.
“One second.” I turn away to plug in the hair dryer and turn it on, blasting his hair and creating too much noise for us to talk.
“How’s it look?” he asks once it’s dry.
Beckett’s hair is naturally brown, but now it’s taken on a dusky denim wash. Each curl is inky blue, and under the fluorescent bathroom lights, it looks good. Kind of hot, actually. His eyes are bluer too.
My face warms, and I look away, handing him my phone. “Here, see for yourself.”
Beckett uses the camera on my phone to check out his new look. “Oh God, I thought it would be subtle. I look like a homeless clown.”
I crack a grin as my nerves from earlier pitter-patter. “Blue is a good look for you. I think you should keep it. Forever.”
He tosses the phone back and runs his fingers through the blue curls. “Shut up, Wilson.”
Beckett helps me clean up, bagging all the hair-dyeing tools.
“I might not act like it, but I appreciate all your help. I really do,” I tell him as I wipe down the bathroom counter.
“Um, you’re welcome? Are you… are you still good for tonight?” Beckett digs a beanie out of his backpack, leaning against the bathroom’s doorframe.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I toss the paper towels into the trash and force a smile that doubles as a grimace.
With an annoyed sigh, he pulls the beanie on over his hair. “C’mon, are we really going to do this? Avoid talking about l
ast night? Avoid talking about, well, everything?”
“Ideally, yes.” I move to pass him out of the bathroom, but he shifts, blocking my exit.
Beckett crosses his arms, a surprisingly defensive move for him. “Well, I need to talk about it, okay?” When I don’t reply, he says, “Outside the Four Horsemen—”
“You should’ve just kissed me.” I’m trying for flippant—because apparently humor is my only defense mechanism. Unsure whether he buys it, I add, “It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything.”
“Maybe not for you,” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his loafer against the linoleum.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just forget about it.” Beckett steps out of the doorway. “I’ll see you tonight, I guess,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.
“No, what did you say?” I ask, following him into the lobby. When he doesn’t reply, the tightness in my chest becomes unbearable. I reach out and grab his sleeve, my fingers brushing up against his wrist. “Beck?”
Maybe it’s the nickname or my desperation, but he finally says, “I’m not like you, okay? It’s harder for me to, um, platonically hang out with you. You got over your feelings. I didn’t.”
Wait a second—does Beckett like me? No. Wait. What?
Beckett’s watching me so carefully and softly, waiting for my response.
“Uh…” My palms start sweating.
Beneath his breath, he says, “Fuck it,” and palms the back of his neck. “I like you, okay? I’ve liked you for a while. There. I said it.”
The silence of Bigmouth’s Bowl becomes uproarious: the faint static from the jukebox; the rhythmic swoosh of the fan in the corner; the tick of the wall clock. Seconds slide by, my mind working in overdrive. But none of the words rebounding around seem right, and I have no idea what to say.
“Back at Lake Merritt, I almost told you,” he continues, “but you were so adamant—one hundred percent sure—that your feelings were gone. But then you tried kissing me as part of our cover—”
“My feelings aren’t gone,” I blurt out, shoving my sweaty palms from sight. “But I didn’t lie—I thought I was over you. I’m not. And it isn’t easy for me, either. Hanging out with you platonically.”
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 16