“Yeah?” His ears tinge red, barely visible from beneath the beanie. “We should try hanging out non-platonically sometime. To compare and contrast.”
My smile is hesitant but hopeful, and my body’s rocking full-on goose bumps. “What exactly is non-platonic hanging out?”
“A date,” he answers quickly. “I’d really love it if you’d go on a date. With me. If that wasn’t clear—”
“Yes.” This time, I’m glad I spoke before I thought. I didn’t have the time to second-guess myself.
Beckett’s smile liquifies me. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Okay, yeah.” I’m nodding and smiling, pleasantly confused. “Tomorrow.”
Tonight we have a game, possibly our last, and tomorrow’s Friday, the maybe-game with super-high stakes. But regardless of our bowling plans, we have a date. I’ve never even been on a proper date. Now I have one—with Beckett.
“What’d you have in mind?” I ask, resisting the urge to lean over and kiss him. It’s truly unfair for someone to have that kissable of a mouth. Not that I’d know from experience, but his lips look very kissable.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” Beckett’s smile is so sweet and genuine, it makes my chest flutter, palpitate. Wild blue strands sneak out from the fold of his beanie. The smile lights up his face as he backs down the hallway, nearly tripping on the linoleum. “Okay, I’m making myself leave now—I don’t want to leave—because I have to pick Willa up from school. But I’ll see you tonight?”
“I’ll be the girl with the creepy mannequin head and wig.”
Beckett bites his lower lip before fondly shaking his head and slipping outside.
“Did that really happen?” I ask out loud, my voice lofted in disbelief.
That. Really. Happened.
Unable to shake the grin on my face, I return to the handicapped bathroom to finish cleaning up. Standing there, inhaling bleach and hair dye, my smile fades. In the moment, I allowed myself to forget the only reason Beckett and I are back on speaking terms: saving Bigmouth’s. We’ll have our first date, but who knows if I’ll be around long enough for us to have a second.
Eighteen
THE CLOCK JUST ticked over into midnight, and Beckett should be here soon.
As I wait for him to text, I grab the fattened money clip from its hiding spot in my bookshelf and weigh the heft of our winnings in my palm. Eventually, I’ll have to tell my dad some version of the truth. Since Beckett and I have done pretty well the past few days, I stayed up last night and settled on a cover for where I got the money.
Dad’s not exactly technologically savvy—he can use Facebook and that’s about it—so I’m going to tell him I started a GoFundMe. There’s no chance Dad’ll turn away money that he thinks the community raised to save Bigmouth’s. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. We don’t even have the money yet. I’m worrying too much, and little stress hives bud to the surface of my skin.
Focus, Chuck.
I tuck the money clip into my bag with tonight’s peroxide-blond wig, grabbing a bobby pin for my bangs to keep them out of my eyes. These little motions of beauty prep remind me that tomorrow I’ll be prepping for something much different.
A date with Beckett.
The date doesn’t feel any more real than it did earlier today. The words are foreign. It still feels like an elaborate hoax. But the date’s real, and I’m scared how happy that thought makes me. For once in our friendship, I’m trying not to box Beckett out. I want to find out what my feelings for him are capable of.
When I dip into my purse for my lipstick, I unearth a folded piece of paper fused to a melted piece of gum. It’s not until I unfold it that I recognize the flyer from the Four Horsemen. The font is pure Microsoft Word cheesiness. BAY AREA BOWLING LEAGUE is arched across the top of the page with clip-art decorations, and the prize money is listed at the bottom. Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Winning that much money could go a long way toward securing Bigmouth’s future in this city. Even if I gave half to Beckett, it’d mean more than two months of rent. Or it could mean renovations and a liquor license. A resuscitation. A second chance. My phone buzzes on my comforter, and I tuck the flyer beneath the tissue box on my bedside table.
BECKETT PORTER: I’m parked down the street!
Exhaling my nerves, I switch off my bedroom lights. I have two options. The rickety fire escape outside my window or sneaking downstairs. I creak open my door and listen keenly, like JP when he hears birds outside the attic window. The hallway’s lamp is on, and a low hum—a podcast or a TV show—drones.
Fire escape it is.
I’ve never used the fire escape to sneak out. Never had a reason to.
I remove the screen and hide it in my closet. Impulsive, my brain accuses, but I push that thought away as I swing one leg over the ledge, foot reaching out in the darkness. The metal is slick from the rain, but once I’m steady, I wiggle my other leg out and climb through the window.
A tiny bit of vertigo strikes as I shimmy my way down the fire escape. Luckily, both Dad’s and Aunt Fiona’s rooms are on the other side of the house. The escape passes the guest bedroom on the second floor; the lights are out. I reach the bottom, jump the last step, and land on the cement. I nearly drop to my knees and kiss the ground.
San Francisco doesn’t disappoint tonight, and its consistency is comforting. The rain returns, ominous and swirling, and I flip up my hood. I sprint through the rain and darkness, along the sidewalk, until the red octagonal stop sign appears. Two headlights blear out of the night, low to the ground, belonging to Beckett’s junkier-than-hell Accord.
Inside, the heater’s blasting, and I uncurl my frigid fingers in front of the vents. “Hey there.”
“Hey,” he says, offering up a crooked grin.
We exchange awkward smiles, and even though I’m freezing, my face is hot.
Beckett’s blue curls are frizzing out from beneath the fold of his beanie. It’s oddly satisfying. I mean, his hair is still amazing, but at least it’s not immune to Mother Nature. The car groans as he shifts out of park and pulls a tight U-turn. His left leg bounces with energy, and he taps the steering wheel tunelessly as he drives.
“You look nice. Not to say you haven’t looked nice other nights. You always do. Look nice, that is…” He trails off and focuses pointedly on the road. We pass beneath a streetlamp, which illuminates his face for a second—eyebrows scrunched, ears red, teeth indenting into his bottom lip.
Let the record show that nervous Beckett is quite possibly the cutest thing. Ever.
“Thanks.” I laugh because Beckett’s bumbling, which is such a novelty. My palms are all sweaty, and I press them between my thighs. “So, where’s Double Decker?”
Around dinner, Beckett texted me the name and details for tonight’s game, since we were distracted earlier at Bigmouth’s. Nic, the friend Beckett introduced me to the other night, is the manager and opens the doors for illegal gambling after midnight.
“South San Francisco. Outside of Brisbane.” He checks the GPS. “Should only take us thirty minutes.”
“Cool.” I spot the coffees in the center console cup holders. “Ooh, is one for me?”
“Yep. My hustler needs to be on her game tonight.”
Hearing him say those words, laced with a tinge of fondness, throws me. Not in a bad way, but more because I’m not at all bothered by him saying it. Which is very unusual for me. What’s weirder? I like it. Beckett asked me out this afternoon, but my brain is still struggling to grasp the concept of these feelings being requited. I focus on my coffee because it’s past midnight, and the aroma is strong enough to burn my eyelids wide open.
We drive in silence to Double Decker, the warmth of our bodies filling the car. A weird nighttime radio talk show plays—Al’s Anomalies—and the host, Al, interviews callers about alien abductions.
Despite its name, Double Decker is a low building in Orange Park. We’re close enough to the San Francisco Internat
ional Airport that the sky seems to shake with each and every takeoff. We get ready in the car, following our usual routine. Beckett removes his beanie and slicks back his curls.
I’m gut-punched at how good he looks. The blue suits him.
“Check it out,” Beckett says. He pulls the ugliest jacket I’ve seen in my life out of a duffel bag. Geometric shapes in blue, pink, orange, yellow, and green decorate the nylon monstrosity; there’s a zipper and snap buttons. When he tugs it on over his T-shirt, the jacket hangs awkwardly from his narrow frame, at least three sizes too large.
I laugh, clapping my palms over my mouth. “Oh my God, where did you find that?”
“In a box of my dad’s old things. I think it’s from the eighties or nineties.”
“Your dad has horrible taste.” I poke his shoulder, where the fabric puckers up. “Ugh, it has hanger nipples.”
Beckett snorts, popping the collar. “What?”
“The little bumps? Hanger nipples? They’re from being on the hanger for too long.”
“You’re so weird,” he says with a laugh, and puts on a pair of thick plastic-rimmed glasses. “How do I look?”
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“I look ridiculous,” he says, “but I don’t look like myself, do I?”
Well, he’s got me there. But I don’t mind his disguise. He looks like a dork, but an adorable dork I wouldn’t mind kissing. Not one bit.
After I put on my wig, we’re ready.
I leave my hood up as we approach Double Decker to protect the wig, but let the raindrops spatter against my face, smear my eyeliner, and hang in droplets from my eyelashes.
I’m stunned by how different the alleys are. The Four Horsemen was hard-core, but the atmosphere here is under wraps. Not a stray dollar in sight. The men are subdued, but twitchy. Antsy.
Beckett flags Nic over, but before he reaches us, I ask, “You sure Nic’s cool?”
He spreads his arms wide open. “Nic’s responsible for this entire game. Trust me, he doesn’t give a shit.”
The air is heavy with weed and beer and drugstore cologne.
I wave as Nic skids to a stop beside us, reserved, even if Beckett claims he’s cool. He sports tight white jeans and a checkered jacket. Nic glances over and squints as if he’s struggling to place me. Last night he saw me without a wig. Shrugging, he says, “Caroline, right? You won big last night. Nice job.”
“Thanks.”
“Sweet jacket, Beckett.” He gives us a double thumbs-up and darts toward another player calling his name.
Beckett and I dissolve in laughter, leaning into each other, and it’s the most us I’ve felt in a year. But then he takes my hands, enveloping them with his, reminding me some things are very, very different.
Once we catch our breath, he says, “No need to pay ahead of time. Let’s set up at lane three and get bowling. Nic tipped me off on who you should play against.”
I eye the rows of bowlers, tongue tucked against my cheek as I assess the potential competition. “Who?”
Beckett slyly points out four men huddled together at lane six. “Them.”
“All four?”
“The buy-in is kinda steep; Nic said a grand. But if you win? Four thousand dollars. This could be big, Chuck. Nic and I are buddies. We can trust him. He said those guys have been drinking and are getting worse with the hour.”
Can we trust Nic? I shake the question away, because, dude, four thousand dollars. That’s more money than I can wrap my head around. We’d be closer to our goal.
I empty the coffee, not tasting the liquid. “Four thousand dollars?”
Beckett’s eyes glimmer. “Four thousand fucking dollars.”
* * *
I’m sweating caffeine and misplaced confidence, Bacardi and perspiration sliding down my arms. Double Decker is humid, the dank warmth and rain carried in with every player, heating the room like a putrid sauna. To say it’s nasty is an understatement, but despite being uncomfortable, I’m doing pretty well on the lanes.
Beckett nurses a beer—one he bought when supplying drinks for the guys I’m playing against—and watches from the hard plastic benches. My opponents are Tick, Andy, Brue, and Sal. They’re well over fifty and have decades of bowling experience over me, but Nic was right tipping off Beckett. They were drunk before Beckett bought them beers and totally believed my drunk-girl act. Their play is sloppy, which helps, but they’re erratic, unpredictable.
I’m not sure who these four men are, or how they can part with a grand each, but I’ve learned not to ask questions. They’re more concerned about losing their money to one another over side bets, and by the fifth frame, I’m sure they’ve forgotten about my existence.
Fine by me.
I’m a few pins behind the others but play hard. I didn’t leave a wide pin gap on purpose because we’re playing for too much money to leave my fate to the tenth frame. I can’t take the stress of losing a grand—or winning four thousand—on two shots. When we approach the final frames, my stomach is in knots.
Sensing my anxiety, Beckett gives me an amused look. “You okay?”
I pointedly eye the cup of money stashed in an empty beer cup between our lanes. “That depends on your definition of okay.”
“C’mere.” He nods to the seats, and I plunk down beside him. After a beat, he drapes his arm over my shoulders. The boyfriend-girlfriend facade has gotten weirder now that we’re going on a date. My skin pricks pleasantly at the thought.
“How do we know they’re not hustling us?” One of the guys actually drops his ball as he walks up to the foul line. You’d think they’d care more with so much money on the line. Hence my suspicion.
“Nah, no way,” Beckett says confidently. “I trust Nic. Just play your hardest, okay?”
“I always do.”
Beckett tilts his head until it rests against mine and his ridiculous glasses bump my nose. His shampoo wafts, something spicy and fresh, with a hint of the blueberry hair dye. His smile is warm and encouraging. “Relax. We’ve got this. You’ve got this.”
The guy Sal finishes his frame, and then it’s my turn. Ninth frame. I extricate myself from Beckett’s embrace and he squeezes my hand, a Morse code of support. At the foul line, I roll my shoulders and set up the shot. From the second my ball leaves my fingertips, I know it’s a strike. I feel it, the energy stretching between me and the pins, shrinking in distance as the ball barrels toward the headpin. The sound of my ball smacking the pins is so satisfying it makes my bones tingle. I hang my head back, grinning to the ceiling, and turn on my heel.
The guys watch the reset drop ten fresh pins, confusion and anger tainting their expressions.
“The hell was that?” Tick barks across his lane, straddling the return as he lifts his fifteen-pounder.
My smile drops into a mask of innocence. “Can you believe it? A strike. What’re the odds?”
Tick’s too drunk to hold eye contact. He grunts and wobbles toward the lanes. They’re not hustling us. They’re really that careless. I slick my synthetic hair back and join Beckett as the men bowl their final frame. I don’t pay attention to their game; I only have eyes for the scoreboard. My meager lead sparks anger between the friends, rumblings about how did this happen, and you better bowl a strike between turns.
For once, I don’t have to punch out during my final frame. The other men played so poorly, and I’ve already won. But I’ve lost all modesty, and I add flair into my final frame. Brilliant and perfect strikes earn twenty extra points.
Beckett does an awful job trying to hide his smile as he takes the winnings. “Better luck next time, fellas,” he says, aware there’ll never be a next time.
I got what I came for. Four grand. I can’t comprehend the amount. I bowled for an hour and earned more money than I’ve had in my entire life. I’m struck with the odd desire to count every bill. Four thousand fucking dollars. Unbelievable.
Beckett wraps an arm around my waist, steering
me out of Double Decker.
“Nicely done,” he whispers against my ear.
I laugh and exhale in one breath. Everyone watches as we leave, and the heaviness of their gazes lifts as we reach the sidewalk. I am weightless, buoyant.
“I can’t believe it.” I shake my head and unravel myself from Beckett. With my freed hands, I pull off my wig and drag my fingers through my real hair. “Four thousand dollars.”
“I’ve had fun this week.” Beckett unlocks the Accord. “But it’s good this hustle has an expiration date.”
“Why’s that?”
“Bowling’s a small community.” He shrugs off the awful jacket, tosses it in the back seat, and puts the glasses in the cup holder. “Word will get out about some girl with a left hook kicking the asses of the Bay Area’s best action bowlers.”
“You make me sound cool. I’m just bowling. And lying.”
Beckett eyes me and laughs. “Fine. Be humble.”
“Hey, do you know the details for tomorrow’s game yet?”
“I was thinking in there.… Let’s skip it. We’ve earned, what, six grand total? If you take all of it, that’s almost enough for Bigmouth’s back rent. You’d be two grand short, but six grand would still be impressive.”
“What? You can’t be serious. I’m not taking your share.”
“I’m totally serious. The money would be nice, sure, but not as nice as keeping you in San Francisco.”
“No way. You deserve twenty-five—if not fifty—percent. We’ll win a couple thousand more, right?”
With tonight’s winnings, he’s right—rent is within reach. Dad can’t be completely broke and can hopefully make up the deficit. But why stop now? Whatever reservations I had about Friday’s game have melted away. I won big tonight, and I can do it again.
Beckett drags his fingers through his hair, the blue curls still frizzy from the weather. “Like I said, people are gonna talk, if they haven’t already. That’s why this kind of game only works in one area for so long. If we hustle Friday night, we’ve hustled the top. We’ll be done. For good.”
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 17