“Friday’s our last game,” I point out. “Let’s go out with a bang. See how much money we can win.”
“I don’t know, Chuck,” he murmurs, and rubs his chin, not thoughtfully but anxiously. “It’s risky. We could lose most of our winnings. And we have a lot to lose.”
“How about this? I’ll sleep on it,” I say, even though I’ve already decided that I’m in tomorrow tonight. All in. But I’m sure Beckett would feel better if I at least pretended to wrestle with this decision.
Beckett hesitates, but nods. “Yeah, okay. Just let me know before our date. We can’t have the game interfering.”
Beckett says these words carefully. Our date.
When I’m with him, the panic in my brain dampens, and I just live. I can’t walk away from any of it now. Not from Beckett. Not from one last hustle. I don’t want to. Undiluted happiness, fiery with adrenaline, fills my veins. And for the first time, I’m aware I’m alive.
This feeling? Knowing you’re alive?
It’s rare. Addictive.
I hold on tight.
FRIDAY, APRIL 27 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 3
Nineteen
IN THE MORNING before work, I’m a mess of nerves. Dad’s already left for Bigmouth’s, and Aunt Fee is holed up in the garage—her pseudo work space—writing an article. Dad’s going out with Yoga Leigh. Again. Tonight. So there’s that. Not to mention the secret date Beck’s springing on me, and the high-buy-in game afterward.
Upstairs in my bathroom, I clamp the straightening iron over my bangs, turning my wrist and flattening them with the slightest bend. My bedroom is a hurricane of clothing options. Beckett refuses to tell me what we’re doing tonight; therefore, I have no idea how to dress.
After singeing my bangs into submission, I fix my winged eyeliner with a cotton swab. Technically, my date isn’t for another eleven hours. But still. It occupies my mind with fierce, pit-stain-inducing persistence.
I’m not regretting saying yes to Beckett, not at all, but it’s alarming how badly I need this date to be successful. After this spring break, no longer will my loner picnic bench in the quad bring me any joy. Eating alone. Walking to classes alone. Everything alone. When Monday rolls around and we’re at school, I don’t want to lose him.
In my head, my life before made logical sense—avoid reckless situations and you won’t end up like your mom. But the past week? I’ve felt alive. Like I’m glowing from the inside out. No heavy cloak of depression, and any stress or anxiety has been purely situational. I have my best friend back, and maybe something more.
Maybe not all recklessness is bad.
But I force myself to remain wary of my happiness. Because I don’t know what it means. I spent the last year alone and relatively unhappy. Not depressed, but blandly content with my life. All this happiness and hope—all at once—makes me nervous. Is it a sign? A step closer to losing control? Or are things just working in my favor for once in my life?
I layer on more deodorant and return to my bedroom, picking through the piles layering my floor. When did I get so many clothes? Ugh. No one human needs this many dresses. In the end I go with a carefully curated outfit. Boatneck white top, circa 1980. Tight black pedal pushers. Red-accented yellow vintage satin bomber jacket, imported from Japan and discovered at an estate sale. Vintage leather baby-doll pumps.
No idea if this will be appropriate for whatever Beckett has in store, but I like the way I feel in these clothes. I like the sleek, elongating lines of the capri pants and the way the boatneck top showcases my collarbones. The way the heels give me the slightest edge of height and the red accents in the jacket match my lipstick.
I grab the tube of lipstick and retrace my lips. Layering on the red like armor. The thought that tonight I might finally kiss Beckett skyrockets my nerves. But they’re good nerves—anxious, excited, and hopeful all at once. Smiling at my reflection, I cap the lipstick and head downstairs.
I don’t get far, nearly tripping over a box on the landing. There’s no shipping label on it, but a piece of paper is taped to the front. I kneel down and heft the box onto my hip, taking it back to my bedroom.
I read the note, brows drawn.
Caroline,
I was cleaning some boxes out of the storage locker and came across this. Thought you might like to have it.
Love,
Dad
The box drops from my hands and lands sideways on the bedroom floor.
No, no, no. This is bad. This is so bad! Dad doesn’t clean the house, let alone our junky storage locker. I nudge the box with my foot, like it’s a dead body or something. Dread lances my rapidly beating heart, and my hearing goes fuzzy. Dad must be cleaning out the storage locker to prepare for our move to Arizona.
The box taunts me, so I flop onto my butt and rip the note off. Glower at it. Ball it up and toss it into my trash can. I peel back the folds of the cardboard and sneeze as the box exhales dust. On the very top is a sketchbook. It’s old, the pages yellowed. At the bottom right-hand corner, in bubbly print, is Property of C. O’Neill.
Seeing Mom’s handwriting does something funny to my chest. The longer I stare at those letters, the more my eyes well up. Her handwriting looks so happy. My throat tightens as the first tear crests my eyelid and drops onto my cheek. Crying is the absolute worst, but no one is up here to see me. My perfect winged eyeliner is no doubt running down my cheeks. I flip open the notebook to find Mom’s design sketches filling the pages.
With the notebook set aside, I dig into the box’s contents. It’s full of clothing. I drape the first item across my lap, my vision all blurry. A multicolored beaded dress. I rub the nubbins of the beads between my fingers. I had no idea my dad held on to this stuff.
All of it—Mom’s design sketches, works in progress, finished pieces—it’s beautiful.
Growing up, my life was devoid of my mom, and since finding out the truth, I considered it a relief. Between my depression, big emotions, and swings into irritability, I didn’t want any other reminders of what could be. I only have the wigs because one day at the storage locker, I saw them and begged my dad for them. They’re cool, but I just wanted something that belonged to her.
That was before. Before I learned what really happened. Before I got afraid.
On some level, I understand my mom. More than I’d care to. I understand that sometimes, the world becomes too heavy. I wish I’d been enough, that Dad had been enough, to keep her here.
Such a pointless want. I shouldn’t even be allowed this want, because it’s all my fault. I’m the reason she went off her mood stabilizers—me. She wanted to get pregnant and have a kid so bad. I guess her psychiatrist warned her against going off her medication or waiting until she could transition onto something equally effective but safe for conception. Mom didn’t wait. She cold-turkeyed her meds when the stick turned blue.
After a rough pregnancy, she fell into an awful postpartum depression.
Three years later, she was dead.
I clench my molars, my nails digging into my thighs, but the tears come faster now. They’re hot, stinging as the saline hits my cracked lips. No. No, unraveling is not an option. Aching, I sit there for a moment. Until I steel myself and the tears fade.
Today isn’t the time to wallow over Mom. Wallowing leads to depression, and a depressive episode would really throw a wrench into our date and the game tonight. My head’s all cloudy, and I take a few deep diaphragm breaths.
Dad is no doubt waiting for me at Bigmouth’s, and with all my plans tonight, I can’t afford to piss him off by being late. I force myself to my feet. Sniffling, I shove the contents of the box back inside. Before going downstairs, I duck into the bathroom to fix my makeup.
Embarrassment floods as I stare at my reflection. I can’t be crying over old scars. This is why I avoid my mom. She’s the gaping wound on my heart. And if these wounds won’t heal, then I need to prevent any infection from spreading. Eyes red but makeup fixed, I pick up the box, a
nd it’s as if it weighs a hundred pounds.
I know what I need to do. I hurry downstairs, the box held to my chest.
“Chuck, what the hell?” Fiona asks, looking up from her laptop as I burst into the garage without knocking. “I’m working—are you okay?”
I dump the box into the trash can. “Fine. I’m fine,” I say, smiling my fakest smile. No longer holding that box already makes me feel better. Lighter. Like I can really leave this pain behind.
Aunt Fiona glances from me to the trash can, green eyes narrowed. “Sure you—”
“I said I’m fine.” Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it. “Just cleaning out some junk.”
My aunt swivels around in her desk chair. Her eyeglasses are propped on her head, nearly getting lost in her loose bun. “You off to work?”
“Uh-huh. Afterward I’m going out with Beckett.” Even I can’t hide the smile creeping into my voice.
“Like a date-date?”
“So it seems.”
“I’m glad he came to his senses,” Fiona says musingly. “Good. Have you kissed him yet?”
My chest flurries with nerves and I cross the garage. “I’m late for work.”
“Sorry for being invested in your romantic well-being,” she calls after me.
I lean against the doorframe. “You really need a new girlfriend. It’s pathetic that you’re this invested in your niece’s love life.”
Aunt Fiona laughs and rotates the chair back to face her laptop. “You’re telling me. Have fun tonight!”
I smile, my heart several shades of conflicted and confused. As I move to shut the door, my gaze lands on the trash bins on the other side of Fiona’s yellow VW Bug. For just a moment, I hesitate. But I can’t deal with my mom and our darkened past. Not today. Maybe not ever.
I shut the door and leave the box of memories behind in the trash.
Where they can’t hurt me.
* * *
Behind the register, I sew and listen to loud music that crackles my eardrums in the best way. The metallic chiffon Alice of California dress edges on the more eccentric side of vintage fashion, but it’s an intricate task that will keep me busy. Keep my mind busy. A previous owner, or time, destroyed the inner sheath lining, and I’m using silk panels from Goodwill as a replacement.
I lose myself in the calm of the needle piercing in and out of the fabric, the tight pull of thread. The day’s been slow, but I’ve effectively shoved finding that box far into the recesses of my mind. Focusing on better, if not equally nauseating, topics. Like my date. Fiona’s disembodied voice flits through my mind: Have you kissed him yet?
I tug the thread too tight until it snaps.
“Damn.” I stick the needle between my teeth and tie the loose ends. I fish around for a spool of thin white thread and unwind a length, tossing the broken end in the trash.
The song playing on my phone ends, and in the two-second lull between tracks, I hear footsteps approaching. The shuffle of loafers on linoleum is unmistakable. He’s early.
“Hey,” Beckett says as he reaches the register.
“Hi.” I set the needle aside and tug down my headphones. Covertly, I peer around him for whatever first-date surprise he may have carted in. Balloons. A horse-drawn carriage. A bowling alley full of roses. But the only thing Beckett Porter brought was himself. And trust me, there’s nothing disappointing about that.
For a moment we just smile at each other.
He’s all messy handsomeness tonight. Jeans and a white-and-blue pin-striped shirt billowing around his sinewy frame. A gray suit blazer on top, cuffed. A knowing smile. He must’ve spent the last twenty-four hours washing his hair, because the blue dye has faded from his curls.
Beckett looks good. Like ridiculously good. My heart pounds, the swish of my blood through my veins loud in my ears. A tug of longing strikes across my heart and tugs behind my belly button. I’m nervous as hell, but this is Beckett we’re talking about. Not a stranger. Goofy, cocky, sweet Beckett Porter. Nothing to be afraid of.
It’s only five, and I’m not off until eight. Since only two lanes are taken, and Dad’s fiddling with the sock dispenser—fielding more customer interaction than normal—I could sneak out early.
Beckett palms the counter and peers at my sewing project. “What’re you working on?”
“Oh, uh, a dress.”
He tucks his hands in his back pockets, a move that’s awkwardly adorable. “Cool, cool.”
“You know I’m not off for three hours, right?” I’m honestly worried Beckett might sit and wait until I’m free. Not that I mind him sitting within my eye line for three hours, but there’s zero chance I’d get any work done. Then again, I rarely do much when I’m here, so what’s the difference?
He winks and turns to my dad, who is working on sketchy rewiring with the sock vending machine. “Hey, Mr. Wilson.”
Dad shimmies backward from behind the machine, dust clinging to his hair. He studies Beckett’s street clothes. “You off work today?”
“Yes, sir.”
Suck-up. I wait for him to give the usual line about our nonexistent school project.
Instead, Beck says, “Cool if Chuck leaves work early… for our date?”
I make a weird noise and choke on the spit in my throat.
No one expresses concern.
Dad huffs as he pulls himself upright, and he’s beaming when he looks at us. “Well, well,” he says, “look at the Wilson family. Putting themselves out there.”
I’m going to die in this bowling alley. “Dad—”
“I knew something was going on between you two.”
I almost laugh. Almost. But I’m too busy with the dying thing.
Dad continues. “All the sneaking around. There is no school project, is there?”
I widen my eyes at Beckett. This is on him, since it was his lie.
“No, sir. I was nervous about spending time with Chuck, and she was helping me with a project.”
Dad levels a stare between us. Doing his best to be intimidating. Failing greatly. “What do you have planned for tonight?”
A light blush colors Beckett’s ears. “Actually, I was hoping to surprise Chuck.”
Dad motions for Beckett to come over, and he does, rocking on his heels. Dad pumps his eyebrows, and Beck cozies up to my dad, whispering our date plans into his ear. Yeah, all this embarrassment might be the end of me.
Unable to watch this any longer, I drop my face into my palms.
“Caroline,” Dad calls, and I peek through my fingers. “You’re officially off the clock.”
Relieved that the super-awkward interaction is over, I slide off the stool without questioning him. “Great! Thanks, Dad.”
Quickly, I repack my sewing kit and fold the Alice of California dress into my tote bag. I round the counter, saying to Beckett, “Considering I had zero hints about what we’re doing, I hope I dressed appropriately.”
The outfit was kick-ass this morning. Now it’s either too much, or too little, and I’m too confused to tell the difference, because I can’t read Beckett’s face to save my life.
Beckett’s smile unravels slowly, and the weight of his gaze makes my chest hot.
“Is this okay?” I ask. “I have a change of clothes—”
“It’s perfect.” He motions for my bag, and I hand it over.
“Home by one,” Dad hollers after us, giving me a goofy thumbs-up when Beckett’s not looking.
“Wow, he must really like you,” I tell Beckett once we’re outside. “My curfew is normally midnight.”
“Don’t act so surprised. You’re clearly aware of how charming I am.”
I roll my eyes before saying, “About tonight. We should play. I understand your concerns, but you deserve your cut. We’ve got this.”
Beckett smiles, swinging my tote against his legs, but his brows pucker. “You sure? The buy-in… It’s a lot of money. A huge gamble. Is it really worth the risk?”
The Accord�
��s parked on the other side of the street, the paint slick and shining after being washed for the first time this decade.
“When did you get conservative with this scheme? Yes, it’s a lot of money to play, and it’s even more to win. We’ll earn that money tonight. The more we win, the greater the chances I’ll stay in San Francisco.”
When we reach the car, Beckett stops and wraps his hand around mine. “If you’re sure, I’ll let Nic know we’re in. Enough shoptalk. For now, can we focus on you and me?”
Shaking off the flush Beckett’s skin-on-skin contact gives me, I draw a huge smile. “I suppose.” I tilt my head back to look into his cloudy eyes. “Where are we going?”
“We,” he says, unlocking the Accord, “are going on the best date of our lives.”
I drop into my seat, nerves and happy energy bundled into one. “Oh yeah? You might want to keep my expectations low.”
Beckett hops into the driver’s seat. “Why’s that?”
“If I’m expecting a crappy high school date, whatever you’ve planned will wow me. Now I’m expecting a hot-air balloon and a secret concert no one’s ever heard of.”
“Our date is way better than that. Set your expectations to the highest, Chuck, because you will not be disappointed.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. My smile is so wide my teeth brush against my fingers, and I face the window so Beckett can’t see my happiness displayed, raw and vulnerable.
Twenty
“TONIGHT’S DATE IS broken into thirds,” Beckett explains as we park on Twentieth Street, “and if you’re not having fun, tell me and we’ll move on. But I’m ninety percent certain you’ll approve of this evening’s activities.”
“What happened to your confidence?” I tease, studying the scenery outside the window. We’re in a residential neighborhood. Interesting. I haven’t been able to guess what our plans are tonight.
“Oh, I’m confident, but I’m hedging my bets. You’re more judgmental than most people.”
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 18