“Am not.” As I grab my bag, I remember the gift I brought for Beckett. “Oh, I almost forgot! This is for you.” I hand Beckett a bottle of allergy medicine.
“Thanks?”
“You’re always sneezing around me—”
“Because you’re a traitor and adopted a cat,” he tells me. “Me and my rhinitis haven’t forgotten.”
“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back.”
Beckett holds the bottle out of reach. “Nondrowsy?”
“Duh.”
He pops an allergy pill and sets the bottle in the cup holder. “Thanks.”
I bite my lip as my mouth upturns with a grin.
Beckett leans into the back seat for his bag and two large pieces of cardboard.
I eye the cardboard. Each piece is about two feet by four feet in size. “Are we hitting up a recycling center?”
He maneuvers the cardboard out of the car. “Patience.”
The cold air is a front. No longer raining, the sky is soft with clouds dissipating into a lingering fog. Fisting my hands together, I slide my sleeves over them and follow Beckett onto the sidewalk. Dolores Park is a jewel in the distance, but we head in the opposite direction, into a stretch of neighborhood gaining in elevation.
“We’re in for a walk,” Beckett says apologetically. “Parking where we’re headed can be a problem.”
“That’s fine. At least it’s a nice evening.” The sun hasn’t set yet, and it slides in the sky like an oozing drop of lava. We walk along Douglass Street, and Beckett gestures to a detour mounting up the hill. The Douglass Stairs, cement and nothing special. But the greenery escapes, growing over the metal and cracking the cement.
San Francisco has a way of wrapping the city up in nature. Softening traffic jams with the parrots of Telegraph Hill. Quieting city-life noises with the bison in Golden Gate Park. Comforting the street crime with the wilds of Glen Canyon Park.
We could do nothing, just walk this city, and it’d be the best night of my life, as long as Beckett was by my side.
He seems to have a destination in mind, though. What around here would be date-worthy? Sure, it’s beautiful. It’s April in San Francisco and everywhere is beautiful. But to my knowledge, there’s nothing here.
As we top the Douglass Stairs, my calves aching, we enter a cluster of California buckeyes that create a green canopy above our heads, dotted with red berries. We’re both out of breath from the walk, and for once I don’t know what to say to Beckett. Until a few days ago, I always had something to say. Something witty or angry or jagged around the edges. But that was before.
Now there’s unspoken pressure. Expectations. When we walk, electricity charges and bounces between our bodies.
I glance at Beckett, noticing how the wind billows his formal dress shirt away from his torso, and the loose threads on his jacket. I could sew those and patch the holes in his button-down. The way his curls keep escaping from behind his ears endears him to me.
Beck catches me watching him and smiles. No snarky remark, no teasing.
This is uncharted territory.
“Here we are,” he proclaims.
Up ahead, a sign reads SEWARD MINI PARK. The name sounds familiar, but I’ve never been here. Never knew there was anything to see. In front of us are two cement slides curving into the earth. Scattered bits of cardboard and junk decorate the mini park, and the sign advises that the park closes at sunset.
He passes me a square of cardboard. “For you.”
“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” I joke, turning the piece over. “Seriously, what’s this for?”
“It’s to ride on.”
“You want to slide down those things?” I study the slides. These aren’t kiddie slides. No safe, brightly colored plastic or wood chips at the end. They’re slick cement, hazed with graffiti.
Beckett’s smile wavers for a fraction of a second. “We can skip this. I thought it’d be cool.”
“No! It is cool. I had no idea this was here.” I bend the cardboard between my palms and inch closer to the edge, to the juxtaposition of cement and greenery.
Beckett unzips his backpack and tosses over a can of cooking spray.
I snatch it out of the air and turn the can around in my hands. “Okay, now I’m actually confused.”
“To oil the cardboard. It’s all about the aerodynamics.”
“Of course it is,” I say dryly. I drop the cardboard at my feet and shake the Pam cooking spray. After I hose down my square, I hold the can out.
“Thanks.” Beckett’s fingers brush mine, and my nerves zip with excitement. He must feel it too, because he looks up and grins. This slow and knowing and promising grin.
Beckett and I have shared endless experiences together over the years, from sneaking into our first-ever R-rated movie together to concerts to the darker moments, like my depression in sophomore year or the breast cancer scare his mom had when we were in middle school.
But we’ve never done this.
Once the cardboard is oiled, Beckett says, “I’ve only been here once before.”
“And what about it screamed ‘great date idea’?” I tease, approaching the slides with my cardboard in hand.
“Hey.” He pretends to be affronted. “Planning a first date is hard, but I stand by my choices. A lot of thought went into tonight.”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “Oh really?”
“So much thought,” he confirms. “This date? You? It’s all I’ve been thinking about since yesterday afternoon.”
I blush and look away, although I don’t know why I’m still trying to hide my emotions. Old habits, I guess. “This is a great date idea, Beck.”
We share a smile before positioning ourselves on our makeshift sleds. The slides run beside each other with a short barrier in between, curving serpentine down the hill.
A thrill of adrenaline courses through my body and my heart thuds painfully.
“On three.” Beckett tucks his knees to his chest and grips each wall of the slide. The edges of his sneakers barely fit on the cardboard. I do the same, glad I didn’t wear a skirt or dress. “One, two—”
I push off before he gets to three—the anticipation too anxiety-inducing—and hold my arms against my body as the oiled cardboard soars downhill. Beside me, Beckett laughs and throws his hands in the air, body swaying and curving with each turn of the slide.
The ride looked long from the top, but it snaps by in a second. Over before I comprehend the thrill. I reach level ground a few seconds before Beckett, slowing to a stop. His laughter is contagious. My body heaves with it, and my cheeks ache from smiling.
When I turn to Beckett and his radiating happiness, my chest swells with warmth.
He hops to his feet, holds out his hand, and pulls me upright. His hair is disheveled from the wind, and my fingertips trace his ears as I tuck away a curl. He’s so damn confident, but his ears? A bright and traitorous red. I try to catch my breath, but I can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like that.
Like he sees every hidden part of me. And he wouldn’t dare change a thing.
Even though my desire to kiss Beckett Porter has officially usurped all my other desires—save Bigmouth’s, stay in San Francisco, get into FIDM, never step foot in Arizona—I’m nervous again. Afraid of the intensity of my own feelings. Which, for the record, are pretty intense right now.
“Let’s go again,” I say, because as afraid as I am, I can’t lose this feeling. The addictive hope of before, the excitement of possibilities. All the unknown, unexplored, and unimaginable.
Our fingers laced and palms cupped, we race to the top.
* * *
Stage one ends with us smelling vaguely of cooking oil and sweat. I’m buoyant with Beckett-infused happiness, an incalculable feeling I want to bottle and put on my bookshelf. Beckett and I progress onto stage two, leaving the Seward slides behind. This may be my first-ever first date, but I already know tonight is something special.
We tos
s our cardboard sleds in a recycling bin and head back to the Accord, the space between our bodies narrowing. Little, purposeful movements bringing us closer. The way I lean against him as we walk. The way his fingers brush mine.
“Hungry?” Beckett asks, uncuffing the sleeves of his coat and rolling them to his wrists.
The wind is turning cold and bitter now that the sun is gone. I zip my jacket, but the satin fabric does little for insulation. “I could eat.”
He checks his phone, thumb scrolling along the glowing screen. The artificial light bounces off the sharp planes of his face. “You sure about tonight? The hustle, I mean?”
So much for no shoptalk. Our shoulders bump against each other. “I haven’t changed my mind, and I’m not going to. We can double our winnings. I’m not passing that up.”
Beckett doesn’t question me again. “I just heard from Nic. He said the game is being held at Miracle Alley at eleven. Can your aunt cover for you?”
“I’ll text her, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”
We return to the car, and Beckett drives, not telling me where we’re having dinner or what stage two entails. His phone is hooked up to the stereo, and Grouplove’s debut album booms through the speakers. Beckett discovered the band when we were in the eighth grade, but I was the one who convinced my dad to accompany us to their show at the Fox Theater in Oakland.
Beckett takes us down Twenty-Third into Union Square. The traffic gridlocks as we turn onto Mission, and we park in a garage off Bartlett. The sun’s officially dropped from the sky, taking with it any remnants of warmth. San Francisco is quirky. It’s one reason why I love it. The city has microclimates, meaning it’ll be cloudy and fifty degrees in one neighborhood and in another, a few miles away, it’ll be sixty-five and sunny.
I’m cold, but I don’t care. The air is fresh, and I draw close to Beckett as he leads me to Twenty-Second Street and back to Mission. The streets are flooded with people. Getting off work. Waiting for their Ubers. Going on dates.
The city is alive, and I’m alive in it. A part of it.
Loving a place isn’t like loving a person. San Francisco is wildly expensive, and yeah, you occasionally find hypodermic needles on the sidewalk, but it’s a living, breathing love story. For some, San Francisco is a one-night stand. For others, it’s their soul mate.
And there’s no question which one San Francisco is to me—this city is my soul mate.
I must’ve stopped because Beckett holds his hand out toward me. “What’re you doing?” he asks, and threads his fingers through mine. There’s that heat, the undeniable spark when he touches me. Even when it’s as innocent as interlacing fingers.
“Admiring this city,” I say, squeezing his hand. Beautiful even though we’re in front of a plain building called Bonita’s Trading Co. and across the street is a Chase Bank. The fog drifts, thick and cloying, coating the buildings.
Loving a city—being an intrinsic part of a place—always seemed safer than ever relying on another person. But the past week, I’ve slowly come to terms with the fact that relying on other people isn’t a weakness.
We huddle beneath the building’s overhang, the ocean of people pushing past us.
“You really love San Francisco, don’t you?” Beckett says fondly.
“Did you know,” I say, “it’s a crime not to leave your heart in San Francisco?”
“Is that a fact?” His laugh is low, appreciative. “You’re so freaking weird. I love it.”
The warmth flooding my body erases any lingering cold. “I’m glad you find me so amusing, because I was being totally sincere.”
“Trust me, I’m aware.” He grins in this overwhelmingly charming way. “Now, c’mon, no more dillydallying. We have a reservation in three minutes.”
“Really?” The formality surprises me, and I laugh. I mean, Beckett’s not the most organized person I’ve ever met. He’s the Patron Saint of Cute Messes. “A reservation?”
“Um, yeah?” He cups the back of his neck with his free hand. “Can you blame me for trying to do this right? Not like I’m not confident in your hustling skills, but there’s a chance you’ll leave the city—”
“Hey, don’t say that.” His nervous rambling is adorable, but my heart stings at the unneeded reminder of what’s at stake. Leaving San Francisco has been on my mind constantly all week; I want one night where I can pretend like it might not happen. “I don’t even want to think about leaving the city. Or you. Now let’s go eat.”
His demeanor softens. “Sorry. I’m nervous?”
“Is that a question? Because if so, I’m nervous too?”
Beckett smiles and shakes his head. “The restaurant is up here.” He leads me by the hand, and we stop at the Foreign Cinema.
First impressions? Fancy as fuck.
He opens the door for me, following me into the restaurant. It’s bustling, loud, and we wait by the bar while the hostess checks on our table. The restaurant is one large room, the ceilings two stories high. It’s rustic, but the really fancy Napa Wine Country type of rustic. As in, not rustic at all.
“Whoa,” I say, because that’s all I keep thinking. If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d probably be embarrassed because we’re obviously the only teenagers here without their parents. “Just whoa.”
He laughs and says, “Yeah?”
I tilt my head to look at him. “Thank you for this. It’s beyond awesome.”
The hostess returns and grabs our menus. “Follow me.”
“It’s about to get more awesome,” Beckett says, glancing over his shoulder as we follow the hostess.
We’re led to a covered outdoor patio set up like a large alleyway. The white brick walls on either side create a narrow dining space. Above our heads are strings of lights. Heaters hang from the walls, but freestanding lamps are lined up between every other table. What literally stops me in my tracks is the movie screen, where The Princess Bride is playing.
Beckett grabs my arm so I’m not left behind.
The hostess seats us at a cozy table. “Here you are,” she says, laying down our menus. “Your server will be with you shortly.”
I hang my purse on the back of my seat and sit down. “Beckett. This is like a legitimate date.”
He plays with a loose strand on his jacket, wrapping the string tightly around his finger. “Do you like it?”
“Are you kidding? I love it.”
We exchange supercharged nervous smiles.
Fidgety, I tuck my hair behind my ears, hoping I’m not too messy after our cement sliding. To do something with my hands, I open my menu. My initial impression was correct. This place is fancy and expensive. I scan the items and their prices. Bar none, this is the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to.
I worry my lip between my bottom teeth and seek the cheapest menu items.
As if he can read my mind, he says, “I’ve got dinner.”
The fact Beckett knows me that well isn’t unnerving. It’s comforting. “You don’t have to.”
“You’ve been staring at the prices for a full minute.” He laughs and relaxes back in his seat. “Seriously, I’ve got it. I chose the restaurant.”
“You sure?” Before our fight, we’d split any check if we ate out. Totally equal. Other than him buying me coffee, he’s never done this. Another mark in the “Yes, this is 100 percent a real date” column.
Beckett leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “Plus, I asked you out. Social etiquette says I should pay. Next time, when you ask me out, it’s all you.”
“Deal,” I say with a grin. My stomach warms at the words “next time.”
“There’s a reason all my clothes are falling apart,” he adds. “What money I don’t use to help out around the house is pack-rat saved in my bank account. I can’t remember the last time I bought a brand-new shirt.”
“Huh. I always thought that was a stylistic choice.”
“It’s fifty-fifty,” he admits, and we both laugh.
Our laughter
fades, replaced by content silence as we look into each other’s eyes, and I let everything about this moment in. I like him. A frightening amount. Again. And I shouldn’t like him, but I do.
Considering I live my entire life carefully, safely, opening up just seems unnatural. People hurt each other even if they care for each other. My mom taught me that. What’s dawning on me, though, is the fact that I’m already not like my mom. I don’t know much about her, but she was wild. Impulsive. Heavy and depressive. She hurt people, maybe not intentionally, but she hurt me. She hurt Dad. I don’t think I’m like that. Because I really, really don’t want to hurt Beckett.
I don’t want to be untouchable anymore.
Beckett nudges my foot. “Hey,” he says softly. “Where’d you go?”
I shake my head and unfold the cloth napkin over my lap. “Oh, it’s nothing.” If I’m going to enjoy myself, I need to stop worrying. Get out of my head. So I say, “This place is really beautiful. Bonus points for The Princess Bride.”
“Is it still your second-favorite movie? When I saw they were screening it this month, it was a sign.”
“Yep.” Over the past week, it’s like I’ve taken all my old Beckett knowledge out of storage. Blown the dust off and reacquainted myself. “And it’s your third favorite, right behind Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”
“My top five have stayed locked in over the years.”
I may not have an encyclopedic knowledge of Beckett Porter, but I’m pretty damn close.
“Oh my God,” I say, pointing to an item on the menu. “They have coffee-rubbed steak. I think I need to eat that.”
“As you wish,” Beckett quotes, and I can’t stop smiling. A server stops by our table, and we order.
“I’ve been thinking about something you said,” he says, occasionally glancing at the epic love story of Buttercup and Westley.
“Yeah? I say a lot of things.”
“That night we practiced at Bigmouth’s, you said sewing wasn’t a proper passion. Then at Dolores Park, you said you’d go to fashion school if you could, but it’s complicated. What’s the complication?”
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 19