I swirl my coffee around in the mug, focusing on the mixture of cream and brew so I have a second to think. “Fashion has always been a hobby. I’m not sure how to turn a hobby into a career. Plus, my mom went to fashion school, and it’s too weird.”
“What’s too weird?”
“Following in her footsteps.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “There’s nothing bad about sharing common interests with your mom. It isn’t a sign.”
My mouth twitches. “Whatever.”
He shakes his head. “For what it’s worth, I think you should follow what you’re passionate about.”
I switch the conversation on him. “What about you? There are junior colleges in Berkeley. Even with your grades, you could get in and stay close to your mom and Willa.”
Now it’s Beckett’s turn to deflect. “We’re talking about your future as a prolific fashion designer. I don’t know what this has to do with my—”
“You’re smart, Beck! Just because you and high school don’t get along doesn’t mean you’re doomed for eternity.”
“I never said I was doomed.”
“I believe the term ‘black hole’ was used when we last talked about school.”
Beckett leans back until the chair balances on two legs, a smug smile playing on his lips. “We still have all of senior year to figure college out.”
“Technically,” I say, pointing at him with my coffee stir stick, “we have nine months. A lot of applications are due in January.”
“Between now and January, I’ll look into junior colleges and attend school regularly if you apply to a school with a fashion program.” He tips his seat forward until he’s steady and holds his palm across the table. “Deal?”
Beckett might be right, but my entire life I’ve aimed to be practical and levelheaded. “I don’t know,” I hedge. Is this really a leap I want to take? Especially if I don’t know what the future holds?
“Do you want to study fashion?”
“Well, sure—”
“Then you have no reason not to try.” He waggles his fingers at me. “Deal?”
Relenting, I shake his hand. “Fine. Deal.” I suppose it isn’t too late to pursue the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. Agreeing to apply thrills me. I can’t deny that it’s becoming clearer and clearer that nothing’s gained from playing life safe.
We watch The Princess Bride as we wait for our food, but I barely pay attention because Beckett holds my hand, his thumb tracing the ridges of my knuckles. I’m ravenous by the time our food arrives. While we eat, I’m grinning because tonight is perfect.
“I’m never eating uncaffeinated beef ever again.” I seriously regret my choice to wear tight pants.
Beckett’s cleaned his rack of lamb to the bone, but that’s far from surprising. He inhales food. “I can’t move. Can we stay here forever?”
I laugh, but it sounds kind of appealing. “What about stage three?”
“Stage three is big,” he says, struggling to sit upright in his chair. “The best stage, if I say so myself.”
“The best stage, huh? Tonight’s already been pretty great. You really think you can top this?”
Beckett grins. “Oh, I can definitely top this.”
“I admire your confidence.”
Even though I’m nearly tempted to get dessert, he reminds me that to complete stage three in time before the last hustle, we need to actually hustle. For most of dinner, I forgot about the game. But it’s late and I’m hit with a heavy dose of reality. One more night. I check my phone. A little over an hour until we need to be at Miracle Lanes, which twists my gut with anxiety.
After Beckett pays and I thank him for dinner, he takes my hand and leads me out of Foreign Cinema, and we retrace our steps to the parking garage. San Francisco’s perpetually fall weather has me shivering, so he shrugs off his blazer and drapes it over my shoulders. Purposefully, I slow my steps the closer we get to the garage because—holy romantic moment—will he kiss me already?
The fog. The softness of our clasped hands. His jacket, still warm from his body. It can’t get any better than this.
“C’mon, stage three awaits,” he says with a grin, tugging me toward the Accord.
The disappointment barely touches me, and we hurry to the car.
Beckett turns the heater on full blast. “The first two stages were a success, yeah?”
Despite agonizing over the lack of kissing, I grin. “Surprisingly successful.”
“Why ‘surprisingly’?”
I twist my lips to the side, thinking. “I didn’t know what to expect from tonight. From you,” I admit. “I still don’t. You know how to keep a girl on her toes.”
“Is that good or bad?”
I glance at Beckett’s face, at the unusual handsomeness it captures as we drive, streetlamps illuminating his features. “Good. I’m pretty sure it’s good,” I say.
“The date isn’t over yet. Maybe I can convince you to make up your mind? I mean, I enjoy a challenge.”
“Wait, are you saying I’m challenging? Me?” I feign innocence.
We’re stopped at a light and Beckett comically clutches his chest. “You have no idea. You keep me awake at night, Chuck Mae Wilson.”
My stomach flutters, and I experience a brief moment of falling. Like when you’re dreaming and step off an invisible ledge, stomach plummeting to your toes. The night shifts us even closer, and I don’t fight the fall.
Twenty-One
I IMAGINE A map of San Francisco and the wild lines of our date stretching from one side of the city to the other. The oldies station is on, and Roy Orbison’s voice is undeniably romantic. I’m so caught up in listening to “Only the Lonely” and mouthing the lyrics that I don’t notice we’re winding on familiar streets. Streets I walk along five days a week from the nearest Muni. Soon our high school crests into view, and we cruise into the small teachers’ lot.
“What are we doing?” I ask, unable to mask the reluctance in my voice.
Beckett pulls the key out of the ignition and spins the chain around his finger. “Have a little faith in me.”
Narrowing my eyes, I peer out the window. “I have faith in you, but the high school?”
He hops out of the car without answering. With no other option, I follow.
The campus is haunting at night, especially during spring break. Beckett leads me toward one of the back buildings. He’s moving swiftly, his long legs double the stride of my own, and I jog to keep up.
“Are we trespassing?” God, I’m wearing a yellow jacket. Bright yellow, like a traffic sign. I pull Beckett’s coat closer and button it up. “This is illegal.”
Beckett stops so abruptly I smack into his back. He turns and squeezes my fidgety hand. “Oh, now you’re concerned with breaking the law?”
I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Are you coming with me or not? Trust me, this is a victimless crime, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
Maybe my nerves are date related, not lawbreaking related. I release a relenting sigh. “Let’s go before someone sees us.”
“That’s the spirit. Follow me.”
And I do, onto the shadowed sidewalk, along the pruned mow strips, passing the boxy planters. The moon is a slice in the sky, the buildings near indistinguishable. All the other lights are out. I follow Beckett to a closed door behind a larger building. The auditorium. Does our school have nighttime security during spring break? I gnaw my bottom lip as he fiddles with the lock. To my surprise, the door opens.
At least we’re not breaking. Just entering. Illegal, but not as damning.
“How’d you do that?”
Beckett grins and holds up a small silver key. “I still have an in with the drama club.”
Auditoriums and theaters have a particular smell. The shut-in aroma of hot dust burning on light fixtures, the plastic scent of props, fresh paint from set designs, and an undercurrent of body odor. The
door we entered leads into the pitch-black backstage. I still work behind the scenes on costumes, but rarely show up for the performances anymore.
Unsurely, I walk backstage, my arms folded across my chest. “What’re we doing here?”
“Be patient. I swear it’ll all make sense.” His expression softens, and he holds out both hands. I place mine in Beckett’s. “I have a theory that the best way to exorcise a negative memory is to replace it with a pleasant one.”
“Is that so?” I lace my fingers through his, linking us together. “And your point is…?”
“I can’t take you back to Heidi Schilling’s house, to that party—where everything changed—but this theater is second-best.”
I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m curious to find out. “Fair enough. How do you plan to exorcise the negative memory?”
Beckett nods toward the stage, and our footfalls echo as we walk to the center.
“One moment, please,” he says, rooting around in his backpack for his phone. He taps the screen, humming beneath his breath. Then music plays. Tucking his phone speaker-side up in his pants pocket, he offers his right hand. “If memory serves, I promised you a dance a year ago. I always keep my promises.”
“Beckett.” I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s sweet, but I haven’t danced in… forever.”
“Neither have I!” He waggles his fingers. “C’mon, this is a limited-time offer.”
My laughter fades as I relent, placing my hand in his.
The song playing isn’t classical, not suitable for swing dancing, but Beckett clumsily shifts us into the opening steps. Even though it’s been over a year since I last danced, it’s effortless with him leading.
Step, step, rock, step, step.
We’re both terribly out of practice, tripping over each other in the dark, like the past year never happened.
Rock, step, triple-step, rock.
Beckett hugs his arm around my waist and slows his feet until we’re no longer moving. My head rests against his chest; his heart rapidly pounds against my cheekbone. My insides are all crashing yearning and nerves, and I press my eyes closed. Listening to his heart.
After a moment, Beckett says, “About the other night…”
“Hmm?” We barely move, our feet shuffling uselessly along the stage. I open my eyes, blinking into the darkness.
“Outside the Four Horsemen. I didn’t want to kiss you like that, okay? Standing next to a nasty dumpster with a bunch of strangers watching?” He shakes his head. “This—you—means too much. That’s what I wanted to say, afterward in the car. But you took off.”
Oh. My heart simultaneously swells and aches. I swallow, my throat tight. “You’ve put some thought into this,” I say. I’m overflowing with nerves. Not bad nerves, just holy-shit-is-this-finally-happening nerves.
“Do you remember that school field trip to the MOMA?” he asks, holding me tighter.
“Yeah, of course.” Where’s he going with this? We broke away from the class and wandered around the museum until our history teacher tracked us down. We both got lunchtime detention. “What about it?” I tilt my head back to peer up at him, eyebrows raised.
“That trip? That’s when I realized I liked you. As more than a friend.”
I take a half step back, his arms still looped around my waist. “Hold up. That was in the eighth grade.”
“Trust me, I’m well aware of how long ago that was,” he says, his gaze searching mine in the dark.
If Beckett’s liked me since we were thirteen, all my unrequited crush angst was apparently requited. But what’s really got my mind whirling is that he’s liked me since the eighth grade. Like he’s held on to that desire for more than three years.
I manage to ask, “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Beckett’s soft laughter reverberates in the theater. “You never said anything either! I was scared you’d reject me. We were best friends. I didn’t want to jeopardize that.”
“Then what changed? I mean, we’re friends again.” No longer sway-dancing, we’re rooted to the center of the stage.
He’s quiet for a moment. “A few things changed. This time around, I don’t have as much to lose. You might leave. I wanted my shot, one chance to lay it all on the line. I don’t want to waste any more time with you.”
My heart somehow softens and turns frenetic all at once. I step closer, my hands finding his waist. “I don’t want to waste any more time either.”
“One other thing changed too. As close as we used to be, I always felt like you kept distance between us. A buffer.” He gestures to the literal half foot of space between us, and I nod. He’s right—I used to keep Beckett an emotional arm’s length away. Like that tiny bit of distance would keep me from getting hurt. Which obviously didn’t work. “Because of that distance, I could never figure out how you felt about me. I was so scared you’d never see me as more than your goofy best friend. Then you tried to kiss me three days ago.”
I laugh in embarrassment. “You didn’t buy my excuse, did you?”
Beckett’s face is full of shadows, and I can barely make out the shape of his eyes. His nose. His mouth. “In the moment, I almost did. But you’d never get that upset if you didn’t care.”
I reach my arms up around his neck. “I care. A lot.”
He traces my jaw with his thumb as he shifts closer. “Chuck—”
Far away, a door slams.
“Shit,” we say in unison, and ricochet apart. Beckett fumbles to turn the music off as he pulls me deeper into the shadows and behind the thick velvet curtains. A beam of light sweeps across the stage. The dust tickles my nose, and I hold back a sneeze.
“Who’s there?” the security guard yells, his words echoing throughout the auditorium. He strolls up and down each aisle, taking his sweet time.
“Let’s wait him out,” Beckett suggests, voice hushed.
“I don’t know.” I check my phone. “We need to go. We’ll be late,” I whisper, watching the guard from the corner of my eye as he investigates the disturbance.
“For what?”
“The game? It’s almost eleven.”
“Or we could skip? Enjoy the rest of our date?”
The security guard finally moves on, the door clattering shut, and silence buzzes.
“Sorry, Beck. This game is so huge. Like I said earlier, if I bring in more money than just the back rent, my dad will have to let us stay.” I catch his hand in mine, hang on tight. “For what it’s worth, this was the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“Thanks, but isn’t this the only date you’ve ever been on?”
I playfully shove him. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less spectacular.”
“Spectacular?” He whistles, smiles. “All right, I can live with that.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he says, reaching out and tucking my hair behind my ear. “I should’ve told you this when I picked you up, but I was even more nervous then and wasn’t thinking straight. You look so beautiful tonight, Chuck.”
“Thank you.” My face heats, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling too much.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he whispers, and leans down.
The warmth of his lips against my cheek lasts only a second, but I press my eyes shut and revel in it. Before I can fully wrap my head around what just happened, he pulls away and takes my hand, and we retrace our steps through the dark. We’re in the clear, but we hurry across campus and to the Accord.
The security guard might’ve ruined the moment, but I now know an undeniable fact: Beckett wants to kiss me.
After all of this, if I move to Arizona, there’s no doubt I’ll leave my heart behind.
Not just with San Francisco, but with Beckett Porter.
Twenty-Two
MIRACLE LANES IS an average building, painted a uniform navy blue, with one wall of windows covered in graffiti. The colorful street art masks the building�
��s insides. Beckett and I are in an unsavory stretch of San Francisco known as Sixth Street in SoMa. As a girl with six grand in her purse, it’s an alarming place to be.
Beckett snags street parking close by, and we shift to the back seat for our pregame ritual. I’m playing a tournament, and even though they’re taking phones at the door, I brought a wig. The last in my collection, a chic black bob, isn’t too different from my own hair, but I could never, in a million years, make my hair this sleek.
“You ready to do this?” Beck adjusts his jacket, which I reluctantly returned.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
I don’t know how many people will be playing tonight, but with a buy-in as steep as three grand, if I win, I’ll walk away with a pretty huge chunk of cash. We need this. As is, I don’t have the full eight grand in back rent; I’m two grand short. That’s not counting Beckett’s cut, which he deserves. But clearing the back rent will only do so much. We need more time to turn things around—renovations, a liquor license, digital scorecards. The more I earn, the more easily we can clear our debt and have extra money for the next few months to get a profit rolling.
We walk across the street, which smells of urine, and Beckett grabs my hand as we pass a CityTeam methadone clinic. Lights glow from behind the graffiti-coated windows, and in arched, bold writing is MIRACLE LANES. A clump of men stand beneath a striped awning, oozing smoke from cigarettes, vapor from pens. Beckett nods to a few of them; I keep my eyes in front of me. Bodies shove and brush past, but he wraps a protective arm around my waist and steers me into the thick of the chaos.
The bowling alley is sublevel below a bar, similar to the Four Horsemen. We use our fake IDs at the entrance, then head downstairs, where we have to forfeit our phones. It’s dirty and loud down here, but there’s a serious undercurrent among the players.
“What now?” The large digital clock hanging on the wall tells me it’s past eleven, but no one’s playing yet.
“Thank God!” Someone rushes over, and it takes a moment to place him. Nic. “You guys are late.” I want to point out we’re only two minutes late, but Nic doesn’t give us the chance to talk. “Beckett, you’re at lane six. Girlie, you’re at lane four.”
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