Beckett’s face knots in confusion. “Chuck’s playing, not me.”
“If you’re not playin’, then you gotta wait upstairs in the bar.” Nic glances at me and scratches his head as if the wig is throwing him off again, but he’s too high to figure out what’s different. Tonight he’s wearing a white top and black pants with suspenders. His billowy patchwork coat is too big, the cuffs pushed over his elbows.
“Says who?” Beckett scans the lanes for an authority figure.
“Boss man,” Nic replies shortly. Then he says to me, “You know the rules? Players face off against one another. Then the final four winners play, yadda yadda. Winner winner, chicken dinner.”
Beckett drags his fingers through his hair. “Okay, I’ll wait upstairs. Chuck, do you have your buy-in?”
I unclasp my purse and root around for Beckett’s money clip, peeling free the three thousand to play. A week of handling large sums of money still hasn’t normalized it; I hand over the cash before I can doubt myself. After I pass the money to Nic, he darts away. I stay rooted to the floor, attention turned to Beckett. “You’re leaving me down here?”
“I’m not leaving you. I’ll just be right upstairs,” he says, wrapping me in a hug. “If you’re having second thoughts…”
I lean into him, just for a second. Breathe him in. Listen to the drum of his heartbeat. The date might be over, but whatever’s blossomed between us is still here. “No second thoughts.”
The lights flicker, and Nic’s voice crackles over the speakers, disembodied and eerie. “If you have yet to pay, see me, Nic, your emcee for the night. If you’re not playing, get off the lanes. Otherwise, find your lane, grab your ball, and challenge the player to your right. The game begins in three minutes.”
Beckett and I step apart as the other players settle at their lanes. “I’ve got this,” I tell him with a grin.
“Good luck.” He returns my smile before retreating upstairs.
I push my shoulders back and locate lane four. I program my console, entering in my name. Tonight I’m full-name Caroline as usual. According to Nic’s instructions, I’ll play the person to my right. If I win, then we shift down the lanes.
Even if this is a tournament, surprise and being underestimated will work in my favor.
My first match with lane three is an easy win, and the victory bolsters my confidence in a way that’s not conducive to this situation. But the confidence is earned. I’m doing well. Better than well. It’s safe to say I’m kicking some serious ass. Once everyone is done with the first round, the lights flicker.
Over the speakers, Nic drawls, “Losers, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Winners, everyone shift lanes to your right and reprogram the console. Wash, rinse, repeat.”
I hoist my ball and rest the weight on my hip, watching the losers peel off. In the corner, a few men exchange cash. Side bets. One player even hands Nic a wad of bills before funneling upstairs to the bar with the others. Interesting. A side bet would mean an even bigger haul if I win.
My next opponent is a man named Koichi, who bowls well. But I’m better. If I beat him and the remaining player from the second game, I’ll be bringing home thousands. Thousands of dollars I can use to clear our back rent, secure our future rent—the options are endless and hopeful.
As the game wears on, Koichi and I jockey for the top score. I bowl my hardest with each frame, and ultimately I beat him. I punch out in the last frame, which wasn’t necessary, but what’s the point in playing it safe anymore? Beckett’s overly cautious. This is my last hustle. I bowl a 260, my best game to date.
Koichi accepts his fate without a fight. “Good game,” he says with a respectful nod.
Emboldened by my win, I motion Nic over as Koichi packs up.
“You’re taking side bets, right?” I ask Nic, reaching for my purse.
Nic tilts his head in contemplation, pulls a hit from his vape pen. “What’re you thinking?”
Three grand remains in my bag, wrapped around the money clip. Oh God, I hope I’m making the right call. But I have a good gut feeling about tonight. “Two grand on me winning this entire thing?”
A stream of nicotine vapor hits me in the face as he cracks open a smile. “You got yourself a deal.”
Swallowing my doubt, I hand over the two grand and hurry back to my lane to size up my last opponent. The man standing between me and my money. Standing between me and San Francisco. Standing between me and whatever the hell I have with Beckett.
The man holds out his hand. “Donegan,” he says, brisk and businesslike.
“Caroline.” We shake hands and start playing.
When I shoot my first frame, it’s no holds barred. All I want is to defeat Donegan. Because if I fail, the foundation and the fabric of the Wilson family—the walls, the lanes, the pins of Bigmouth’s Bowl—will disappear. Donegan’s going down.
Except it becomes clear—fast—that my game isn’t as steady as Donegan’s. He doesn’t sweat shooting strikes every frame, and I only manage a strike every other turn. My score falls further and further behind. My heart rate rises higher and higher, threatening to flatline and take me out.
Time blurs together, and I fall into a kind of daze—a mash-up of heart palpitations, blistering hands, and fevered nerves. Then it’s the tenth frame. My saving grace this past week.
I bowl first, but before stepping to the foul line, I do the math. If I punch out and Donegan doesn’t, I’ll win. Not great odds, but I take them and shoot. The ball turns and turns, the noise like gunfire, and it hits the headpin slightly off. A seven-ten split, also known as Bed Posts. After the Greek Church–split fiasco, I approach with caution. If I earn this spare, I can bowl a second frame and shoot a strike in the bonus.
Donegan might screw up. I really hope Donegan screws up.
I’ve converted a seven-ten split before. Okay, it was once, but it happened. I step up to the lane and use the arrows on the lane to adjust my shot, exhaling a whistling breath between my lips. Pull my arm back. And release.
My ball and my beautiful left hook wing too far to the left, hitting the tenpin.
The seventh remains standing like a middle finger.
Like a fuck you.
For a moment I stand there, rooted to the polished floors.
Donegan punches out, bowling two flawless—I imagine, I don’t watch—strikes beside me. Everything rushes back. Color. Noises. Reality. I cover my mouth with both hands to hold back whatever struggles inside. A scream. A sob. A swear. My pain contains multitudes, and it claws at my seams for freedom. The world crushes on top of me, and my kneecaps slam to the floor.
The ironic part is I should be lighter.
I’m five thousand dollars lighter than I was this morning.
Twenty-Three
WHAT HAPPENS AFTERWARD is muddled.
Somehow, I get to my feet, kneecaps aching.
Nic awards Donegan his winnings.
All I’m awarded? A handshake. A sympathetic smile. A better luck next time.
Except there will be no next time. I pack up my belongings, agitated panic filling every scrap of white space inside my body. The bowling alley is large, cavernous, Nic’s and Donegan’s laughter rebounding against the walls. It grates, makes me shrink smaller into myself. Doesn’t matter if they’re laughing at me or not. Just the noise of their happiness hammers in my endless dread.
This wasn’t how this night was supposed to go.
What the hell do I tell Beckett?
All that’s left in my purse is a thousand dollars. Not enough to make the smallest dent in our back rent. Not nearly enough to split with Beckett. Damn it. How could I lose? We were so close to winning big. Reluctantly, I drag my feet upstairs and pause in the bathroom hallway beside the staircase.
I lost. I’m moving to Arizona. I’m a failure.
A fucking failure.
On the other side of the bar, Beckett leans against the wall, scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t see me y
et. Soft curls frame his face, and his lips are pulled into this charming half smile.
He believed in me, and I let him down. Beckett didn’t want to play this game—he warned me against it—but I insisted. This mess is all mine.
All. My. Fault.
The bar’s busy, the pulsation of bodies making me nauseous. All the noise makes me want to claw my skin off. Before I really know what I’m doing, I pivot on my heel and sprint down the hallway. Past the bathrooms. Out of the emergency exit. The exit spills into a back alleyway; misty fog glooms the air, thick with rain, and my breath escapes in harsh gasps. My lungs refuse to expand. They ache, sharp pains shooting to my ribs. My hands are reddened and blistered, and my soul is crushed. Beyond crushed—it’s empty. Lifeless.
Rocking back on my heels, I bring my fist to my mouth and bite down.
SoMa is only a mile, maybe two, from home.
Distantly, I know walking home by myself is risky. I remember Dad once telling me SoMa has a crime rate more than 50 percent higher than the rest of the country. It’s late, past midnight. My mind is mixed somewhere between not truly believing I’m putting myself in danger and simply not caring.
All I care about? The overwhelming need to be gone. Turning off my phone because Beckett will no doubt try calling and texting, I begin walking, tripping a bit as I pick up my pace to a run. Along Folsom Street. Up Tenth. Cut across Fell Street and beneath the Highway 101 overpass. My mind goes blissfully silent as I move. My shins aching. My heart broken.
By the time I hike the hill to the yellow house, it’s one in the morning. Weird, inappropriate laughter bubbles in my chest. How the hell did I make my extended-date curfew? Still, I’m thankful all the lights are off. I’m about as mentally astute as the soupy fog. Nowhere calm enough to face Fiona.
Inside the sleeping house, Jean Paul Gaultier is eating dry kibble from his fish-shaped bowl in the kitchen. I scratch his bony head before tiptoeing upstairs. In my bedroom, I rip off the rain-soaked black wig and dump my purse on my bed.
I’m sure Beckett wants to know what happened. Where I went. But I can’t bring myself to turn my phone back on. I can’t tell him I ruined everything. Like, I know I’m a fuckup. A mess. But Beckett never saw that part of me. He saw competent and funny and beautiful. I don’t want him to find out how wrong he was.
I sink to the bed and bury my face in my hands. All the tears wet my palms and cheeks.
All that money—I had it. It was mine. And now it’s gone. In freaking Donegan’s and Nic’s pockets. God! What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I just listen to Beckett and stay in the auditorium, dancing and kissing? I dig my fingers into my hair and pull against the roots, pressing my lips together to keep the crying muffled.
I grab my box of tissues off the bedside table, knocking a piece of paper to the ground in the process. Blowing my nose with one hand, I lean down and snatch the paper off the floor. Hope hits me somewhere between my heart and my stomach.
The Bay Area Bowling League Championship.
The twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize.
More than we need, but excess money isn’t what I’m worried about right now.
This is it. My answer.
That guy in the cowboy boots, Ray, said he’d take a five-grand cut, so if I play tomorrow, I’ll walk away with what I could’ve won tonight. Should have won tonight. The longer I mull over this plan, the better I feel. Not entirely hopeful, but I’m no longer leaded with dread. The championship is held at none other than Billy Goat Bowl. At least I know where it is. I flip the flyer over, and a phone number is written along the bottom. Before I lose my courage, I grab my phone and power it on.
Sure enough, Beckett’s texted me half a dozen times.
I’ll read them later. Once I have a plan.
ME: This is Caroline from the Four Horsemen. Still need a player tomorrow?
As I wait for Ray’s response, I mop up the tears lingering on my cheeks and school myself to calm down. Maybe this isn’t as bad as I first thought. Betting—and losing—five thousand dollars was, okay, impulsive, but maybe this doesn’t have to be the end. Because it can’t be the end. I can’t give up. I can’t lose this house or this city. Or Beckett.
Just as my mind begins to slide back into that dark place, my phone buzzes.
14155550196: Why? You offering?
ME: Yeah. $500 to play?
14155550196: See you tomorrow. Arrive early. I’ll be waiting outside.
I exhale slowly and slide off the bed. Toss my phone between my hands. How do I tell Beckett? What do I tell Beckett? He’s going to hate me, he probably already hates me, I hate myself, God this night is the worst—
A loud tapping jars me from my negative thought hurricane.
I turn around, and Beckett’s crouching outside my bedroom on the fire escape, his fist held up like he was knocking. He catches my gaze and jerks his head to the side, like he wants in. Shit. Even if my heart brightens at seeing him, the feeling doesn’t seem mutual. He looks pissed.
I pad across my bedroom and wiggle the window open.
“Be quiet,” I warn, stepping aside. “Everyone’s asleep.”
Beckett tumbles through the window and miraculously lands on his feet. Silently, like a cat. He’s soaked from the temperamental rain. “What the hell happened? I tried calling you,” he whisper-yells, pulling me into a hug.
Shocked, I relax against him for a second. Wrap my arms around his waist. “Sorry—”
Then Beckett lets me go and takes a step back. Like he doesn’t want to be near me anymore. “I’m glad you’re okay and not in a fucking ditch somewhere, but what the hell? Why’d you just leave?” His voice cracks on the last word.
“Beck, I’m sorry, but it’s complicated.” I cross my arms over my stomach, bending at the waist. “I—uh, I lost. Like all the money.”
Beckett’s staring at me with his brows raised. “That’s it? That’s why you left?” He tosses his hands in the air. “Sure, that sucks, but you don’t just leave like that! How’d you get home?”
“I ran.”
“You ran? Two miles in the rain? At midnight?”
“Yeah.” My bottom lip quivers.
“Goddammit, Chuck.” He paces away from me.
“I’m fine!”
Beckett gives me this look, and his voice turns soft. “Are you?”
I hate that look—like I’m not competent, like I’m broken—so I grab the flyer off my bed. “I have a plan, okay?”
With a sigh, he takes the flyer, studying the information. “What is this?” Quickly, I tell him what happened at the Four Horsemen when he was with Willa. “You didn’t text him already, did you?”
“Yeah. It’s all set for tomorrow. Why?”
Beckett shoves the flyer at my chest. “You just agreed to work with Ray Wilkes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The guy I warned you about? His first name is Ray. He was wearing cowboy boots, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Chuck!”
“Okay, yeah, it’s the same guy.” I sink to the floor and pull my knees to my chest. Annoyance replaces my heavy sadness. I’ve found an alternate option. Who cares if it’s for Wilkes? It’s just a game. The fact that it’s for the mysterious and theoretically dangerous Wilkes doesn’t dissuade me. Not entirely sure what that says about me. Not entirely sure I care.
Beckett sits beside me, our backs to the wall beneath the window. When I reach for his hand, he pulls away. “Let’s rewind. What happened at Miracle Lanes?”
I explain what happened after Beckett left for the bar. It’s easier talking this way—shoulder to shoulder and staring straight ahead.
After I’m done, one moment passes and another. Then, “You can’t do this. Wilkes isn’t a good guy.”
“What other choice do I have?” I say, face downcast as I pull a loose thread from my capri pants. “Don’t you want me to stay?”
“Low blow, Chuck,” he mutters, drawing his hand acr
oss his mouth. “Of course I want you to stay, but that doesn’t mean—”
“We didn’t think this through. Even if I hadn’t lost it all, eight grand would only clear the back rent. That’s it. If we’re going to have a fighting chance, the more months we have secured the better.”
Beckett sighs, then leans his head against the wall with a thunk. “And what? Twenty grand will erase Bigmouth’s problems?”
“Ten grand—you still get half. And no, probably not, but it’s a start.”
“C’mon, don’t do this. How much money is left?”
My laugh is humorless. “Like a grand? It’s not much. Not enough to matter.”
“You know tomorrow could be dangerous, right? Wilkes is dangerous.”
“It’s in a public place, for a legit association. What’s so dangerous about that? It’s probably safer than the other games I’ve played.”
“Do you think Wilkes will allow you to play one game for him and walk away?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Because he’s a liar, Chuck. People are pawns to him.” Beckett drags his fingers through his damp curls. “Somehow my dad got involved with him, and look what happened! I’m not getting involved with someone like him.”
“Then don’t.” The words are harsher than I intended, but I’m too wired, anxious, and desperate to care. “I’ll go. You don’t need to be involved.”
He stares at his hands and says softly, “I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re shutting me out. Just like you shut me out sophomore year.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Instead of having a rational conversation with me, you ran away.” Beckett shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re scared.”
“No,” I say, trying to laugh off his comment, but the sound stays trapped in my throat. “You’re clearly the one who is scared in this situation.”
“Not of Wilkes. Of this.” He gestures to the inches between us that might as well be a valley. “You like me. I like you. And you’re freaking out. You’re taking a disagreement and blowing it out of proportion.”
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 21