“That’s ridiculous.” My face is hot from his accusations. “I’m not afraid of us. If I were afraid, why would I be trying to stay in the city? That’s why I’m playing tomorrow!”
Beckett’s wrong, right? Maybe I was afraid before, but I’m not anymore. At least I don’t think I am. Whatever. It’s unfair for him talk with such authority. Like he knows me better than I know myself.
“You lied and you’re shutting me out. And it sucks, okay? It fucking sucks.” He twists to face me, pale gray eyes wide and desperate. “The thing is, if this were about anything else, I wouldn’t fight you. But playing for Wilkes? I can’t get behind that. Wilkes is bad news, and I don’t want you getting hurt. Not after Earl.”
“Wilkes isn’t going to hurt me, okay? I’m not weak; I’ve got this.” I push up from the floor and onto wobbly legs.
Beckett stands but leans his body against the wall. He looks so defeated. Wet curls hang limp to his shoulders, the whites of his eyes turning red with exhaustion. His jaw sets as he grinds his teeth. “You’re not seeing the big picture anymore. You’re being careless, and honestly, I’m worried about you. The past week? It worked because we did it together, because we had each other’s backs. But if you want to risk it, go for it. I can’t stop you.”
“No, you can’t stop me. Glad we can agree on that.” I unlatch the window and open it. The rain patters down outside, hitting the metal of the fire escape hard. “Don’t waste your energy worrying about me. I’m fine.”
Something shifts in his eyes. “Chuck—”
“If you’re not going to support me, then I don’t want you here.” Beckett just stares at me, mouth parted like the words are slow to surface. I walk over and shove his shoulder. “Leave.”
“Stop it,” he says, but his arms hang uselessly by his sides.
“Leave!” Tears pushing at my eyelids, I shove him in the chest. He doesn’t even stumble. “Please, just leave me alone!”
Footsteps sound in the hallway, electrifying my already frayed nerves. I can’t have Dad or Fiona finding Beckett in my bedroom. They’d ground me, and I’d never be able to play tomorrow if that happened.
“Leave,” I whisper, widening my eyes at him in a silent plea. “Just go.”
Beckett glances at my closed bedroom door before shaking his head and ducking outside. I shut the window quietly and stand in the center of my bedroom, holding my breath. The footsteps retreat.
Rattled, I collapse on my bed, curl onto my side. I grab a pillow, press it over my face, and scream. The gravity of what I did to Beckett slams onto my shoulders, and my tears soak into my comforter. What is wrong with me?
He’s gone.
Who knows if he’ll ever come back.
I wasn’t thinking. My body moved of its own accord, all this dark and hyper energy making the decisions. An energy I don’t understand, accompanied by an irritable anger I’ve never felt before. What was that? Since our date ended, I’ve slowly been unraveling, and I need it to stop. Stop before I fall apart completely. I thought I could do this and be safe—reined in and stable—but I’m not so sure anymore.
You’re fine, my brain whispers. But what if it’s just trying to trick me?
I blink at my blurry tears, struggling over a fractured breath. The simple act of breathing, of living, makes my lungs ache. With shaky hands, I wipe the tears from my eyes, unsure if they’re from exhaustion or anger. Or both.
Standing next to the claw machine filled with porn in the seedy bowling alley where I first learned to hustle, I acknowledged it’d never be a struggle to look intimidated or out of place. In the past week, I found my groove, I found confidence. But I’m back in that moment: a scared little girl.
I’m completely and totally in over my head, but too—what, stubborn?—to back down. With no one to talk to, to help me unravel my options, untangle my questions, talk me down from the mounting self-hatred, I grab my purse and slip downstairs, releasing myself into the endless night.
SATURDAY, APRIL 28 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 2
Twenty-Four
MY FELLOW NIGHTTIME transients give me weird looks and second glances on the 14-Mission bus, which is saying something. Being a Friday night—well, a Saturday morning—the owl bus is full of partiers, a few homeless curled onto the seats, and a woman smacking overturned cans tunelessly for tips.
Tonight it was the all-nighter bus or forking over a small fortune for a taxi—the decision made itself.
Since I forgot a jacket, I’m shivering, my teeth clacking and clenching. It’s past three in the morning. I jog my usual, well-worn path from the Muni stop to the front doors of Bigmouth’s Bowl. I have my key, and I know all the alarm codes by heart. Soundlessly, I slip into Bigmouth’s because, for once, I need to be here.
They’re just lanes slicked with synthetic oil and smelly used shoes and an ancient jukebox, but they’re the building blocks of everything I know to be true. The heart and soul of the Wilson family. Even if it isn’t my heart or soul, the ache pulls at my chest. Because I didn’t always used to hate it here. Maybe I’ve never really hated it. Maybe I shut Bigmouth’s out. If I hate it, it won’t hurt if it closes.
Who would the Wilsons be if Bigmouth’s closed? The house would be gone. We’d be gone. Everything Grandpa Ben worked for, the last lingering of the O’Neills—gone. Where would we be?
In Surprise, Arizona.
In the entry, I study the photographs on the walls with my phone’s flashlight. My grandfather and grandmother at Bigmouth’s grand opening. My mom, an only child, sitting at the snack counter with a book. Jump forward a few decades. My mom and dad. Mom thrived here—it was in her blood. Or that’s what my dad tells me, on the rare occasion he’s had two beers, which loosens his tongue when it comes to all things Mom. How she loved Bigmouth’s, how she loved her father’s passion.
Mom always lit up when a camera lens landed on her. The camera didn’t steal her soul, but it masked her pain. She was beautiful. Her curly strawberry-blond hair, wide toothy smile, the gap between her front teeth. Impeccably dressed, perched on the same vinyl stool where I spend most of my free time.
When you lose a parent young, it’s hard to remember life with them. My mom died when I was three years old, and I’d like to say I have one memory of her. A hand reaching out, a kiss on my forehead, maternal love bathing me like sunlight, but that would be a lie. I don’t know my mother at all. All I have is her defective brain chemistry, a handful of stories, pictures, but I don’t—and never will—have her.
People who know about my mom give me this pitying look. I can see behind their eyes, into their brains—they’re wondering how a mother could kill herself when her daughter was still learning to speak full sentences, say her own name. A toddler who could run with confidence and count her numbers? But all those looks, all those unasked questions, aren’t as bad as the ones that fill my mind when I can’t get out of bed.
If I wasn’t enough for my mom, then how the hell am I supposed to be enough for myself?
I press my palm to another photograph of my mom standing in the center of one lane, mouth parted in laughter. The glass is cold beneath my fingers. Am I like her? Will I turn out like her? When she was my age, did she have any inkling, any idea, she’d become so miserable she’d die before she was thirty?
Mouth twisting, I turn the beam of light away from the photographs. What am I looking for? Beckett acted like I have a choice, a decision to make, when I’d already made it. Maybe I’m stubborn, but I can’t accept leaving San Francisco. Leaving him.
Embarking on this journey wasn’t the smartest or safest thing I’ve ever done, but what kind of person walks away when they’re this close to their goal? To reaching their endgame? Who gives up at this point? I have nothing else to lose and everything to gain. I only wish Beckett would see it my way.
No matter how upset I got earlier, I don’t blame him.
Even if I’m shutting him out, maybe the distance is good. Once I know for certain
if I’m staying in San Francisco or going to Arizona, I’ll try to reconcile things with Beckett. But he was right—I’m afraid of what I felt tonight.
I love this city.
I might even love a boy.
And I don’t want to leave them.
* * *
Once the sun is up and I’m back home, I head into battle with our shitty coffee maker.
The machine is always on the fritz. I’m resisting the urge to drop-kick it into the alley outside when there’s a light patter of feet down the stairs. I haven’t spoken to Aunt Fee since before my date with Beckett, and I brace myself for the onslaught of questions. Questions I’m not entirely sure how to answer after everything went south. Because if my aunt is anything, it’s tactless. And nosy. And way too invested in whatever potential relationship is blooming between me and Beckett with the Hair.
The coffee maker finally gurgles to life and starts brewing, and I turn around, catching sight of a dark-haired head that doesn’t belong to Aunt Fiona. The woman is shorter and older than Aunt Fee, wearing a light green T-shirt. Without a bra.
With a shriek, I clutch at the ties of my bathrobe. “Who the hell are you?”
The woman’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m, um…” She pauses, as if she’s forgotten her name. “Leigh. You must be Caroline.”
Oh. My. God. Yoga Leigh? In my kitchen at eight in the morning. Without a bra on. In my panic, I didn’t recognize her from my blog snooping. Mostly because I never expected to find her in my kitchen, free-boobing it. My entire stomach threatens to revolt, and I hold back a dry heave.
“Chuck,” I say through gritted teeth. “I go by Chuck.”
Dad pounds down the stairs, swinging into the kitchen. His robe is tied tight around his body, and his thin hair is mussed. The balding man’s version of bedhead. Or sex hair. “Caroline! You’re awake.”
The coffee maker wheezes. I check the floor beneath me. Nope. I’m not sinking through the hardwood in horror. Yet. Did Dad have a woman stay the night? And not any woman. Yoga Leigh. Perfect Yoga Leigh with her perfect swingy lob haircut and perfectly yoga-toned legs.
The three of us stare at one another, like an unarmed standoff.
The coffee isn’t done, but I grab a mug off the shelf and pour the cup to the brim, leaving the carafe empty on the burner. I scald my tongue and the roof of my mouth as I sip and move to circumvent the kitchen island, stepping far away from Dad and Yoga Leigh. They huddle next to the refrigerator, both flushed in embarrassment.
This can’t be my life.
Then Dad has the gall to ask, “Hey, hon, how was your date with Beckett?”
I stop at the base of the stairs. “It was great,” I say, “but obviously not as great as yours.”
This leaves them in enough stunned silence for me to rush up the stairs, enough time for guilt to sucker punch me in the face for acting like a jackass. I don’t go to my bedroom. The only rooms in our house with locks are the bathrooms, so I barge right into Aunt Fiona’s.
Aunt Fee is tangled in her checkered flannel sheets, one leg dangling off the mattress. After setting the coffee on her dresser, I rip the comforter off. She’s responsible for this.
“Wake up,” I whisper-shout, jostling my aunt.
Fiona rolls onto her back with a groan and blinks at me. “What’s going on?” She struggles upright, propping herself on her elbows. “Hey, how’d your date with Beckett go?”
Oh my God. Do they all just sit around and talk about my pathetic love life?
“It’s complicated, but more important, Dad’s in the kitchen with Yoga Leigh.”
The information takes a second to process through Aunt Fiona’s sleepy brain. Then her eyes brighten, and she swings her legs over the side of the bed. “Holy shit. Really?”
I hate how upset I am, how my hands shake and my throat is scratchy and thick. This morning, I thought I could have a better handle on my wild emotions from last night. But seeing Dad and Yoga Leigh threw me off-balance once more. “Stop acting like this is a good thing.”
“No offense, but your mom died fourteen years ago, and your dad is lonely as fuck. Did you ever think about what’ll happen when you leave for college? I’m not sticking around forever either. He needs someone other than us, kid.”
Digging my teeth into my bottom lip, I blink rapidly. “But she’s so…”
“So what?”
Normal. Zen. Well adjusted. “She’s not Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I realize your dad having a woman spend the night isn’t an ideal situation,” she admits with a grimace, “but this is good. For the whole family.”
In every daydream, every fantasy, I go to college in San Francisco, but I don’t live at home. Wishful thinking, considering our financial situation, but I’d stay in the dorms. I never thought what Dad would do alone in the yellow house. Especially if Fiona left. Dad needs someone.
I clear the thickness in my throat. “Whatever. I’ll be out this afternoon, and I need you to cover for me if things run late. No saying no. That,” I say, pointing to the kitchen beneath the floorboards, “is all your fault.”
Aunt Fee scrubs her face with her palms, then looks up at me with tired eyes. “Your dad knows about you and Beckett. Why the sneaking around?”
“Just cover for me, okay? Please?”
“Fine. But we’re all going out to dinner at six thirty. I’ll text you the address.”
I have no idea how long the game will take. But if agreeing keeps Fiona silent until then, I’ll have to hedge my bets. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll be there.”
Leaving Aunt Fee, I head upstairs and check the time. I have six hours until I need to be at Billy Goat Bowl. My bedroom is still a mess from my pre-date outfit anxiety—how was that just yesterday?—and sadness tugs, but I ignore it. I put on some music and focus on cleaning up my room.
When someone knocks on my door thirty minutes later, I really hope it’s Aunt Fiona.
“Hey, Caroline,” Dad says, edging into the room. “You have a minute?”
“Nope.” I’m sitting on my bed folding a bunch of T-shirts. “Kinda busy here,” I mutter, holding up a T-shirt as proof. “Why aren’t you at work?”
Dad shuffles into my room, stepping around the hazardous piles of clothes. “I’m going in late. Leigh’s still here and—”
I snort. “Shocking.”
“What’s that?”
I glance up, and his brows are so close together they practically merge into one. Staring at my dad, at his sad face and balding head and soft stomach and hands on his hips, sets something off inside me. I just break.
“You’re always either going into work late or leaving early. Kind of shitty, don’t you think? Especially when we’re two days away from getting evicted.”
All the color is wiped from Dad’s face. “How do you know about that? Did Jesset talk to you?”
“Does it matter?” I shove the pile of T-shirts aside. “What gives, Dad? We have a good life, and you’re giving it all away! For what? A yoga instructor? For some cheap house in Arizona? What’s so wrong with what we have?” My voice raises, all crackly and emotional. “Why aren’t you fighting for us?”
Dad shifts toward me, but I shake my head. Resigned, he says, “This situation is complicated, Caroline. And I don’t appreciate you speaking this way to me. I’m the one in charge, you hear me?”
I roll my eyes. “You might be in charge, but you’re not doing shit. Setting a real great example, Dad.”
“Watch it!” Anger flares in his normally docile eyes. “I don’t have time to talk about this. Leigh’s downstairs. Tonight, after dinner, we’re talking. Got it? This behavior—” He breaks off with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
A toxic kind of anger fills my heart. “What’s gotten into me? Really? I’m trying! I am trying to do something about the shitty situation you’ve clearly given up on.”
Dad just watches me, confused. Disappointed. “You’re grounded,” he says after a
second. “Don’t come into work. Stay home and clean up this goddamn mess before school on Monday. But you better change your attitude before dinner. Leigh was so excited to meet you, and you’re acting like a spoiled brat.” And with that, he turns on his heel and storms out of my bedroom. Slams the door after him.
I really hate myself sometimes.
Twenty-Five
THE HOUSE EMPTIES by noon. Dad officially off to Bigmouth’s with Yoga Leigh. Aunt Fiona took her car, headed to San Jose to meet up with some old college friends. I thought my fight with Dad would rattle me, but if anything, it’s made me bolder. Dad’s given up. Moved on. I’m all I have left.
Aunt Fiona texted me the address of the restaurant where I’m supposed to meet her, Dad, and Yoga Leigh at six thirty. I replied with a smiley face. There’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll be done in time to make it. And right now I can’t worry about missing some faux family dinner.
My phone is a graveyard of messages. Unread texts from Beckett. WhatsApp alerts from Mila, who I’ve seriously neglected the last week. Instagram notifications. All of it is overwhelming, so instead of reading them, I finish cleaning my room—reorganizing the wigs on their mannequin heads on top of my bookshelf—and I take a scalding-hot shower.
No disguises today, and the yellow silk James Galanos hanging on my dress form calls to me. I pull it over my head after showering; it’s boxy since I haven’t altered the waistline, and I use a thick band of black fabric to cinch it. I keep everything else simple—black tights, black flats, army jacket, and I smooth my hair into a nubby ponytail at the base of my neck.
When it’s time to leave, I check my wallet. The paltry thousand dollars is secured in Beckett’s money clip. Half will go for my buy-in at Billy Goat Bowl. My hands shake as I put it back into my purse, along with my Mace, the flyer, and my favorite red lipstick. My entire body is weak from too little food and too much fear.
God, I need confidence, need to find my fight and vigor from last night.
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