I pad downstairs and feed Jean Paul Gaultier some wet cat food. Guilt stabs when I realize I’ve forgotten to feed him the past few days. Not that he’s hurting—he has quite the tummy—and he has dry food. But he turns into a bundle of purrs when I crack open the can.
As I clean up, something outside the kitchen window catches my eye.
Well, someone.
Beckett Porter paces the sidewalk outside my house. Hands stuffed in his corduroy jacket pockets, head ducked, he walks up and down the sidewalk. Elation hits, quickly followed by dread. Of course he showed up. Beckett won’t miss his last opportunity to talk me out of playing today. Or yell at me. Express his concern and disappointment. Ugh. Too bad there’s no other way out of the house.
I don’t want to face him, but I have to.
Shrugging on my jacket, I give JP a scratch on the back and head outside. Behind me, the old house groans goodbye. To get to Billy Goat Bowl, I can take my usual BART route I ride to work, then walk the extra few blocks to the other bowling alley. Even if it’s hard, I have to ignore Beckett and keep moving if I want to get there on time.
“Chuck,” Beckett says, walking over to the stoop. “Hey, um, about last night—”
“You made it pretty clear you were done,” I mutter, hurrying down the steps and pushing past him.
“Wait.” He trails me along the sidewalk. “If you read any of my messages last night, then you’d know I’m in this with you. All in.”
My eyes burn with the promise of tears. I want to believe him, believe those words, but I can’t help wondering if he’s trying to stall me. Just long enough so he can change my mind. “Go home.” I power walk, dodging pedestrians, and he follows me down the hill.
Beckett reaches out and manages to catch my wrist. “I’m not here to stop you. I’m coming. Please, just stop for a second.” He’s a good liar, but the way his voice breaks? You can’t fake that.
I stop and turn on my heel. Now that we’re close enough for me to see him properly, I study his eyes. As awful and bloodshot as mine. Beckett slides his hand to cover mine, comforting as ever. Damn it. Goose bumps and warmth flush my body.
“Did you think I would let you do this alone?” he asks. “Last night, I was upset, and I’m sorry.”
With each passing second, my resolve melts and crumbles. He’s really not here to change my mind; he’s here to support me. But I can’t let him do that.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to drag you into this. More into it, I mean.” I shift on my feet, the relief that he doesn’t hate me threatening to buckle my knees. “You can still go home. I’m doing this, and I’m going to kick ass.”
“One more time with confidence,” he jokes, mouth upturning in a small smile.
Even though it’s clear what Beckett’s intentions are, it’s still hard to reconcile. He should be furious with me. But he’s not, and I don’t dare question him any further. I crumple against his chest and he hugs me close.
I press my face against his cotton T-shirt. Maybe Beckett is my confidence, because that contact fills something inside my chest. His presence and touch make me capable of anything. Everything.
“You aren’t mad?”
Beckett shrugs simply, lightly. His arms are tight around my waist. I don’t want him to let me go. “I wasn’t ever mad. I just don’t want you getting hurt. But if you want me to leave, say the word.” When I don’t say anything, he steps back, and his mouth quirks with a smile. “Excellent. Let’s do this.”
“At least I don’t have to ride BART anymore.”
“Glad you appreciate what I bring to the table.”
I nudge him, and we get walking. The Accord is parked illegally near the stop sign. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here. But I didn’t want to force you into this.”
“You’re not forcing me to do anything. We’re partners in crime until the very end,” Beckett says, taking the flyer Wilkes gave me and typing the address into his phone. “It should only take us fifteen or twenty minutes to drive there. Let’s grab coffee first.”
“I didn’t sleep. No way in hell I’m turning down coffee.” My entire body sighs in relief as I climb into the Accord.
“I didn’t sleep much either,” he admits. “Hey, what I was trying to say earlier was that I was wrong last night. I shouldn’t have accused you of—”
“You were right,” I cut him off, surprising myself. But during my sleepless night, I thought. A lot. Beckett’s words echoed throughout my head and burrowed beneath the barbed surface of my heart. I know what you’re doing.… You’re shutting me out. Last night turned into so many complicated layers of messed up, I don’t know where to begin. But the weight in my heart made me realize Beckett was right.
If I win today and guarantee Bigmouth’s rent for the next few months, will Dad even be happy? Will he still upend everything and move us to Arizona? If he does, I’ll have to say goodbye to Beckett. So yeah. Maybe I fell into old ways. Pushing him away so it won’t hurt as bad if we leave. But I care too much about Beckett to keep hurting him. If he’s all in, then I’m all in too. Whatever that means.
“Right about what?” he asks.
“I was shutting you out.”
“Whoa.” Beck glances from the road, steel eyes full of wonder. “Did you just admit to being in the wrong?”
“Watch it,” I mutter, pulling my feet up onto the seat, compacting into myself. I tuck my knees to my chest—an attempt to hold myself together—my feet balanced on the edge until I’m folded up. Because, yeah, this conversation is making me uncomfortable fast. Vulnerability and me? We’re not friends. “You keep saying you don’t want me getting hurt. But the physical hurt doesn’t scare me. The cut Earl gave me? It’s nearly healed. The emotional hurt, though? I… don’t want to lose you again.”
“You know I’d never hurt you, right? I’m so sorry I ever did anything that made you think otherwise.”
I turn, pressing my cheek to my kneecaps. “I know,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”
Trust me, if I’ve learned one thing this past week, it’s that I hurt myself way more than others hurt me.
Beckett reaches over and squeezes my hand twice. Lucky doesn’t describe having him beside me. Even if I talked myself into believing I could do this alone, that was a lie. Beckett’s my backbone, my courage, my comfort. My partner in crime. The one person I should have never denied, never rejected. Because he’s always there for me, no matter how many chances and opportunities I’ve given him to turn his back on me.
Those type of people? They’re rare.
I promise myself I’ll never turn my back on Beckett again.
* * *
Billy Goat Bowl is every bit of hipster nonsense I suspected, located a mile from Bigmouth’s Bowl and near its namesake, Billy Goat Hill. The building is a rustic two stories, resembling a rural barn with its simple exterior decor. We haven’t even gone inside yet and I already hate the place. Hate it for helping play a hand in Bigmouth’s demise, hate it for how it represents everything that’s changing in my city.
Parked on the street, Beckett and I sip from our to-go cups from Any Beans Necessary. The windows are rolled down and the day’s springlike weather filters in.
Beckett has the flyer spread out on his lap. “Did you read the fine print on here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Says during weekends the bowling alley is twenty-one and over.”
I empty the cup, set it aside, and yank my purse onto my lap. “Good thing you got me this, huh?” I fish out the fake ID I’ve had to use only once this week. “Think they’ll buy it? You couldn’t find a picture of me that wasn’t my yearbook photo?”
Beckett grins at my cheesy photo. “Hey, these aren’t cheap, and it’s a convincing fake. Got it from the same guy who made mine, and I’ve never been caught. Besides, you only need ID to get in the door.”
I return it to my wallet, hiding my Castelli High School student ID behind my Clipper card. My fingers tremble w
ith an undercurrent of nerves. Earlier, I felt like a doomed mess. But with Beckett here, this feels normal. Maybe even exciting.
“Let’s do this thing,” I say, and we get out of the car.
Even though everything is confusing, Beckett holds my hand as we walk toward Billy Goat Bowl. I regret not kissing him last night—I regret a lot of things about last night—so I squeeze his hand even tighter. I hope we haven’t missed our moment.
Linked together, we approach the building, my eyes alert.
Wilkes lurks, sitting in Billy Goat Bowl’s shadowed outdoor patio.
Before we get closer, I tug Beckett to a stop and say, “Thanks for being here.”
“Hey, if we go down, we both go down together. Deal?”
I squeeze his hand. “Deal.”
Ray Wilkes gets up and strolls toward us, a burning cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Caroline, you showed.”
I pull my hand free from Beckett’s and cross my arms over my chest. “I said I’d be here, didn’t I?”
Wilkes assesses me. “Yes, yes you did.” He’s dressed in a tight-fitting T-shirt and a sports coat, jeans chalked white in some areas with starch, and his damn cowboy boots. His gaze slides toward Beckett. “Who’s this?”
I glance to Beckett as he takes in Ray Wilkes. His jaw is squared, fists tight at his sides. “Beckett,” he says, “Porter.”
If Wilkes recognizes his last name, it doesn’t play on his face. He just motions for us to follow as he sits at a small bistro table, the top littered with cigarette ashes and smashed filters.
“Okay, kids. The plan’s simple. Go inside and sign up. My buddy was registered to hold the spot open, but he called out sick, so they’ll have an opening. Show them this card; they don’t allow non-league players.” Wilkes slides a membership card across the table. An ID number with no name or photo. On the other side is an unreadable signature scrawled in ink. Nothing else. “The buy-in to play is five hundred dollars. Got it?”
I pick up the card, nodding. Easy enough. “And where will you be? You’re not playing?”
“I was banned from BABL games, but not from spectating. I’ll be in the crowd.”
Who the hell gets banned from a bowling league? “Anything else?”
Wilkes crushes his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot, lights a fresh one. “The game’s bracketed and you bowl until the last player’s standing. Giancarlo is the BABL champion; he’ll undoubtedly make the finals. If you beat him, then you get your cut of the winnings. Their only requirement is for the winner to be there to receive the cash prize. Questions?”
“Yeah. Why are you doing this?” I ask, tapping the membership card against my leg; the thin plastic plucks at my leggings.
“It’s tradition.” He spins a gold wedding band around his ring finger. “Several years ago Giancarlo took something of mine, so I make a habit of taking something of his.”
Wilkes has a complicated personal life I’m not touching with a ten-foot pole. “Okay then,” I reply. “Is that it?”
“Yup.” After a drag of his cigarette, he adds, “Good luck, Caroline.”
Beckett and I walk into Billy Goat Bowl and I shudder. Something about that guy is off. “I’m starting to think this might be a bad idea.”
Beckett laughs. “Oh, this is definitely a bad idea,” he says, tucking me affectionately against his side as we walk. “But today’s gonna be great.”
“I really hope so,” I say with a smile, lifting my chin higher as we reach the door.
We show the bouncer our IDs, and he doesn’t double take or ask us a dozen questions about our astrology signs, zip codes, or addresses. The bowling alley is relatively small, only ten lanes lofted onto a platform, with a bar, a viewing lounge, and a restaurant.
A banner above the bar proclaims WELCOME BAY AREA BOWLING LEAGUE.
To the right of the bar is a cardboard table, and a sign hangs in front, instructing players to sign up. I cross the room and approach the table. The woman fielding sign-ups is cheerful, all smiles. Her stick-on name tag reads HELLO, MY NAME IS DANA!
“Hi,” I say, my voice uncertain, lacking conviction. “I was hoping to play in today’s tournament if you had any openings?”
Dana clucks her tongue. “Well, aren’t you cute? But I’m sorry, we have a full roster today, honey.”
I clear my throat and stand taller, pissed off by her dismissiveness. “You sure? Can you double-check?”
With a sigh, Dana opens her laptop. “Oh, lookie here,” she says after a moment. “We had a last-minute call-out. Do you have your membership card?”
I hand the card over. “Buy-in’s five hundred, right?”
“Yes.” She takes down the member ID number. “Cash only, unless you arranged otherwise earlier.”
I hand over the money. All that’s left is five hundred dollars. It’s laughable. We’re right back where we started.
Dana slides the money off the table, counts out the amount, and puts it away in a lockbox. “Perfect. We’ve got ourselves a player. Last name?”
“Wilson.”
“Okay, Ms. Wilson, the setup is simple.” She speaks fast, like she’s rehearsed this speech. “Today players are in five groups of ten. You’re randomly assigned a group, and each is numbered off, one through five. The winner of each advances to the semifinals. The top scores from that game advance to the finals. Understood?”
With a bowling alley this small, it makes sense they’d have to split the players up. “Yeah.”
“Fantastic.” Dana reaches forward to stamp my hand. The rubber leaves behind a simple image of two crisscrossing bowling pins. “You’re in group three. We’ll call your number over the PA system, so until then, have some food, drink, and enjoy yourself!”
The tournament is supposed to start in five minutes. Hand in hand, Beckett and I wade through the crowd into the back of the large building and sink into an abandoned pair of velvet armchairs. My nerves are restless, excitable things. On one hand, I’m calmed by Beckett and our conversation earlier. On the other, I’m playing over all the different ways this day might go south.
I lost last night, and I might lose again. But I don’t have much to lose, not anymore, and somehow that makes this situation more bearable. If I lose the five hundred today, nothing will change. I’ll be in the exact same position I’m in now. But if I win? Well, that’ll change everything.
“How’re you feeling?” Beckett relaxes into the chair. The thing that used to annoy me the most about him—his complete inability to become truly annoyed or put off—is one of my favorite things about him now. Because I’m on the verge of freaking out, but his sense of calmness is contagious.
“Nervous.” Both for the game and the fact I’ll be in major trouble later.
I’ve spent enough time at Bigmouth’s to know it can take a group of ten players up to an hour to finish. The tournament begins at two, meaning it could be close to eight or nine at night when things wrap up. I’ll text Fiona if I’m going to be late, but there’s a huge chance I won’t make dinner at all. Not that I care. Dad already grounded me. I have zero intention of playing the role of the dutiful daughter so he can show me off to Leigh.
Billy Goat Bowl is as threatening as chicken noodle soup, but it’s overwhelming. No other word for it. There are several players bowling test runs at the lanes. Even though a sign reads NO SMOKING, the smeared scent of weed and tobacco drifts. Dozens of voices rise, trying to drown out the others.
The accidental crash of beer bottles on cement floors.
The boom, boom, boom of bowling balls against innocent pins.
Classical music pours overhead, an off-putting contrast.
Everything rides on this. But it’s just another game. A game I can win.
Twenty-Six
WE WATCH THE first group of players face off from our seats in the back, the lanes on a raised platform and visible throughout the alley. Billy Goat Bowl has high ceilings and a small second-story loft; the vaulted ceiling pea
ks, with glass-topped panels exposing the spring-day sky. Sunny with a hint of cottony fog. On the wall to the right is a gigantic digital scoreboard with brackets and last names that narrow until one winner remains.
Beckett grabs waters from the bar, and I chug mine as if it were filled with alcohol, or some magical elixir to give me the talent to win. We don’t talk much, but the silence is comforting. Beckett solidly beside me, occasionally touching or squeezing my hand. After forty-five minutes, group one wraps up and the winner stalks outside for a cigarette. Group two wastes no time getting things rolling. Wilkes’s drifted in and out of Billy’s, always sticking to the walls, the thick crowds.
“Hey, Beck,” I say, grateful we found this little corner of seclusion. “Did everyone else bring their own shoes?” Each lane has a ball return with bowling balls—and racks with extras—but I can’t figure out where people are getting their shoes from.
“Don’t worry, I’ve gotcha covered.” Beckett hoists his bowling bag onto his lap and unzips it. “On both fronts.” He lifts out a twelve-pound Hammer Absolut Hook from the bag. Black and purple.
I suppress a laugh. “Did you steal my bowling ball from Bigmouth’s?”
“I borrowed it,” he insists, and sets it back into the bag before pulling out a pair of shoes.
I wrinkle my nose. “Please don’t tell me you ‘borrowed’ shoes, too, because I clean those, and I don’t do a good job.”
“Nope. Brand-new.” He dangles blue-and-white bowling shoes with red laces from his fingers. They’re retro and vintage-inspired—in other words, perfect.
I place my palm over my heart. “Aw, I’m touched. You bought me bowling shoes?” I joke, but my heart swoops over this small, yet weirdly sweet, gesture.
Beckett grins, and I bet his ears are reddening. “It’s kind of weird you don’t have a pair. Your family owns a bowling alley.”
I snort. “Yeah, but for how long?”
He drops the shoes on the floor. “C’mon, wishful thinking today.”
“You’re right. Thanks for the shoes.” I slide off my flats, pulling on extra socks over my tights-clad feet. I slip on the bowling shoes and wiggle my toes. “How’d you know my size?”
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