Beckett taps his head. “Steel trap,” he says. “You mentioned your shoe size like four times this week at the other bowling alleys.”
We both sit there, staring and smiling at each other.
I can’t stop kicking myself over wasting the perfect opportunity last night to kiss him. I should’ve stayed in the auditorium. Never played at Miracle Lanes. Because now we’re on the brink of uncertainty and there’s a huge chance this will fail and I’ll be carted off to Arizona, the land of cacti and car handles so hot they scald you on contact.
I lean closer. “Beckett—”
A lithe figure dressed in blue slides to a stop in front of our seats. Nic’s powder-blue suit is one size too small for him. “Beckett Porter and the spitfire!”
I must be sleep-deprived, because I can’t help noting that’d make an awesome band name. Except why does Beckett get top billing?
“Nic Manzione,” Beckett says with a half smile. “What’re you doing here?”
Nic grins toothily. “Wilkes asked me to help out with the, er, logistics today.”
“You work with Wilkes?” Beckett asks, drawing back.
“I don’t have much of an option,” Nic explains, shrugging. “I owe him money. I like my kneecaps where they are, ya know?”
“That’s rough.” Beckett gives me an alarmed look before dragging his hand over his jaw, thinking. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know where my dad went?” he asks, and the sincerity hurts my heart. “You said Wilkes ran him out of town, but is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Sorry, man, I don’t know where he went.” Nic throws his hands up in an exaggerated shrug. “Your dad hustled around the Bay, made and lost a lotta money, made a mess out of himself, yeah? Wilkes cleaned up his mess. Told him he’d get punished if he kept hustling, told him to get the hell out of the city. Probably smart of him to leave.”
Beckett studies the floor. “He’s a smart guy.”
“Life, right?” Nic mutters without an ounce of empathy.
“Yeah.” Beckett’s dull voice is humorless when he laughs. “Life.”
“Later,” he says to Beckett, and to me, “Can’t wait to watch ya play, spitfire.” He bounds back into the crowd.
Beckett collapses into the seat. “Ugh, I’m pathetic. Nic’s not the one I need to talk to.”
“Are you going to try and find your dad?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I think so. I’ve waited long enough.”
We don’t have the chance to unpack that decision because the music cuts from overhead.
“Calling all members of group three! Time to play!”
I grab the ball from Beckett’s bag and stand up. “Any parting words?”
“Go kick some ass.”
“Thanks for believing in me.” Hoisting the ball onto my hip, I wrap Beckett in a one-armed hug. “Seriously, thank you. I mean it.”
“Always,” he says, and I know he means that, too.
Even though I know no one’s really paying attention, it feels as if everyone inside Billy Goat Bowl is watching me approach the lanes. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, along my spine, and the satin dress clings to my skin. I settle at the lane to the far left. Down the line are my direct opponents. We’re all waiting for someone to make the first move.
I skip the formalities, the niceties, and I don’t ask to bowl first.
Instead, I let my first shot loose because the game is on.
* * *
There’s validation in league bowling.
Most of the games I’ve played have been hustles. I’ve lied, conned, and cloaked my talent in giggling, fanciful wigs, and airplane-size bottles of whiskey. Today there’s no show. Today I play my best. Every shot, every frame, and every breath of air shares the singular purpose of winning. And I do.
Group three is a decent collection of players, ranging in skill and ability, and yet I beat them all during our round. Halfway through the game, I suspect I might win. By the eighth frame, I know it with certainty. My pin lead isn’t strong, but it’s enough to crown me the winner of my round.
My last name appears on the huge bracketed scoreboard, which infuses me with confidence. I’m winning. Later, I’ll join the other winners in the semifinals. Beckett’s been watching from the back, and grins like mad when I walk over. I won’t have to play for another hour, maybe an hour and a half by the way the games have been moving.
After I set the ball down in Beckett’s bowling bag, I flex my fingers and groan. My hands are cramping painfully, the kind of cramp that has worked its way into my forearm and neck.
“You did it!” Beckett lifts his hand for a high five, and I wince as our palms smack together.
“Don’t celebrate just yet,” I warn. “I have two more games to survive if I’m gonna win this thing.”
“You’re doing great.” He motions for me to sit. “You’ve guaranteed a spot on the semifinals.”
“What time is it?”
He checks his phone. “Almost six. Why?”
“Oh. Well. I’m supposed to be at dinner with everyone at six thirty,” I explain, regretting not texting Aunt Fiona sooner or just bailing when she invited me. Not like she gave me a choice. I’ll talk to my dad tomorrow. When I have the money. No one will care how much I lied if I bring them the back rent.
“It won’t be a big deal if you miss dinner, will it?”
“Let’s hope not. There’s no way I’m making it in time. Not if I want to win.” I still text Aunt Fiona and tell her I’m running late because my BART train malfunctioned, and I’ll be there as soon as I can—but not to wait for me.
Even though it means forfeiting our seats, Beckett and I gather our belongings and explore the rest of Billy Goat Bowl. Mainly looking for food, because I’m starved. The restaurant is serving quick and easy food like sandwiches, fries, and wraps. I show them my stamped hand and get a free meal. I go with a falafel wrap, eating it as we walk a loop around the bowling alley.
Now that I’m here, I understand why Billy Goat Bowl so easily knocked Bigmouth’s into the red. For one, they serve falafel. Bigmouth’s serves nachos with fake cheese pumped from a concession dispenser circa 1980. Even if it’s hipster central, everything here is curated, nicely decorated. Whoever owns this place put a lot of time and money into the design and the upkeep. I can’t hate them for that.
The food helped fuel me, but I suggest, “Coffee?”
The restaurant offers fair-trade coffee in kitschy yellow mugs for four dollars, but Beckett spots a table near the entrance serving free instant coffee for the players. We fill Styrofoam cups full of crappy instant coffee. I’m savoring every moment, being here with Beckett. I don’t let myself take it for granted.
“Wanna check out upstairs?” He gestures with his cup to the small spiral staircase leading to the loft overlooking the lanes. We follow the staircase, and it’s less crowded upstairs, with a few couches and a pool table.
“Look at his,” he says, and pushes open a door that’s nearly invisible, painted to blend into the wall. An emergency exit leads out to a narrow platform, a small set of metal stairs leading to the roof. I hesitate, but he says, “C’mon,” and I climb.
The building is only two stories, and we’re not that high up, but we can still see the arc of the city, a slice of the bay. Beckett walks to the edge of the roof, sitting down with his legs hanging free. I settle beside him, leaning into his shoulder.
“It’s nice out. Finally feels like spring.” By spring, I mean the fog isn’t as dense, the smallest scraps of sunlight pushing through the clouds. The air is refreshing after being downstairs.
“How’re you holding up?”
“Good,” I say through a mouthful of grainy coffee. “I guess. You?”
Beckett shrugs beside me. “Me? I’m fine. A little in awe of all the ass you’re kicking.”
“The game isn’t over yet. I could fuck it up.”
“You wo
n’t fuck it up,” Beck says. “Confidence, Wilson.”
I hang my head back, staring at the sky. The sun’s teasing its departure. “I’ll be confident when Bigmouth’s is safe and I can stay in San Francisco.”
What I want to say? I’ll be confident when I know I’m not going to have to leave you. But vulnerability takes baby steps.
“You’ve done everything you can. If nothing else, feel good about that.”
“I do,” I say hesitantly, “but it makes me nervous.”
“What can I do to make you stop worrying about”—he pauses and taps my temple—“what’s going on in there?”
“A lobotomy’s not appropriate, is it? Too extreme?”
“Oh, come on,” he says, voice rising. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. I get it—you think you’re damaged or a ticking time bomb, or whatever. But that’s not you, Chuck. For once, I wish you could see what I see every day. Strength, so much strength. Beauty. Resilience.”
Eyes welling, I wipe at the tears with my forearm. I’ve never described myself, or my mental stability, as strong, but hearing it from Beckett’s mouth gives it an air of authenticity. Like maybe, no matter how tonight ends, there’s a thread of strength woven in my mental tapestry.
I hide my smile—my tears, all the wild emotions—and turn toward Beckett as he wraps his arm around me. I set my coffee aside and palm his face with both hands. How did I ever think Beckett’s eyes were steel? They’re fog. San Franciscan fog.
We meet somewhere in the middle, and the kiss is inevitable.
First, the slight bump of our noses until I turn my face and press my lips to his.
Beckett makes this throaty noise and tangles his fingers through my hair. When his lips part, I shiver, but I hold him close. I should be nervous, unsure of what to do with my tongue or my hands, but my thoughts and worries melt away. Instead, I kiss Beckett boldly, his mouth warm against mine. He tastes like instant coffee and cinnamon. Right now it’s the best taste. I wish I could taste it forever.
The gentle kiss spins a cocoon around us until it turns into something more urgent. The kisses slice me open, raw and vulnerable. A heat bundles behind my heart and sends tingles the length of my spine. A sensation so thrilling and calming and increasingly addictive. I shift closer, knocking over the dregs of my coffee, and slide my palms against his chest. Beckett’s breath hitches. His T-shirt is thin, and I push beneath the fabric, feeling for his bones. The heat of his skin.
Eventually, regretfully, the kiss winds down. I don’t want to stop exploring our two-person-only world, but Beckett cradles my face, his breathing sharp and ragged.
“Can you promise me something?” he asks.
My eyes are shut, our heads tilted together. “What?”
“If this plan doesn’t work and you move to Arizona, can we… can we still be us?”
I don’t know what we are or what the future may hold, but I say, “Of course,” and Beckett kisses me again. His lips feather against mine, softly chapped and eager. Truthfully, I’d agree to grand larceny if it meant he would keep kissing me. But I like the idea of having him by my side, no matter what.
“I should probably go back down there.” The words are the unfortunate truth. I can’t miss out on my game, even if every cell inside me is begging me to shut up.
“Yeah. Probably.” He sighs and pulls me to my feet.
Beckett’s curls are mussed, his lips swollen, and his chest rises and falls rapidly. Rising to my tiptoes, I kiss him again, just once more.
For luck.
When we part, I take Beckett’s hand, and we descend back into the competition.
Twenty-Seven
THE FINAL PLAYERS are assigned a lane. I’m lane ten. We’re still setting up, and I’ve already wavered between doubt and self-confidence—both extremes on the spectrum.
This is it. We can walk away with enough money to make the past week worth something. Worth the small scar on my rib cage, worth the countless lies, worth the late nights. What Beckett and I have done? It’s one of those don’t do this at home, kids! kind of deals. But I wouldn’t trade a second of this week for normalcy.
Beckett snags one of the last open seats near the lanes. Even though this huge foolish part of me wants to say “fuck it,” and go make out in his car, I’ll keep playing. Because I think I can win the entire thing. A trickling rush and a pump of caffeine pushes through my veins from that cup of coffee, and the high of our kiss gives me the rush I need to win.
I focus on the other players, searching out tells, tics, and faults. Anything to give me the upper hand. Lanes one through nine are a mixture of players—drunk and sober, young and old—but they’re all seriously good.
I won my first match—and if I blot last night from my memory, I’ve kicked ass all week—but I still suffer a nauseous thrill. I pretend this is any other game and snip away my surroundings. Hipster Billy Goat Bowl. Dizzying red lights. A large group of professional bowlers, older and more experienced, watching my every move. Wilkes, lurking out in the crowd.
Each player bowls in order of lane number, and lane one starts us off.
Between frames, I hang out with Beckett. He supplies me with fresh cups of coffee and tends to my battle wounds. One blister ruptured, and he applies a Band-Aid. We don’t talk much. It’s too difficult with the music, the number of people, and how everything echoes off the glass ceiling. His presence is comforting, supportive, and I was a fool for almost doing this without him.
I’m not worried when we each bowl our tenth frame, because I did better than half the players. The huge scoreboard displays those advancing into the finals. Since I don’t know anyone’s names, I watch the losers peel off until four remain: me, an elderly woman, a guy in his early twenties, and a player with a right hook—who, I overhear, is the infamous Giancarlo.
We’re given a short break.
“How are you?” Beckett asks as I slump onto the arm of his chair.
“Fine. I’m nervous.” I side-eye the other players. “They’re good, Beck.”
“Maybe, but you’ve got this in the bag,” he says, and I believe him. Part of me knows I’ll be the last player standing when the pins are down and the final scores are tallied. I can feel it.
I glance at the clock above the entrance. It’s eight. I’ve officially missed dinner. I have no idea if Aunt Fee bought my bullshit story about the train breaking down, and I’m too afraid to check my phone and find out.
The finals begin, and we bowl in descending order this time. The lights and music and stench of bodies give me a headache. I don’t let my pounding head alter my game. After all, I might miss this. I’ll miss the hustling, the thrill, the money.
Except my playing hard isn’t paying off. My skill is sloppy, my shots uneven. I manage a strike early on, but by my fourth frame, I’m only knocking down maybe five pins a turn. Soon, I’m left with splits I don’t clear and open frames; my score reflects how poorly I’ve begun playing. How am I bowling worse than everyone else?
Any remaining confidence evaporates.
After the fifth frame, I hurry over to Beckett. The anxiety is too much. It’s brimming. Overflowing. “I can’t do this!”
He furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”
“I’m bombing! I’m too fucking nervous and it’s showing. If I pick things up, maybe I can pull through. But I’m not going to win, not if I’m playing like this.” Dragging my fingers through my hair, I try to shake off the anxiety, but it clings. “I’m thirsty. I’ll be back.”
I grab my purse and beeline for the bar before Beckett replies.
I fully intended to order a 7 Up, but my eyes stray to the chalkboard menu. The list of fancy alcoholic drinks. Other than an ill-advised beer at a party freshman year, I’ve never drunk before. Drinking leads to looser inhibitions, a lack of control, which might lead to something much, much worse. And yet. What if it takes the edge off? Everyone else is drinking and bowling just fine. Actually, they’re playing better
than fine.
The bartender raps his knuckles against the bar. “What can I get you? First drink is free if you’re playing.”
I show him my stamp in exchange for Billy Goat Bowl’s signature drink.
The vodka-and-ginger-liqueur concoction is poured in—no joke—a mason jar.
The jar’s chilled, and I sip the odorless liquid as I weave through the crowd to the lanes. It burns like acid and has a tang. After another long sip, I don’t mind the way my throat aches.
“What are you doing?” Beckett hisses when I reach him. “What happened to no drinking?”
“I’m about to lose—again—and I can’t let that happen. I need to relax.” I hate how Beckett’s watching me, like he’s disappointed. But then the liquid settles in my stomach and calms my nerves with a comforting, deft touch. “It’s one drink.”
“Fine. Take it easy, okay?” he says, eyeing me nervously.
“Here, hold this for me,” I tell him.
“Sure.” He looks like he wants to say more, but he holds on to the drink, slouching in the chair. “You’re up.”
With my liquid courage, I convince myself to bowl better. On the sixth frame, I bowl a split. But it’s not enough. By the tenth frame, I’ve taken four more gulping sips of my vodka until the mason jar is empty, but I don’t think it’s helping. Regardless, I focus. If I get a strike, I’ll punch out and win. If I did the math right. Debatable because my head is fuzzy.
Twenty grand. So. Close.
I recenter and compose myself. Time to do this. The tenth-frame punch-out. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. Nothing is different about this game. I am not nervous. I am not dizzy. I am not covered in Band-Aids, stiff and sore.
My toes are perpendicular to the foul line, and I tunnel myself away. Eye the headpin, arch my arm back, and draw my hand forward. Release the ball. Pure silence as it arcs through the air, the slam as it hits the oiled lanes, and the crash of ten pins as they spin into submission. The soundtrack of victory.
The shot? A strike so brilliant even I’m impressed. Textbook perfection. People whoop, clap, and laugh in astonishment. Grinning, I glance at Beckett, who must be over his disappointment as he gives me the dorkiest double thumbs-up. I look past him and into the crowd, searching for Wilkes or Nic, when I catch sight of dark hair held back with a bandanna.
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 24