Aunt Fiona is wading through the cluster of onlookers. And behind her? My dad.
Twenty-Eight
FOR A SECOND I stand there, unable to think, unable to move.
“Hey, Wilson,” another player shouts, and I turn my back to my approaching guardians. “What’re you waiting for? It’s still your turn!”
Right. The bonus frame. I move toward the ball return, but a hand wrenches me around.
“Caroline Mae Wilson,” Dad growls. He literally growls the words as he pulls me down from the platform. Dressed fancy in his date khakis and a blazer I’ve never seen before, Dad stands out. Ironic, considering these are his people. “What the hell are you doing?”
Aunt Fee hovers behind him, mouth pinched tight.
“Bowling?” I’m not trying to be a smart-ass, I swear. But what else am I supposed to say? My vision swims. From the impending nervous breakdown or the vodka, I’m not sure. Laughter bubbles, even if this situation isn’t anywhere near funny.
“Mr. Wilson,” Beckett says, stepping closer and into our family circle, “this is all my fault.”
“Shut it, Porter.” Dad’s grip tightens as he yanks me farther away from the lanes. The players look on curiously, but they have a game to play. To win. Dad drags me to the sitting area where Beckett left our bags.
“Dad,” I plead. “Come on—”
Dad levels his gaze at me. He sniffs, nostrils flaring. “Have you been drinking? Goddammit, Caroline! Come on, we’re going home. Get your stuff.”
“If Caroline leaves, she’ll be disqualified,” someone says, and I struggle out of Dad’s hold, searching for the voice. Wilkes steps out of the crowd, Nic a shadow behind him.
Does that mean I won?
I lift onto my toes to glimpse the scoreboard, but Dad holds me down.
“Who are you?” Dad glances to Aunt Fee, who shrugs, just as confused as he is.
“That’s Wilkes,” I say, my words heavy, suddenly too tired to explain.
Wilkes gives me a withering glance. “Caroline and I have a deal. She’s playing for me. If she wins, she gets to keep most of the winnings. But that can’t happen if she leaves. So why don’t you let her—”
Dad turns to Wilkes, and even in my stupor, it’s clear his patience is wearing thin. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do with my daughter.”
Wilkes doesn’t flinch. Despite the snarl in Dad’s voice, he’s not intimidating to someone like Ray Wilkes. “Mr. Wilson, if Caroline isn’t present when the winner is announced, she can’t collect her winnings. After my cut, she’ll win twenty grand. That’d go pretty far in saving your little bowling alley, don’t you think?”
“Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but this is a family matter and we’re leaving.” To Beckett, Dad says, “Porter, get yourself home. I’ll deal with you later. Take BART if you’ve been drinking.”
“I haven’t, sir.” He shrinks beneath Dad’s gaze. “Can I talk to Chuck for a moment?”
Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Nope. Not tonight.”
“Dad, wait,” I beg, fighting through the mental haze. “Just until the winner is announced! The game’s almost over. Aunt Fee, can you make him stop?”
My aunt shakes her head.
That’s when I know I’ve fucked up big time. Not even Aunt Fiona can help me now.
Beckett hands over my purse, his face full of regret. He mouths, I’m sorry. My cheeks are hot, eyes burning. I want to cry.
Then the overheard PA crackles. “Ladies and gents, the winner of the Bay Area Bowling’s Tournament is… Giancarlo Russo on lane four!”
The bowling alley erupts in cheers and applause.
No. I didn’t throw my last frame, but I still foolishly hoped I would somehow come out on top.
I tear from Dad’s grip and stagger up the platform, Wilkes following, for a better view of the scoreboard. Because they must’ve read it wrong. But no. I came in fourth. Dead last. My stomach drops to my knees.
I lost.
Wilkes grabs my forearm. “What the fuck, Caroline?”
“What? I didn’t lose on purpose.” I struggle to pull free, but his grip tightens. Tears spring to my eyes. I lost, Wilkes’s hurting me, and I’m in over my head.
“Like hell you didn’t. You skipped out on your last frame!” Wilkes’s up in my face—cheeks ruddy, breath fast and rancid—and a zip of terror strikes me.
“Let me go!” I say, trying again to twist free. But it’s no use. Wilkes’s bigger, stronger.
And that’s when my dad punches Ray Wilkes in the face.
The man drops to the floor with a thud.
“Oh shit,” someone yells from the crowd, and another person calls for help.
“Jack,” Aunt Fiona says to her brother, shaking his shoulder. Dad swears, staggers a few steps back, and cradles his hand. “Let’s go before someone calls the cops. We’ve got Chuck drinking and you punching people! What the hell happened to this family?”
Valid question.
We gather our belongings and strongarm our way through the crowd. Beckett follows us outside onto the sidewalk. The briny nighttime air sobers me up fast, but my head still swims. I look over my shoulder and into Billy Goat Bowl, where an employee attends to Wilkes while everyone watches. Nic’s nowhere to be seen. It’s over. Everything is truly over. And I lost.
Dad’s steering me away, his good hand pressed to the small of my back. Maybe he feels bad for me because he relents, letting me say goodbye to Beckett.
I wrap my arms around Beckett’s neck and hug him tight.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “This is my fault.”
“Shut up.” I hold him tighter, crying into the crook of his neck. “I don’t want to leave.”
Beckett presses his lips to my cheek. He knows what I really mean.
I’ve failed Bigmouth’s. Failed Dad. Failed everyone. And now I’ll have to leave San Francisco. And Beckett. Not right now, but soon, and I can’t stomach the thought.
Tears blur my vision as Dad hauls me off Beckett, pushing me toward his car. His sedan is parked in a loading zone. He pops open the back door and I stumble inside. Aunt Fiona shoves my bags in after me and shuts the door, sitting up front with Dad. No one speaks the entire car ride home.
This erratic behavior? It was irresponsible. I put myself—and others—at risk because of my carelessness.
You are not your mother’s child.
But for the first time, the words don’t work.
I press my eyes shut and let the tears roll down my cheeks.
SUNDAY, APRIL 29 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 1
Twenty-Nine
DAD LETS ME sleep until morning.
When the sunlight reaching through the curtains becomes too bright to ignore, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My head throbs, my eyes swollen from crying. I’m still wearing my silk dress and tights. Dad confiscated my phone and laptop last night before pouring me into bed.
I’m kind of shocked he did—I’m rarely in trouble, and I hoped Dad would be blundering, out of his element. Turns out, I underestimated him. Without my phone and laptop, I have no way to contact Beckett. No way to ask if he got home okay or if he’s also in trouble. Dad better not have called Beckett’s mom. Nothing that went wrong was his fault.
I push upright and swing my legs over the edge of my bed, head spinning. Someone left a glass of water and two aspirin. Aunt Fee, probably. I pop the pills and guzzle the water. Then I peel off my dress and roll my tights down my legs, kicking them off. I really need a shower, but I pull on pajamas and a sweater.
Down in the kitchen, Aunt Fee’s making acai berry pancakes and Dad’s reading the paper. If I didn’t know any better, it’d be like any other Sunday morning.
“Hey,” I say groggily.
Dad and Fee glance from me to each other. They share a knowing look—the not-so-casual lifting of eyebrows and volleying of unspoken words.
Dad clears his throat, but
Aunt Fiona suggests, “Why don’t we have breakfast in the den?”
I agree, and my aunt serves up pancakes, filling a cup with honeyed tea.
We shift into the other room. Me on the couch with a blanket, a stack of pancakes, and tea. Dad’s pacing around the small space, expression unreadable. Aunt Fiona settles in the velvet armchair beside me, the bags under her eyes reflecting my guilt.
I did this. I did this to my family.
“Do you like the tea?” Aunt Fiona asks nervously. “The honey’s from a local—”
“Fiona,” Dad says, exasperated. “Stay on topic.”
Clearly, we’re all on edge.
My stomach’s too hollow for food. I sip my tea so I have something to do, something to occupy my mouth other than words. It’s hot enough to burn my tongue. Good, though.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Dad goes right for it.
“I’m not sure where to start,” I say. “How did you guys know where I was?”
“We found you because we tracked your phone, genius,” Aunt Fee interjects.
Of course they did. I laugh at my failure to be properly sneaky, and even my aunt joins in. The most basic mistake in the book. But when Dad glares at us, we both shut up.
“What happened last night, Caroline?” he asks, clasping both hands behind his head. “Who was that man? Whose money were you gambling with—and why? I just don’t understand why you’d do something like this. Is this what you were talking about the other day? Trying to save Bigmouth’s?”
Another sip of tea tasteless on my burnt tongue. A second to collect myself and I explain. I tell Dad and Aunt Fiona everything. The truth. I only tell one lie. In this version, I approached Beckett—they don’t need to know it was his idea. I insist Beckett never put me in danger, and most of the mistakes were of my own making. Which is the honest truth.
At some point, I start crying. The tears pour. Because I’m clearly unhinged. Normal teenagers don’t do this. They don’t put themselves in danger. Is this what mania is? I drank. I never drink. Mom loved drinking.
I’m starting to lose track of where Mom ends and I begin.
Tea spills as I set the mug on the coffee table and fold my arms over my tucked-in knees. “I’m sorry,” I say between hiccuping sobs. “I wanted to save Bigmouth’s and stay in San Francisco. I wasn’t trying to be reckless. I only drank because I was nervous about losing. It was just one drink, I swear. I thought it’d help take the edge off. Help me focus and win.”
Dad looks away as if he can’t stand the sight of me.
Aunt Fiona remains silent.
“I’ve been so careful,” I whisper to myself, “to not end up like her.”
Dad pauses his pacing. “Like who?” he asks, a crease of confusion forming between his brows.
Snot drips down my chin. “Mom.”
Aunt Fiona takes a sharp inhalation.
“What do you mean, Caroline?” He sits beside me, and the cushion dips toward him.
“Please don’t call me Caroline. I’m not Mom. I thought I wasn’t. But maybe I am? What I did—I wasn’t thinking. I fucked up, Dad. I tried so hard to keep myself in line, I didn’t notice when I swung out of control.”
Except that’s not the truth. Not entirely. On some level, I knew what I was doing wasn’t right. That it was risky, illegal. But that didn’t stop me, because it was fun. Thrilling. I felt so alive. The opposite of depression—I didn’t want to give that up. And I hate that about myself, that I didn’t care enough about my safety to stop.
Dad wraps his arm around me. “Chuck,” he says, and the nickname sounds like a truce, “you would be lucky to turn out like your mother.”
I lean against him, my tears soaking into his shirt. “What do you mean? Mom was—”
“Your mom suffered. She suffered for many years, and my biggest failure was not being able to save her from her depression.” Dad pauses and takes a shaky breath, wiping at his own tears. “Your mom isn’t someone to fear. She was a vibrant, talented, and loving woman. She loved you so much.”
Dad’s voice cracks.
I crack.
Clearing his throat, he continues. “Your mother was the love of my life, and sometimes she experienced too much. She lived in the extremes, and after you were born, when she told me she was taking her medication, I believed her.”
“Why’d she lie?” I manage to ask between my tears.
“I don’t know, and trust me, I’ve thought about it a lot. Too much. Guess she thought she didn’t need it.” Dad’s gaze drops to the floor, forehead creased. “And I was so stressed, with a new baby and taking over her dad’s business, that I never looked too close. For a long time, I told myself I couldn’t control her. But it was never about control—it was about caring. I cared, so much, but somewhere down the line, I stopped showing her how much. That’s why… I didn’t want to tell you the truth about her death.”
“Jack.” Aunt Fiona’s bottom lip trembles, and she tucks it between her teeth. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Sniffing loudly, Dad sits back. “Oh, I know. But back then?” He shakes his head sadly, eyes watery and bloodshot. “I’m so sorry, Chuck, for lying to you about your mom. I didn’t know how to handle my grief and my guilt—”
“Don’t feel guilty. If anything, it’s my fault. She stopped her meds because of me.”
Dad swears, pulling me closer. I curl up against him, crying so hard my chest aches. The literal bones hurt as my shoulders roll forward with each and every sob. “What happened with your mom is not your fault,” he says, rocking me back and forth. “It’s no one’s fault, not your mom’s, not mine, not yours. It’s the same as any other illness. Cancer or pneumonia or a heart attack.
“I’m more educated now, but when you were younger, I never wanted you to think your mom left you willingly. I never wanted you to think she had a choice, that she made a decision to leave us. She loved you. She loved you more than anything. But she was sick. I was supposed to be her support system, and I failed. And I’m sure as hell not failing you. We haven’t done right by your mom, or you, by ignoring these topics, no matter how hard they are. No matter how painful. We’ll talk more from now on, okay?”
I shift away and wipe my eyes. What he’s saying right now? It’s everything I never knew I needed from him. I’m too choked up to speak, but I manage a nod.
Dad’s smile is tentative. “You deserve to know more about your mother. She was such a wonderful person, so funny and talented. I hope you understand that her illness doesn’t make her someone you should ever be afraid of.”
“I know.” Or at least I’m beginning to know. I blow my nose and sink back into the cushions. My chest is light, my head woozy with emotional overhaul. “I’m sorry about last night.”
Dad swipes at his tears, but he can’t hide the shake of his hands. Normally, I’d think he needed a cigarette, but these trembles come from deep within. “You were trying to do a good thing, and you got off track. Despite it all, you amaze me. I don’t condone what you did—far from it—but the lengths you went to save Bigmouth’s break my heart.”
“I didn’t do it just for you,” I admit with a sniff, and ball the tissue up in my hand. “I don’t want to leave San Francisco. You always said if we didn’t have the business anymore, we’d move to Arizona to be with Grandma and Grandpa. I saw the housing listings for Surprise, Arizona, on your laptop. Why the hell is there a town called Surprise—”
Dad cuts me off. “You weren’t supposed to see that. I didn’t want you getting upset before you had all the information. Jesset and I had an agreement. If I paid partial rent, we could stay. A month or two ago, I told him I was looking to close up shop, but I needed time to get everything squared away. I didn’t want to drop this bomb on you, Chuck, and I wanted to secure a new job first. When Jesset moved up the timeline—”
“The conversation last week,” I say, the murky questions in my head becoming clearer now. “That’s what you two were talking about?”<
br />
“He found a new tenant, and since I owed over a month of rent, he had legal grounds to evict. I doubt we’re in any trouble as long as I clear the rest of what I owe him. But we have to be out by June. That’s when the new tenant moves in.”
My breath hitches, stuck on the question I’ve avoided for so long, but I need to know the answer. “So… we’re not leaving the city? We’re not going to Arizona?”
“No.” Dad shakes his head. “We’ll find a way to stay in San Francisco.”
Sitting up a bit straighter, I ask, “Why’d you lie, though? Why didn’t you just tell us what was going on?”
Dad swallows, hesitates as his eyes dart around the room. “I shouldn’t have hidden the truth, but you’re at the end of junior year, school’s going well, you’re doing well—I didn’t want to throw a cog in your progress. I knew you’d take the news of Bigmouth’s closing hard. And you, my darling daughter, would’ve tried to find a solution.” He breaks off with a laugh. “I called that one. Anyway, I panicked when Jesset moved up the deadline on me. I was supposed to have until September. And I guess I was ashamed.”
“You could’ve told us,” Aunt Fiona says gently. “Bigmouth’s closing isn’t a failure. If anything, it was a long time coming.”
“Yeah,” I say, agreeing even though I see where Dad’s coming from. He was doing what he always does: trying to save me hurt and pain and anxiety. “It’s okay, Dad.”
“Thanks.” He sniffs. “Arizona was my backup plan,” he admits, sagging against the couch cushions. “Until I met Leigh.”
“What does Leigh have to do with this?”
Dad blows his nose. “Months ago, when business really took a hit, I began looking at housing in Arizona. But it wasn’t until after I’d been dating Leigh for a month or so that I realized I didn’t want to leave. San Francisco was always your mom’s city—not mine. Your mom’s ghost is everywhere. Curled up with a new release at the Booksmith. Buying banana cream tartlets at Miette. Sunbathing at Dolores. It’s always been hard for me.
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