“Leigh’s experienced her fair share of grief and recommended a therapist. We only met a handful of times, but he helped me come to terms with our situation. I always viewed Bigmouth’s as my last link to the city. With your mom gone, the business gone, I didn’t think I belonged here anymore. But this city is my home now too.”
The tears are drying on my cheeks and my breath is slowly returning to normal. I’d never thought of the situation that way. Like Dad might be running from his ghosts. “What does that mean for us? What’re we going to do?”
“Well, Arizona’s off the table,” he replies. “For now. I can’t promise I’ll always stay in this city, but no matter what, we’ll talk things over as a family. San Francisco means so much to you, and we’ll figure something out. It won’t be easy, but we’ll find our way. As for Bigmouth’s…”
“We can still save it,” I say, blowing my nose. “Maybe we can set up a fundraiser or something? I can help renovate; I was serious about those DIY projects.”
Dad smiles a sad smile. “No, honey. It’s too late for that. Even if you got the back rent, I barely have enough for next month. It’s just too expensive. I never wanted to renovate Bigmouth’s because that’s how it was when I met your mom. That’s how your grandfather ran it, and it thrived. I don’t have it in me to strip it bare and renovate it, just to make a profit. I don’t think your mom or grandfather would’ve wanted that.”
The past week, I told myself if Bigmouth’s closed, we’d be out of San Francisco before the Fourth of July. But staying? My heart floods with tentative hope.
“Even before Jesset threatened to evict us,” Dad continues, “I had been sending my résumé out. Looking at my options. Nothing’s forever, and sometimes you need to say goodbye to move forward. The Wilson family has been treading water for some time now, and I’m ready to take a step into the future.”
“What are you going to tell Jesset?” Aunt Fiona asks, ever the pragmatist.
Dad wipes his hand over his eyes. “That we’ll be out by June.” His smile is sorrowful, but his eyes have this shiny hope to them. “As for us, well, think of this as the next chapter. Not saying goodbye but moving forward. And we’ll do it together. Sound good?” He nudges me.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” I smear away any leftover tears.
Dad forces a smile. Now that all the truth is out there, he seems lighter. “We’ll talk more tonight, okay?” He pushes up from the couch and adds, “I hate doing this to you, but you’re grounded for the rest of the school year and all of summer. You have to return to weekly therapy appointments, and if you ever get near a drop of alcohol again, we’ll be having a much different conversation. Understood?”
I nod. It’s a lenient sentence considering all the shit I’ve done. “Yes.”
Dad squeezes my shoulder. “I love you. So damn much.”
Aunt Fiona leans over to hug me. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she whispers. “And like your dad said, we’ll figure everything out. Wilsons are tough.”
I can’t help thinking I’m only half Wilson. Half of me is my mom, an O’Neill, whatever that’s worth. If it’s strength, or weakness, or something else entirely. But the unknown isn’t as scary as it used to be.
I take a deep breath and ask Dad, “Can you tell me about when you met Mom?”
Thirty
AUNT FIONA KNOCKS on my bedroom door later that evening.
Dad’s at Bigmouth’s, releasing me from work duty for the final hours of spring break. He’s meeting with Jesset tomorrow to discuss a payment plan for the back rent and eviction. I’m under my aunt’s watch until he gets home.
“Come in,” I call from my bed, breaking the staring contest I’m having with the wall. Without my phone and laptop, I’m dying a slow death. I haven’t heard from Beckett, and I have no idea if he’s tried reaching out. I miss him on a fundamental, cellular level.
My aunt nudges the door open, carrying a smooshed box to her chest.
“Hey, kid,” she says, setting the box down at the foot of my bed.
I hoist myself upright, crisscrossing my legs. “What’s that?”
Aunt Fee perches on the edge of my mattress. “Thought you might regret throwing this out.”
The box. Mom’s box.
With everything going on this week, it was easy to pretend like I didn’t break down. Didn’t toss the box of memories in the trash. This tiny, shy part of me sighs with relief. Throwing away the box was a mistake. An easy, temporary fix to an insurmountable problem.
“Thanks, Fee.” I slide the box across the comforter and hug it to my stomach. Inhale the scent of mothballs, cardboard, and something faint. Like perfume. I don’t know what I’ll do with Mom’s clothes or her unfinished designs, but they don’t belong in the trash. If anything, I belong in the trash for what I did.
“How’re you holding up?” Aunt Fiona asks.
“Not well.” I frown, playing with the flaps of the cardboard box. “I need to talk to Beckett. Monday seems so far away.”
“It’s tomorrow. One sleep away.”
“Stop being logical. He doesn’t even know we’re not moving to Arizona.” My voice seismically cracks. “He could’ve driven over here. But he hasn’t.… You sure Dad didn’t call Beck’s mom?”
“I convinced him not to. Beckett did nothing wrong, other than egg you on.” She tosses a throw pillow between her hands, green eyes slanted with mischief. “Considering he’s like, in love with you, I can’t fault him for going along with your plan.”
“Fiona! He’s not—” My face heats up, my words twisting and stumbling. “Just no. Stop it.”
“Ignorance isn’t a good look for you,” my aunt quips, then tosses the pillow at my face.
The pillow bounces off my head and lands in my lap. “Shut up. Can we just check on him? Swing by his house?”
While I want to update Beckett on the Arizona situation, my biggest fear is a selfish one. What if Beckett’s ignoring me? What if thinking I’m moving to Arizona made him reevaluate if I was worth it? What if, after everything we’ve been through, he wants nothing to do with me?
“No way, kid.” Aunt Fee shifts, tucking one leg beneath her. “You’re in deep shit.”
“Exactly! Dad’s already mad. I’m already grounded.” I scoot the box of Mom’s designs aside and grasp Aunt Fee’s hand. “Please? One quick trip into Berkeley. Dad will never know if we’re fast.” It’s past five in the evening. He won’t be home until he closes for the night, eight on Sundays.
Aunt Fiona flops onto her back and groans. “Chuck, I can’t. Your dad would kill me.”
“I need to see him.” Because the ping-ponging irrational fears filling me up from head to toe are unbearable. “Please, Fiona.”
Something about my tone causes Aunt Fee to relent. “You really like him, huh?”
“I really do.” My voice is a shredded whisper. “So much. I hate it.”
Hefting the greatest sigh known to humankind, she stands up. Hand cocked on her hip, she says, “All right. Let’s go.”
“Seriously?” I scramble off the bed, wasting no time in choosing an outfit. I haven’t done laundry in over a week, and the pickings are slim.
On her way out of my room, Fiona adds, “We’re just doing a drive-by, okay?”
I nod, displacing Jean Paul Gaultier as I tug a sweater on my floor out from beneath him. The cat glares at me, slinking off and jumping onto my bed. The sweater has cat hair on it, smells like patchouli and thrift store, but it’ll do. “Gimme two minutes, okay?”
“Two minutes. But hurry up before I change my mind.”
I cross my room and shut the door, forcing my aunt into the stairwell. Alone, I strip off my pajamas, tug the sweater over my head, and pull on thick leggings. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and swish mouthwash. No amount of cosmetics can make me look healthy and well rested. The exhaustion is wrinkled into my skin, full of lifeless pallor. I rub on tinted moisturizer and layer my lips in red. Good enough.
Y
esterday’s brief springlike day is long gone, so I grab my army jacket to protect me from the rain. Downstairs, I follow Aunt Fiona into the garage and her VW Bug. I don’t have Beckett’s address, so I work off memory, directing her the best I can across the glittering Bay Bridge and into Berkeley.
When Aunt Fiona turns onto Beckett’s street, I hold my breath. The Bug rolls to a stop outside his house. The battered Accord is in the driveway.
“That’s his car!” I exhale so hard my lungs threaten to collapse. “Can I go inside? Please? Just for a few minutes?”
“That wasn’t the deal. He’s clearly fine.”
“C’mon, once Dad gets home I’m grounded for good! I need to talk to him before we’re back in school, Fee. Please.”
Even I hear how pathetic I sound.
So must my aunt, because she motions toward the house. “Go on. But don’t take too long, you hear me? I’ll honk when it’s time to go.”
All my bravado drains as I step out of the Bug, the rain pattering on my hood. I walk down the slicked driveway, past Beckett’s Accord, and to the front door. I push the bell and wait.
Mrs. Porter opens the door. “Hi, Chuck,” she says, widening the gap. “Come on in! Is Beckett expecting you?”
I twist my hands around the cuffs of my jacket and wipe my shoes off on the doormat. “Oh, uh, not exactly.”
Beckett’s mom just smiles. “He’s in his room. Down the hall to the left.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Porter.”
I take off down the hallway. The bedroom door on the left is closed, and I hesitate before knocking. No one answers. After trying the knob, I ease open the door. A few inches at a time. Huh. Beckett’s room. I spent a lot of time at his old house, but I’ve never seen his new bedroom. The floor lamp in the corner is switched on, casting the room in a faint artificial glow.
Everything about Beckett’s room is dark. Short and nubby black carpet. The closet’s closed, the accordion door shut tight. An unmade bed with chevron-printed sheets and a navy-blue comforter. It’s not messy, but it’s not neat, either. A laundry hamper overflows in the corner. The spines on the bookshelf are organized by color. Snow globes, old-fashioned insulators, and shallow decorated dishes filled with loose change crowd the shelves. His desk is piled with papers, notebooks, and dozens of pens and Sharpies.
I step farther into the room. A framed photo sits on his dresser, and I pick it up. Enclosed in red plastic is a picture of me and Beckett from last year. Beckett’s dressed in tight jeans, his shorter yet wild curls slicked back. Face flushed, his prop leather jacket tied around his waist. I’m pulled to his side, wide-eyed and camera shy. Hard to believe a few hours later our friendship dissolved over a misplaced family secret that shouldn’t have ever been a secret and a few unfortunate words. Harder to believe Beckett kept—and framed—this picture.
“Chuck?” Beckett stands in the doorway. He’s dressed in checkered pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt, but his curls are wet, and he holds a bath towel in one hand. “What’re you doing here?”
“Hey.” Relief whooshes over me, but it’s double-edged. Is he even happy to see me? “I was, uh, worried about you. But you’re fine, so I should probably go.”
Beckett eases the bedroom door closed and tosses the towel onto his desk chair. “You overthink everything, don’t you?” In two strides he crosses the room and wraps me up in a hug. He clutches me to his chest, the framed photograph caught between our bodies. Wet curls drip onto my skin; he smells strongly of his spicy body wash.
“Chuck, listen to me. I want you in my future. Even if you’re leaving for Arizona, we can make it work. In whatever capacity. As friends. As bowling buddies. As your boyfriend. Whatever. I wanna be around you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, definitely, but—”
Before I can explain about Arizona, his mouth catches mine and we’re falling onto his bed.
The sheets smell like him.
This kiss is different from the first. It’s slow, careful, oddly intense. Appreciative.
When Beckett pulls away, I shake my head, tug his lips back onto mine. Soak him in. Because any minute now, I’ll have to leave. And leaving Beckett will be painful even if it won’t be for long. Shit, I almost forgot about Aunt Fiona. I don’t think she honked, but then again, I’m not really paying attention to the outside world right now.
Beckett’s body presses mine into the mattress like the world’s greatest weighted gravity blanket. His thumbs press against my hip bones as he tilts me closer. I hate that Beckett and I could’ve been doing this a long time ago. Better late than never, though.
When we part, it takes all my willpower not to kiss him again. He shifts off me and flops onto his back. He doesn’t say anything, just laughs softly in this disbelieving kind of way.
“Good thing I’m staying in the city.” I roll onto my side and rest my head on his chest. “Because we should keep doing that. Like daily.”
Beckett pushes to his elbow. “Wait, you’re staying? Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“I tried, but you cut me off. Not like I’m complaining.” Beckett’s ears are red. Like stop-sign red, and the sight of those red ears makes me swell with satisfaction. My willpower sucks, and I kiss him again because I’m pretty damn sure I’m in love with him, I’m not leaving San Francisco, and somehow, my life feels like it might be okay.
“You’re really staying?” he asks between kisses.
“Yup, no Arizona. And I have Yoga Leigh to thank.”
“What?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I don’t care why or how, but I’m so glad you’re staying.” Beckett drops his forehead to mine. “You make me so happy.”
“Yeah?” I blink back tears. “You make me so happy too.”
The way we are with each other is different from what it was a year ago, but Beckett always made me happy. Our hands wind together. At the foot of the bed, the framed photograph lies faceup.
“Sorry I didn’t reach out earlier. I tried texting—”
“My dad took my phone and laptop away. I’m majorly grounded.”
Beckett laughs. “I figured. My mom was working so I had to stay here with Willa, but if I didn’t hear from you by tonight, I was going to drive into the city. Even if your dad probably wouldn’t let me inside, I’d find a way. Climb up that fire escape again.”
“What? No carrier pigeon?”
“They’re very picky birds. They hate the rain.”
I laugh and hug him tight. “Oh really?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs into my hair. “Hey, if you’re grounded, how’re you here right now?”
“I convinced Aunt Fiona to jailbreak me; she’s waiting outside. I doubt we have much longer, though.” I tell the abbreviated version of what went down this morning. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”
As if I summoned her, the Bug’s horn sounds outside.
I push off the bed. “I should go.”
“Stay.” Beckett holds on to my waist. “I’ll drive you home.”
So. Tempting. But I slide out of his embrace. “Do you want me grounded all of senior year?”
“Fine,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Wait! I found something.” Holding up one finger, he grabs his phone off the desk and taps at the screen before handing it over.
Pulled up on the small screen is an article from the SF Chronicle posted two hours ago. KINGPIN KNOCKED DOWN: MAJOR ARREST MADE BY LOCAL POLICE.
I scroll, reading in earnest.
Ray Wilkes was arrested last night at Billy Goat Bowl when a physical altercation alerted police to his whereabouts. An unnamed man punched Mr. Wilkes, which prompted an onlooker to call the police. When approached by law enforcement, Mr. Wilkes ran. Unaware the man they were chasing was a wanted felon, the officers caught up with Mr. Wilkes several blocks later and arrested him. The officers were shocked that a simple fight led to the arrest of a man who has evaded police capture since the nineties. Mr. Wilkes is notorious in the Bay Area f
or the trafficking of narcotics and running several illegal gambling operations at local businesses without the proprietors’ knowledge or permission. During his decades-long crime spree, Mr. Wilkes has racked up a long list of charges, and he’s due in court by the end of next month.
“Holy shit,” I say with a broken laugh. “I can’t believe my dad accidentally led to his arrest. I mean, that’s perfect.”
Beckett takes the phone, grinning. “Right? I figured my dad can come home now.”
I grab his hand and squeeze. “You should try to find him.”
Beckett’s smile is hopeful. “Even if it was a complete disaster, I’m glad we did this.”
“Me too.”
“I am sorry it didn’t work out and we couldn’t save Bigmouth’s.”
“That reminds me”—I pause to grab my bag off the floor—“this belongs to you.” Inside are Beckett’s money clip and the last of our winnings.
“But half of this is yours.”
I could use the extra cash, but I don’t need it anymore. Not like they do. “Seriously,” I say, and press the money clip into his palm, “it’s yours. We were in that Wilkes mess because of me. Take the money.” Aunt Fiona honks again, and I wince. “Okay, I really need to go.”
Beckett relents and folds his fingers around the money clip. “See you tomorrow at school?” he asks, pulling me in for another kiss, lips hovering on mine.
“God, that sounds weird. School.”
“We’ll have each other.”
The words make me smile and float, nearly lifting me off my toes. “Yeah?”
Beck nods. “We survived the last week. Surely we can handle the rest of high school?”
“We can definitely try,” I say, surprising myself with optimism.
MAY 31 ONE MONTH LATER
Epilogue
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 26