The Accord chugs up a hill, and my knuckles whiten as I clutch the seat’s edge. “Stop making it sound like I’ve broken a law. It’s a doughnut place.”
Beckett laughs. “That’s where you are so, so wrong.”
On Saturdays, street parking’s the worst, but we find a spot a few blocks away.
Beckett lopes beside me, his stride longer than mine. When he’s not looking, I study him. He’s dressed nicer today than usual. Jeans without various stains. A long-sleeve with mismatched, chipped buttons. His loose curls become tousled in the wind.
The whole package is messy and categorically endearing; my heart thuds faster. I blame the uphill walk and misplaced hormones. Because even if Beckett Porter is mildly attractive, his looks no longer have any effect on me. Who cares if he’s gotten marginally more handsome over the past year? He’s still a pain in my ass. He still ruined our friendship.
We stand in line at the outdoor counter, and I am loath to admit the eclectic doughnut menu sounds tasty: Coconut Macadamia Nut, Hazelnut Lavender, Chocolate Rose, and more. I place an order for a plain coffee. Just to spite him.
“Black coffee?” Beckett scoffs. “Nope, you are not coming here just for black coffee.”
“I’m not hungry,” I insist, even as the sugary smell makes my mouth water against my will.
Beckett sighs and sways his head side to side. “You’ve always been an awful liar. We’ll need to fix that.” He pushes me aside and orders a Meyer Lemon Huckleberry, a Maple Bacon, and a second large coffee.
Typical Beckett. Acting like he knows everything about me. Maybe he knew everything about sophomore-year Chuck Wilson, but a lot can happen—and change—in a year. I’m not the same person. Sophomore-year Chuck preferred full-name Caroline until winter break, and she was far more trusting than I am now.
After getting our doughnuts and coffee, Beckett snags the last open table out on the garden patio. He takes a plastic knife and cuts the pastries in half, handing me one of each.
“These are the best in the city, and it’s the ideal time of day to eat doughnuts. It’d be a crime if you didn’t try them.”
“A crime? Aren’t you okay with those?”
“Ha-ha,” he says. “Doughnuts are too sweet for breakfast, but most shops close or run out of the good stuff past one or two. Thus, early afternoon is key doughnut-consumption time.”
“Right.” I tentatively nibble into the first doughnut.
He wolfs his down in two bites.
“Don’t choke.”
Beckett points at me, chewing and swallowing. “Aw, Chuck, you care about my well-being.”
“Nope. I don’t know the Heimlich maneuver, and I don’t have the morgue’s number on speed dial.”
Beckett howls with laughter, garnering glares from the other patrons, and my lips twitch with a grin. “I can’t believe you’ve never been here,” he says, eyes rolling back in his head as he finishes his second half. “Actually, I believe it considering you live at that bowling alley.”
“I do not,” I reply. “I go places.”
“Yeah?” Beckett pushes his hair from his eyes. “Where?”
Copious estate sales. Berkeley for their thrift stores. That art-house movie theater in the Oakland Hills. The San Francisco Public Library. But I’m not defending myself to Beckett.
To change the subject, I say, “These aren’t half bad.”
“They’re the best things on this planet.”
“How could you tell?” I say. “You inhaled them.”
Beckett smacks his lips. “I got a little mouth feel before I swallowed. Delicious.”
“You’re disgusting. Also, ‘mouth feel’? Really?”
“I’m not disgusting. I’m rather charming.” He leans back in his chair, self-satisfied. I can’t help but smirk at the crumbled glaze clinging to his upper lip. Huh. Beckett has facial hair now? When did that happen?
“And humble.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like to brag.”
The smirk grows into a full-blown grin, and I hide my smile behind the rim of my mug. I will not smile for Beckett Porter. Despite the warmth in my chest, goose bumps line my arms. Like my central nervous system is running on overdrive.
“Can I ask you something?” Beckett’s eyes flit from my lips to my eyes, and those goose bumps multiply.
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep things light. “But we need to focus before all this sugar and caffeine puts me in a coma.”
“I apologized for what happened at that party. Not immediately, but I apologized.”
All my warmth and goose bumps disappear. Every tamped-down emotion that’s lived inside my chest the past year bubbles to the surface. Today, with Beckett, has felt way too normal, too much like it was before we tore our friendship apart. I was right to be upset with him, wasn’t I? Because I’m starting to second-guess myself, and it’s making me cold-sweat through my T-shirt.
“Why’d you have to ruin our friendship over a mistake?” Beckett continues. “A shitty mistake, yeah, but I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Except you did.” My voice cracks, and I hate myself. Don’t get upset, I school myself. Not in front of him. I squeeze the chunk of doughnut so tight it turns to mush between my fingers. “You may have not started them, but the rumors about my mom—about me, my mental health—were your fault.”
Beckett scratches his neck. “I didn’t lie—”
“Fuck you.” The words escape, more hostile than intended, but really I’m trying not to cry. I hate that he still has this effect on me. I scramble to gather my things. Why did I think I could do this? This was a mistake.
“Chuck.” Beckett reaches for me, but I back away. “Leave if you want. I’m not holding you hostage. You’re here because you want to hear me out. But first I’d like to clear the air.”
After taking a deep breath, blinking to hide the rush of pain, the swirling mixture of resentment and sadness fades. Slightly. I drop back into my seat. “I need the money, but we don’t need to dredge up the past to work together. I just… I can’t deal with what happened between us. Not right now.”
“If not now, when? Chuck, I need some closure here. Please,” Beckett says, his tone bordering on desperate. “After I apologized to you and your dad, you refused to acknowledge my existence.” He picks at the sheet of wax paper that came with our doughnuts. Tears it to shreds. “Your dad accepted my apology, but you never did. Why can’t you forgive me?”
My heart swoops with guilt, but the aftertaste is a familiar prickle of resentment. After what he did, I couldn’t trust him. And if I couldn’t trust him, we could never be friends again. What was the point in forgiving him if our friendship was over?
“I can’t forgive you because I don’t, and I’m not looking to ease your guilty conscience.”
I thought saying those words would make me feel better. Slam the door shut on our situation for good, locking it up so tight that Beckett would never have a chance of breaking it down. But all I’m left feeling is hopeless. And kind of like an asshole. Thinking these things about Beckett is one thing. Saying them to his face is another.