Beckett stares at me, his brows scrunched together. Like he’s trying to solve a difficult math problem. “Fine,” he says after a moment. “But don’t put all the blame on me. Okay?”
“Okay.” I exhale slowly, glancing at my lap, at my fingers twisted and knotted together. Why does this hurt so much? I want to say something powerful, but all I say is, “You were my best friend, Beckett. My only friend.”
“And you were mine.” He piles the slivers of wax paper into a miniature mountain, face downcast. “I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry.” He lifts his eyes, and our gazes clash.
I study his face and wish I were better at reading him. A year ago, Beckett’s face was like a well-loved book. Now I’m lost as to how to interpret the slant of his lips or the way his hands fidget.
When I say nothing, he offers a small smile. “So. You’re still pissed.”
I shrug with one shoulder. Am I still pissed? A mixture of things ache in my chest, and I remind myself to breathe. To not get overwhelmed. My emotions are like cotton, fuzzing up my head, diluting my thought processes, and I can’t have that right now.
Beckett lifts both palms and makes a beckoning motion. “Come on, let it all out.”
“What?”
“Get all the anger out. Wipe the slate clean.” He squints, like he’s preparing to be slapped.
The funny thing is, I’m not upset anymore. I’m just… done. We’ll never get back to the way things were, so what’s the point? Besides, do I even want to be his friend again if I’m hauling ass to Arizona?
I lean over the bistro table and flick his fingers. “Quit being dramatic.”
Beckett lowers his hands. “I’m trying to set the record straight. Are we good?”
“Good?” I repeat.
“We don’t have to be best friends again. Or even friends. But we should trust each other.” His voice drops. “Hustling isn’t for the faint of heart, Wilson.”
“How do you propose we do this? Run some trust-fall exercises?” I joke, nerves exposed at that word—trust.
“No, but seriously,” he replies. “If we’re on the same page, if we can trust each other, then we can proceed. There’s a small game tomorrow night.” He pauses until I meet his eye. “What do you say?”
Tomorrow night? That’s way too soon. Then again, we only have nine days left. My biggest fear is not being good enough to hustle, losing whatever money we bet. Swallowing hard, I say, “I’m rusty. Can we practice?”
Beckett’s mouth upturns with a smile. “How about tonight? Bigmouth’s after closing? You can practice, and we’ll go over the mechanics of a hustle. How to play the other players. How to act.”
“Fine. Tonight should work.” Shifting in my seat, I ask, “What’s in this for you? This can’t all be for Willa’s summer camp money.”
“Camp’s expensive, man,” he says with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m never having kids.”
“Like anyone would want to have kids with you,” I mutter.
Beckett laughs, folding his arms behind his head. Lazily, like he’s comfortable in this super-weird situation. He stretches his legs out, and beneath the table, his foot knocks into mine.
The brief contact is nice—all warm and familiar—and I shift my legs out of reach. “If I agree to this, then you have to agree it’s strictly business. We bowl, we hustle, and we go our separate ways. Deal?”
His smile flickers, a rare shift for his annoyingly sunny disposition. He scrubs his hand against his chin and says, “If that’s what you want.”
I ignore the depression of my ribs against my heart and hold out my hand. Trust is overrated. Who says I have to like Beckett to use him? Who needs trust when you have a mutually beneficial goal?
“I trust you,” I lie, and we shake.
This was either the best decision I’ve ever made, or the worst.
I have a strong feeling it may be both.
Six
BECKETT AND I part ways with the plan to meet up tonight at Bigmouth’s after closing. He offered to give me a ride, but I needed space. We just spent more time together in one day than we have in a year. Despite the rainy deluge, I walk to the Twenty-Fourth Street Mission BART. Once I’m sublevel, I lean against a column and wait for the Daly City train, which will drop me at the Glen Park station by Bigmouth’s. The redbrick floors squeak as commuters hurry to and from their trains, the air musty with the sweet, earthy scent of fresh rain on concrete.
The rain plastered my hair to my skull, and normally I’d be freaking out over wearing my sparkly sequined platforms in the storm, but what’s happening inside my chest is way more distressing.
All the physical distance between us can’t keep Beckett’s disappointment from lingering. But… I just can’t let it go. Pain lingers, and I’m used to resenting him—I’m not sure what my life would look like if I stopped.
After getting off at Glen Park, I walk the familiar path to Bigmouth’s. The exterior bowling alley sign with its blue neon is reflected in the puddles, and I follow it to the door. Inside, I’m greeted by the uneven crash of pins echoing across the lanes. Nothing has changed in the last two hours, and it’s painfully slow for a Saturday.
Dad waves me over from the register. “Wow, it must really be coming down out there.”
A raindrop rolls down my nose. I brush it off with the back of my hand. “Cats and dogs.”
“How’d your project go?”
“Oh, uh, fine? We still have a lot of work,” I say, hating that Beckett’s forced me into lying. “Sorry for bailing earlier.”
Dad’s grin is warm. Almost erases the ache in my chest. “No need to apologize. I’m real happy to see you hanging out with Beckett again. He’s a great kid.”
I doubt Dad would say that if he knew what we were really up to. “Dad, we’re not friends again. You understand that, right?”
“Whatever you say, Caroline.”
I’ve asked my dad to call me Chuck so many times I’ve lost count. He thinks it’s not feminine. Doesn’t grasp the concept that—shocker—I don’t want to be called my mom’s name. This is one battle I’ll always lose, so I’ve given up.
“Thanks for letting me off the hook. If you’d like, I can close tonight and do inventory?”
“That’d be fantastic,” Dad says, scooting out from behind the counter. Even though my clothes are soaked, he pulls me into a hug. “Thank you.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “Anytime.”
The rest of the evening passes quickly. I spend ten minutes trying to dry my overalls with the hand dryer in the bathroom. Dinner consists of free nachos and a soda. We serve only three other groups of customers, and Dad leaves around eight.
When it’s just me, I text Beckett that he can come by. He doesn’t show up right away. All the customers are gone, but we’re open until ten. I clean up the lanes. I spray bowling shoes with dual shots of disinfectant and Febreze. Inventory takes only fifteen minutes.
Half the lights are on timers and already winked out, leaving the alley in moody half darkness. In the silence, I can hear the rain pattering on the tin roof, sloshing against the windows. I underestimated how creepy it is to be alone this late in the bowling alley. The storm only amps up the creep factor. All those big mouths on the wall? I’m surprised this place hasn’t shown up in my nightmares.