Keep My Heart in San Francisco by Amelia Diane Coombs

Author:Amelia Diane Coombs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 2020-07-14T00:00:00+00:00

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 25 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 5

Sixteen

ALAMEDA IS A small island lodged in the San Francisco Bay between the city and Oakland, a short jaunt over the Bay Bridge. The next night, Aunt Fiona drops me off at the Cinema Grill—our proposed cover story.

“Have fun,” Aunt Fee says, unlocking the door. “But not too much fun.”

I fidget and try smiling, but it’s tentative. My nerves buzz and rebound. “Thanks, Fee.”

“If Beckett can’t drop you off, call me, okay? And text me when he drops you off.”

I palm my thermos of coffee and nod.

My aunt winks.

Beckett’s car pulls alongside the curb opposite us, in front of the theater. I side-hug Fiona, inhaling her scent of perfume and marijuana. Then I hurry out of Aunt Fee’s Bug and duck into Beckett’s car.

The Accord is warm and welcoming.

“Hug me,” I demand, because Aunt Fiona is definitely watching this.

Beckett doesn’t even hesitate, his hands sliding around my waist, and I throw my arms around his neck. My face rests in the slope of his neck, and his fingers brush the exposed skin from my dress’s open back. I press my eyes shut, allowing myself to enjoy the facade. Just for a moment.

When we part, I clear my throat, busying myself with clipping the seat belt. “Sorry about that. My aunt thinks we’re, like, dating now, and she was probably spying on us.”

“Oh!” Beckett watches Aunt Fee’s Bug pull into traffic. “Um, why does she think that?”

“I had to come up with a better cover story.”

“And was this your idea or…?”

“Fiona assumed,” I say. “So far it’s working great. She didn’t even ask me where we’re going. I used your advice. Kept it simple when I lied.”

Beckett shifts the car out of park and smiles. “Let me know if you want me to come over for a family dinner to help sell the deception.”

“Yeah, not happening. I asked Fiona not to tell my dad. He’d be way too happy about it.”

Beckett says nothing, just sways his head side to side like I amuse him.

We drive to the Four Horsemen and cram the Accord into a small parking lot. I skip the disguise because we’ll have to leave our phones by the door. Still, the usual prep ensues—me smudging my makeup and the unholy baptism of airplane-bottle whiskey. When we’re done, twenty minutes remain until the game begins.

After we lock up the Accord and cross the street, I take in the bowling alley. The multistoried building hulks, intimidating. A neon art graphic displays four horse heads and nothing else. Not even a name, only the daunting stallions. We’ve come a long way since the seediness of the Road.

“Now,” Beckett says, critical eyes assessing the alley, “the Four Horsemen is notorious for gambling. More intense than the Dust Bowl, but less dodgy. Tonight will be more of a straight-up game with subtle hustling. As long as you keep it together and follow the usual pattern, tonight should be no different from the others.”

I nod stiffly, but the tension melts when Beckett catches his hand over mine.

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