I HAVE AN emotional hangover.
Stuck between hating myself and hating Beckett, I’m entirely unpleasant to be around. Dad commented several times about my grouchiness before he left to have lunch with Yoga Leigh. I told him I was on my period and that was the end of that. No more questions asked. Now he and the yogi are at Greens Restaurant, a fancy vegetarian place across town. Things seem serious between them, and it leaves me equally nervous and nauseated. My blog snooping the other night humanized Leigh, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with the situation.
Beckett’s texted several times, but I don’t open my messaging app. I’m not ready yet, not prepared to relive last night in writing.
Slouched against the counter, I scroll through Instagram with one hand, the other propping up my chin.
The bell above the door jangles, but I’m in the middle of reading one of Mila’s most recent posts on her personal Instagram. I know social media is all about algorithms and manipulating your brain chemistry to rely on likes and upvotes, but man, that doesn’t stop it from making me feel like crap. Mila’s life is literally picture perfect.
Footsteps echo throughout the entry, but Dad’s not around, and no longer caring about appearing unprofessional, I keep my eyes glued to my phone. No one is here bowling, and whoever walked in probably just wants to use our bathroom or something.
When the person clears their throat, my gaze flits up. Beckett. For some reason, my heart lifts in happiness over seeing him again. Must be muscle memory, because I’m not happy. No, I’m conflicted. Extremely and emotionally conflicted. But I force a frown and say, “What’re you doing here?”
Beckett strolls up to the register. “Hey…” His backpack is slung over one shoulder, and he’s carrying a plastic bag from CVS. “Um, are you due for a break?”
“Nope.” I return my attention to my Instagram feed, tapping a random photo twice to like it. I’m acting petulant and immature, but I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now. We’re friends, which is great, and I wholly intend on trying to maintain our friendship. But last night was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Ideally, I want to ignore any unnecessary one-on-one time until our hustles are over. Then, when I know if I’ll be staying in the city, I’ll figure out how to save our friendship.
Turns out Beckett has other plans.
In my peripheral vision, I see him lean against the counter. Closer to me. The air smells of his deodorant and the rain clinging to his jacket.
“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word. “Is there any chance you can help me with something?”
“Beckett,” I say with a sigh. “I’m working.”
“There’s no one here.” He spreads his arms out to encompass the empty alley. “Besides, I can’t dye my hair on my own. I mean, I could, but it’d probably end poorly. I know how much you like my hair, so yeah, I figured—”
I squint at him, and my iciness slips. “Wait, what’re you prattling on about?”
Beckett grabs something from the CVS bag and sets it on the counter. A box of hair dye. Blue hair dye. “We should work on my disguise for tonight’s game.”
“You want me to dye your hair?”
“Yup.”
Glancing between the box of semipermanent hair dye and Beckett’s confusingly hopeful face, I nod. “Fine.” I pocket my phone, snatch the box of hair dye off the counter, and lead Beckett to the handicapped bathroom down the hall from Dad’s office.
Beckett trails me, and I push open the door. The single stall is small, barely large enough for two people, but it has its own counter and sink. He slips inside and dumps the CVS bag on the counter. A pack of alligator clips tumbles out, along with a cheap travel blow-dryer.
We’re quiet as we set up. Beckett fetches the stool from behind the register and gets situated while I study the box of hair dye. I’ve never dyed someone’s hair before. Doesn’t seem too complicated. And if I end up burning Beckett’s scalp? Oh well.
The tiniest bit of guilt slithers into my chest as I prep the “Blue Jeans” hair dye. Beckett’s not to blame for not kissing me. I’d probably be more upset if he kissed me but didn’t have feelings for me. At least this way, we’re kind of honest with each other. We can move past this. Eventually. When I’m not as upset. That day is not today, however.
After sectioning off his hair with the alligator clips, I snap on the rubber gloves that came with the hair dye and dip my fingers into the plastic bowl of dark-blue cream. “Okay, here goes nothing,” I mutter, smearing the dye into Beckett’s curls. He shifts as I massage the dye closer to his scalp, trying to get his roots. The heat of his body, the weight of his head, stirs up the desperate yearning I’ve failed to bury. His eyes are closed—totally surrendered to me—and I’m embarrassed by how much I still want him.
Every breath, every movement, is louder than gunfire.
I should’ve put on music.
After a few agonizing minutes, Beckett clears his throat and asks, “How’s it going?”
“Good,” I say, grimacing at my squeaky, nervous voice. After I check to make sure the section is fully covered, I unclip the next. I squirt out more dye from the tube and a small drop lands on the counter. Shit. I might need to bleach the counter before Dad gets back.
The hair dye smells like blueberries, and under any other circumstance, this might be kind of fun. And in another world? Almost romantic. Lightning cracks outside. The small window in the bathroom is rectangular, high up on the wall. Temperamental rain patters against the pane.
As I work my way through his hair, I’m glad there isn’t a mirror in the bathroom—Beckett can’t see my pained facial expression if he were to open his eyes. I like him, which is the worst idea ever. What’s even the point of crushes? More important, how can I make it go away?
“Ouch. You’re pulling kind of hard,” Beckett says in alarm. “On my hair?”
“Oh, sorry.” That was actually an accident. I grimace and try to be more careful. After unclipping the third and final section of hair and coating the curls in hair dye, the job is done. I strip off the gloves, toss them in the bowl, and wash up. The dye needs to sit for another five minutes.
“Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
I dry my hands with a paper towel, standing behind Beckett so I don’t have to look him in the face. “Okay?”
“I already saved up enough money for Willa’s summer camp.”
“What?” My heart aches. Does this mean he’s done hustling? But why would I be dyeing his hair if he was quitting? “When?”
Beckett tugs at the elastic on his wrist. “Like three months ago; I sold some of my comics. But that’s beside the point—”
“Wait, three months ago?” I interrupt. “Then why—”
“This was never about the money, Chuck.” He moves to run his fingers through his hair but drops them before he covers his hands in blue dye. “All of this was for you. I just wanted to help you.”
“Okay… but why’d you lie?” Suddenly nervous, I chew on the inside of my cheek.
“I figured being up front wouldn’t go over well,” he explains. “Not until we talked things out. So I lied.”
My mouth tightens, and embarrassingly, my eyes burn. I wish I were infuriated by this—I hate being lied to. But I’m not mad. Beckett’s right. I would’ve been even more hesitant if I’d known he wanted to do this only to help me. He really is a good friend and undoubtedly one of the best people I know. We’ll never be more than just friends. And if that’s all I can have, I’ll take it.
“You really did all this because you missed me?”
“No, I did this because I was done missing you,” Beckett says, and his voice cracks. “I gave you a year. I got that job at Schulman’s because of you, Chuck. I needed a job, yeah, but I needed you more. I thought… if I worked for Schulman’s, you’d see me every week and you’d realize you missed me, too.”
“Oh.” I lean my back against the counter because I don’t trust my legs to hold me upright. “And the hustling?”
“Last week, after we overheard your dad and that landlord guy, you said you might have to leave San Francisco. I needed a way to make it right—make us right—and if I could do that while helping you stay in the city, then I had to try. I had my dad’s notebook, my old betting contacts.…” Beckett trails off with a shrug, twisting in the seat to look at me. His eyes are shiny and hopeful.
The alarm on my phone goes off—the five minutes are up.
“Chuck?” he prompts, drawing his brows closer.
“I need to focus on your hair.” Partially a lie, but I need time to collect my thoughts. Wrangle my emotions. I don’t know what to make of his confession, but for now I instruct Beckett to lean over the sink. I turn on the tap, and he ducks beneath the stream of lukewarm water. I already ditched my gloves, so with bare hands I rinse the blue dye until the water runs clear. My cuticles gain a blue hue.
With a fistful of paper towels, I dry the excess water from his curls, and Beckett straightens. His wet hair is too dark to tell if the dye took. But he has this rumpled, apprehensive look about him that makes me light-headed. Then again, we’re trapped in a small room with chemicals, so it’s probably that.
“One second.” I turn away to plug in the hair dryer and turn it on, blasting his hair and creating too much noise for us to talk.
“How’s it look?” he asks once it’s dry.
Beckett’s hair is naturally brown, but now it’s taken on a dusky denim wash. Each curl is inky blue, and under the fluorescent bathroom lights, it looks good. Kind of hot, actually. His eyes are bluer too.
My face warms, and I look away, handing him my phone. “Here, see for yourself.”
Beckett uses the camera on my phone to check out his new look. “Oh God, I thought it would be subtle. I look like a homeless clown.”
I crack a grin as my nerves from earlier pitter-patter. “Blue is a good look for you. I think you should keep it. Forever.”
He tosses the phone back and runs his fingers through the blue curls. “Shut up, Wilson.”
Beckett helps me clean up, bagging all the hair-dyeing tools.
“I might not act like it, but I appreciate all your help. I really do,” I tell him as I wipe down the bathroom counter.
“Um, you’re welcome? Are you… are you still good for tonight?” Beckett digs a beanie out of his backpack, leaning against the bathroom’s doorframe.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I toss the paper towels into the trash and force a smile that doubles as a grimace.
With an annoyed sigh, he pulls the beanie on over his hair. “C’mon, are we really going to do this? Avoid talking about last night? Avoid talking about, well, everything?”
“Ideally, yes.” I move to pass him out of the bathroom, but he shifts, blocking my exit.
Beckett crosses his arms, a surprisingly defensive move for him. “Well, I need to talk about it, okay?” When I don’t reply, he says, “Outside the Four Horsemen—”
“You should’ve just kissed me.” I’m trying for flippant—because apparently humor is my only defense mechanism. Unsure whether he buys it, I add, “It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything.”
“Maybe not for you,” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his loafer against the linoleum.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just forget about it.” Beckett steps out of the doorway. “I’ll see you tonight, I guess,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.
“No, what did you say?” I ask, following him into the lobby. When he doesn’t reply, the tightness in my chest becomes unbearable. I reach out and grab his sleeve, my fingers brushing up against his wrist. “Beck?”
Maybe it’s the nickname or my desperation, but he finally says, “I’m not like you, okay? It’s harder for me to, um, platonically hang out with you. You got over your feelings. I didn’t.”
Wait a second—does Beckett like me? No. Wait. What?
Beckett’s watching me so carefully and softly, waiting for my response.
“Uh…” My palms start sweating.
Beneath his breath, he says, “Fuck it,” and palms the back of his neck. “I like you, okay? I’ve liked you for a while. There. I said it.”
The silence of Bigmouth’s Bowl becomes uproarious: the faint static from the jukebox; the rhythmic swoosh of the fan in the corner; the tick of the wall clock. Seconds slide by, my mind working in overdrive. But none of the words rebounding around seem right, and I have no idea what to say.
“Back at Lake Merritt, I almost told you,” he continues, “but you were so adamant—one hundred percent sure—that your feelings were gone. But then you tried kissing me as part of our cover—”
“My feelings aren’t gone,” I blurt out, shoving my sweaty palms from sight. “But I didn’t lie—I thought I was over you. I’m not. And it isn’t easy for me, either. Hanging out with you platonically.”
“Yeah?” His ears tinge red, barely visible from beneath the beanie. “We should try hanging out non-platonically sometime. To compare and contrast.”
My smile is hesitant but hopeful, and my body’s rocking full-on goose bumps. “What exactly is non-platonic hanging out?”
“A date,” he answers quickly. “I’d really love it if you’d go on a date. With me. If that wasn’t clear—”
“Yes.” This time, I’m glad I spoke before I thought. I didn’t have the time to second-guess myself.
Beckett’s smile liquifies me. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Okay, yeah.” I’m nodding and smiling, pleasantly confused. “Tomorrow.”
Tonight we have a game, possibly our last, and tomorrow’s Friday, the maybe-game with super-high stakes. But regardless of our bowling plans, we have a date. I’ve never even been on a proper date. Now I have one—with Beckett.
“What’d you have in mind?” I ask, resisting the urge to lean over and kiss him. It’s truly unfair for someone to have that kissable of a mouth. Not that I’d know from experience, but his lips look very kissable.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” Beckett’s smile is so sweet and genuine, it makes my chest flutter, palpitate. Wild blue strands sneak out from the fold of his beanie. The smile lights up his face as he backs down the hallway, nearly tripping on the linoleum. “Okay, I’m making myself leave now—I don’t want to leave—because I have to pick Willa up from school. But I’ll see you tonight?”
“I’ll be the girl with the creepy mannequin head and wig.”
Beckett bites his lower lip before fondly shaking his head and slipping outside.
“Did that really happen?” I ask out loud, my voice lofted in disbelief.
That. Really. Happened.
Unable to shake the grin on my face, I return to the handicapped bathroom to finish cleaning up. Standing there, inhaling bleach and hair dye, my smile fades. In the moment, I allowed myself to forget the only reason Beckett and I are back on speaking terms: saving Bigmouth’s. We’ll have our first date, but who knows if I’ll be around long enough for us to have a second.