Beverly

Chapter 3

3

BEVERLY, 1994

12 years old

Spring arrived early that year, the kind that gently melted away the lingering chill of February mornings.

I turned twelve that month, caught in that strange in-between of childhood and growing up. I still liked cartoons, but now I had strong opinions about pizza toppings.

But it wasn’t just me who was changing. Somewhere between the gray, short days of January and the first hints of spring, Blake began to change, too. It started with little shifts in his actions that no one mentioned but were impossible to ignore. He began sitting with us in the living room after lunch, no longer disappearing to his room the second his plate was empty.

He still kept mostly quiet, but he stayed , settling into the corner of the couch with a book in his lap while Mom and Dad talked about their day. Sometimes he’d even leave his books there, forgotten on the cushions, instead of carrying them back to his room. He even started responding when I talked to him, even if it was just a word or two.

He was there in a way he hadn’t been before.

There were other things, too—small gestures of care that weren’t loud or obvious but still managed to make themselves felt. Like how he never let me walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road. If a car sped past too fast, he’d subtly move so I was on the safer side. Or how he always left the last slice of pizza for me, even when I could see the hunger in his eyes. Or the time at the grocery store when I stretched on my toes, reaching for something on the top shelf. Before I could grab it, Blake was already there, plucking it and handing it to me without looking up from the floor. Then there was the time I got sick. It wasn’t anything serious, just a migraine that left me stuck in bed for two days. I barely remember most of it, just the dull ache behind my eyes and the weight of the blankets over me. But I do remember waking up once to find Blake sitting at the edge of my bed, flipping through a book, looking suspiciously like he had been there for a while.

Groggily, I blinked up at him. “What are you doing?”

Without looking up, he answered, “We’re alone.”

That was it. No explanation, no elaboration.

Like that was supposed to answer all my questions.

I frowned, trying to make sense of the situation. “You’ve just…been sitting here?”

A pause. Then a small, almost guilty nod.

I might’ve still been half-asleep, but I understood. We’re alone. Translation: Mom and Dad are at work. I’m staying to check on you.

“Oh,” I murmured as the meaning hit me, my eyelids already drooping again. “Thanks, Blake,” I whispered, smiling softly as sleep slowly claimed me again.

Right before I drifted off, I heard him mutter, “Don’t die.”

Which, for Blake, was practically a love confession.

One afternoon, I was sprawled out on a blanket in the backyard, a Vogue magazine open in my lap, the pages glossy beneath the sunlight. I’d spent the last twenty minutes flipping through the pages, making mental notes of all the Tommy Hilfiger and Calvin Klein ads, imagining how I’d look in one of those crop tops and denim jackets.

Beside me, Tiffany was carefully painting her toenails a pastel pink—the exact shade she swore was the color of the season. I had no reason to doubt her; Tiffany had an encyclopedic knowledge of fashion trends and a personal vendetta against anyone who wore last year’s colors. Her Steve Madden platform sandals sat discarded in the grass next to her, looking like tiny skyscrapers.

Blake, meanwhile, was exactly where Blake always was—leaning against the old oak tree, knees pulled to his chest, a book balanced against them.

He had this way of making reading look like a contact sport, like he was bracing for impact with every turn of the page.

Without glancing up, he muttered, “This book is dumb.”

I nearly choked on my lemonade.

The words were so unexpected, I had to fight the urge to burst out laughing.

Tiffany gasped so loudly that she smudged the polish on her pinky toe. “Oh my God,” she blurted, eyes wide, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Did you just voluntarily speak ?”

Blake looked up then, meeting my gaze.

For a second, I was trapped—lost in the depths of those green eyes, like forests shrouded in mist, hiding secrets I’d never know.

He had that unreadable expression again, the one that made it impossible to tell if he regretted speaking or if he just did not care.

I rolled onto my stomach, propping myself up on my elbow, a little too interested now. “What’s dumb about it?”

Blake hesitated for half a second, then slowly turned the book toward me. It was a fantasy novel. His finger tapped against the cover as he added, “The hero is supposed to be smart. But he keeps doing stupid things. Walking into obvious traps. Ignoring warnings. Making the same mistakes over and over.” His fingers tightened around the book. Then, with a loud thud , he shut it, as if he was angry at the character for being so annoyingly relatable. “It’s frustrating to read.”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist. Like hehatedthe idea of someone making the same mistakes over and over. The realization settled slowly, like a weight pressing down on my chest. This wasn’t just about the hero in some fantasy novel who couldn’t get his act together. This was about him. About people who should have known better but didn’t.

About a past he never talked about.

I studied him for a moment, but he’d already looked away, staring off toward the trees like he hadn’t just spoken more words in a minute than he had in days.

Tiffany, never one for prolonged silences, wiggled her freshly painted toes and shrugged. “If characters always made the right decisions, books would be boring,” she offered, though I doubted he was listening.

He kept staring off into the distance, his eyes distant, his mind clearly lost in whatever thoughts had triggered his reaction. Lost somewhere I couldn’t follow.

The silence was deafening.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t acknowledge Tiffany’s comment. Didn’t seem to be here at all.

He was somewhere else entirely—in a place I wasn’t invited to.

Tiffany nudged me with her elbow, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Do you think he’s been possessed? Like, you know, by some kind of...evil spirit?”

I rolled my eyes, reaching out to shove her shoulder. My mind was still turning over his words, the tension in his hands, the way he shut that book like he wanted to shut out more than just a story.

I didn’t know what to tell him.

I didn’t know how to reach him when he locked himself away like this, when the past wrapped itself around him so tightly that even fiction seemed to remind him of wounds that hadn’t healed.

So, I did what I always did when I wasn’t sure what else to do: I tried to fill the silence. Anything to break the stillness, even if it meant saying something meaningless.

“Well…” I said, my voice coming out a little louder than I’d intended. Wait , what was he talking about again? Oh, right—the hero who kept making stupid choices. “Well,” I repeated with a shrug, “at least he’s got a cool sword, right?”

To my complete and utter surprise, the corner of Blake’s mouth lifted, and he let out a soft breath through his nose, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention.

But I was always paying attention.

It was the closest thing to a laugh I’d heard from him so far.

* * *

Summer crept in the way it always did—slow at first, then all at once, drowning us in heat. Every weekend, we piled into the car and drove two hours out of Los Angeles to Big Bear Lake, trading the city’s noise for the hum of cicadas and the water quietly lapping against the shore.

The days stretched long and lazy, golden and warm, blurring together in a haze of sunburned shoulders, melted popsicles, and cicadas screaming their little bug hearts out.

Evenings smelled like campfire smoke, sunscreen, and whatever questionable meat Dad was grilling.

We spent hours fishing with him, mostly because he loved it and because the idea of denying a grown man his favorite weekend activity was too cruel to consider. The water was so clear that we could see the fish mocking us as they swam just out of reach.

At night, we camped beneath a sky so wide it made me feel like a tiny, insignificant speck of dust, which was both humbling and kind of rude.

Then, one fateful, sun-drenched afternoon, Blake turned to me with that particular quiet determination of his that meant he was about to ruin my peace.

“Teach me,” he insisted.

I squinted at him, wiping sweat from my brow. “Teach you what?”

“How to swim.”

He always wanted to learn new things—always pushing himself, never satisfied with what he already knew. He couldn’t wait for swimming lessons, couldn’t stand the idea of waiting when the water was right there, stretching wide and inviting before him.

So I taught him how to swim.

Or tried to…

I lost count of how many times I had to pull him out of the water; I rescued him from drowning at least half a million times.

The first few attempts were what you might call mildly traumatic —wild splashing, panicked gasps, his fingers gripping my arms in a desperate, vice-like hold every time the water threatened to pull him under. He hated not being in control, but even more than that, he hated to give up.

At times, his arms would wind around me—an instinctive, terrified reaction. His hand would find my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder, and in those brief moments, when his fear brought him closer to me than anything else ever had, I’d feel a shiver run through me.

I liked those moments.

Because his touch burned, but not in a painful way.

Because for those brief seconds, he needed me.

One afternoon, as I dragged him up from the water yet again, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, Dad’s voice cut through the summer air like a whip.

“Beverly!”

I turned, still holding onto Blake, and found him standing on the dock, arms crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and concern.

“Don’t you take Blake in the deep end again! You know better than that.”

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his disapproval settle on my chest. Forcing myself to look guilty, I muttered, “I’m sorry,” keeping my voice small and apologetic.

I blinked rapidly, feigning the threat of tears, just enough for him to soften. Dad hated it when I cried, and I had learned to use it to my advantage.

His expression softened almost immediately, just as I knew it would. He was always quick to forgive when I showed any hint of remorse. “It’s alright,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, the strands just starting to get gray. “Just be very careful, okay?”

I nodded obediently, but the moment he turned his back to walk toward the cabin, I glanced at Blake. His eyes were already on me, wide with that pleading look he wore when he was determined to get his way.

“Again,” he said, breathless but unwavering.

I shook my head, a weak attempt to pull back. “Dad said?—”

“Dad won’t know.” His voice was quiet but firm, his grip tightening slightly, as if he were afraid I’d refuse him. “We’ll be careful.”

I hesitated. I really, truly did. But Blake wasn’t the kind of person who asked for much. And in that moment, he was asking for me. Dad’s words still echoed in my mind, but Blake’s pleading expression was far louder.

It was hard to be reasonable when he looked at me like that. He had those puppy eyes, soft and full of trust, that made it impossible to say no to him. He was so close I could count the freckles on his cheek, each one a little speck of light on his otherwise smooth skin.

“You promised you’d teach me, B.”

“Just wait until he puts you in classes,” I offered, trying to sound firm, but even I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be the one to show him the world he was so desperate to explore.

He shook his head. “I don’t want classes,” he said stubbornly. “I want you to teach me.” A moment later, he whispered, “Please, Beverly.”

And just like that, I caved.

I kept teaching him, over and over again.

We stole moments in the lake when Dad wasn’t watching, when Mom was inside making lemonade, when the world shrank down to just the two of us.

Blake learned quickly. His fear never stopped him from trying, from pushing, from perfecting. He still panicked sometimes, but he pushed past it, determined to master the water. And before I knew it, he was better than me.

One evening, as the sky melted into hues of pink and gold, he swam ten full laps around me without pausing for a breath. I watched, awe settling deep in my chest, as he surfaced beside me, his grin so wide it nearly hurt to look at.

“I wouldn’t have done it without you, Beverly.”

My heart did a weird thing in my chest.

Something I refused to acknowledge.

* * *

Hours later, I lay in my tent, listening to the muffled voices of children passing by.

They were whispering about ghosts in the woods, spinning tales of shadowy figures lurking just beyond the trees, which was ridiculous because I was pretty sure the scariest thing out there was whatever was currently in the communal campground bathroom. I’d have rather faced a ghost than stepped foot in there again.

Still, I pulled my sleeping bag up to my chin, listening as footsteps crunched against the dirt path. Someone laughed, but it had that forced, nervous edge to it, like they were trying to convince themselves they weren’t scared.

I rolled onto my side, staring at the green fabric of my tent, my mind suddenly restless. Shadows flickered across the tent walls, cast by their flashlights as they hurried by.

I wasn’t scared, but I wasn’t not scared either.

After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I knew Blake was still awake.He never went to bed early—always reading, always thinking.

I took a shaky breath before deciding to move.

Slipping my Converse shoes on, I grabbed my own flashlight and slipped outside, padding carefully across the campsite. His tent was just a few feet away, dimly illuminated from within, and I knew immediately what he was doing.

Without warning, I yanked the flap open and crawled inside. “Hey, uh…do you believe in monsters?”

Blake didn’t so much as lift his gaze from his book.

“Do you ever knock?”

With a huff, I plopped down beside him, the space barely big enough for both of us. My shoulder brushed against his, but I didn’t bother moving away.

“Do you ever stop reading?” I countered.

That made him look up at me. “Not if I can help it,” he replied, flipping a page with a wink.

Rolling my eyes, I sighed. “You’ll survive one night without burying your nose in a book.”

“Doubtful,” he shot back, but to my surprise, he actually closed it, marking his page with his thumb. His gaze lingered on me, curious. “What do you need?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, suddenly feeling silly for being there, disturbing him.

Blake raised an eyebrow. “Beverly, you better have a good reason for interrupting me. I’m just reading about a boy who’s starting to realize that the world he thought he knew is completely different from what it really is,” he said, his voice lowering as he gave me a look of mock seriousness. “It’s The Giver by Lois Lowry, and it’s really starting to get good.”

I couldn’t hold back a snort. “I didn’t realize The Giver was so important that I had to compete with it,” I replied, nudging him with my elbow. “Don’t get too lost in your world of books. There’s a real world around you, you know.”

His thumb slid from the book, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m aware,” he said, finally setting the book down beside him, his attention fully on me. “What’s on your mind?”

I narrowed my eyes, flicking my flashlight under my chin so my face was bathed in eerie shadows. “Do you think there are monsters out there?” I whispered, trying to sound as ominous as possible. But the slight tremor in my fingers gave me away, betraying the nerves I was trying to mask.

He paused, as if considering my words, then chuckled under his breath. “You could’ve just said you missed me.” Nudging me with his shoulder, he added, “I’d have understood.”

I opened my mouth to protest but got stuck for words.

He watched me with tired amusement. “Are you scared?”

“I’m not scared,” I said firmly, admiring his face for a moment before I gathered the nerve to ask again, urging him to answer. “I’m simply seeking confirmation . Are there monsters? Tell me .”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied me for a moment, close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek. Then, quietly, he said, “Not the kind you’re afraid of.”

My lips parted slightly. “What kind are out there?”

“The kind you don’t need to imagine.” His face hardened. “The kind you can see in plain sight.”

A knot formed in my stomach.

I didn’t ask him to explain.

I didn’t need him to. I knew what he was talking about.

The monster he grew up with. The monster who had left bruises on his skin and worse ones on his soul. The monster who would never hurt him again, now locked away behind bars where he belonged, left to rot for the rest of his days.

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over me like a thick fog, pressing down on my ribs and making it hard to breathe. I hated that Blake had to carry something so heavy. Hated that there were things in his past that I would never fully understand, no matter how much I wanted to.

Without a word, I grabbed his hand and pulled him up.

He let out a surprised grunt but didn’t resist as I led him out of the tent and into the dark. I wanted to do something, anything , to pull him out of his own thoughts.

He gave me a confused look, his hand warm in mine, but he stayed silent as I dragged him through the trees, past the dying embers of the campfire, and toward the small wooden cabin where Mom and Dad were sleeping.

The door creaked softly as I pushed it open, the warmth of the small space wrapping around us instantly. Mom and Dad were in the back room, leaving us alone in the kitchenette. I motioned for him to sit, then rummaged through the cabinets.

Blake didn’t ask what I was doing. He just stood by the small couch, watching me with mild curiosity as I pulled out a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread.

There was no book here for him, no pages to get lost in. With nothing else to do, he glanced around the cabin, his fingers twitching at his sides. Eventually, he reached for the TV remote and turned on the tiny television in the corner of the room, keeping the volume so low it was barely audible.

I paused mid-spread. A grainy nature documentary flickered to life, illuminating his face and highlighting the way his brow furrowed slightly in thought. The screen flickered as a lioness moved through the grass, her muscles rippling beneath golden fur.

By the time I finished making the sandwich, Blake was completely still, his attention locked onto the screen.

He didn’t even glance at the plate as I set it in front of him.

“You like lions?” I sank onto the couch beside him, pulling my knees to my chest.

He nodded, his fingers tapping against the arm of the couch as he kept his eyes on the screen. “They’re interesting.”

“What’s interesting about them?”

“The way they survive.”

“You think you’d survive in the wild?” I teased.

He finally turned his head, meeting my gaze. “No.”

A small laugh slipped past my lips. “At least you’re honest.”

But he wasn’t done thinking. I could see it in the way his eyes flickered back to the screen, watching as the lioness crouched low in the grass, her cubs huddled behind her. She would protect them with her life.

Blake turned his head again, looking at me in that way he did—like he was trying to figure out how much to say, how much to let me see. My fingers drummed against my knees as I watched his face, searching for something that would tell me what was going through his mind. But I already knew, didn’t I?

He didn’t smile, but something in his gaze softened.

“They don’t leave each other behind,” he said.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I held his gaze.

“No,” I agreed softly. “They don’t.”

Blake never said things outright. Never spoke about his feelings, never put words to the things on his mind.

But sometimes, in moments like this, he let the cracks show.

The narrator’s voice droned on, but I barely heard it.

We sat there for a long time, watching silently as the lions moved together—a unit, a family.

I tipped my head against his shoulder, just slightly, barely there.

“Have you ever felt like that?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like…you’d do anything to protect someone.”

He let out a slow breath, his body finally relaxing against the couch. “Yeah.”

* * *