Beverly

Chapter 7

7

BLAKE, 1995

15 years old

I hadn’t intended to leave Beverly hanging for so long.

It just…sort of happened.

At first, it was intentional. I thought space was what we needed. What I needed. I’d convinced myself that if I put some distance between us, if I kept my head down and buried myself in my books, in learning Arabic and Spanish, in anything that wasn’t her , the thoughts would stop.

And it worked. I wasn’t thinking about her—at least not in any way that made my heart race or left me feeling unsettled. Not like that night . Not like the way I felt when she was curled up against me, warm and soft and comfortable in a way that made her feel dangerous. I wasn’t imagining her in my arms again.

So, the distance was good.

But in hindsight, I should’ve known better. I should’ve known she wouldn’t just sit back and accept it. Beverly wasn’t someone who could easily be ignored; not by me, not by anyone. Her presence demanded attention whether I wanted to give it or not.

And Beverly never let things go.

So now, she was pissed—rightfully so. I’d been a shit friend. She had every reason to be angry, every reason to walk out of that bathroom and never look back.

But that didn’t mean I was going to let her handle things alone.

When I got home, I headed straight to her room without bothering to knock. She could stay mad at me for all I cared, but I wasn’t leaving her by herself today.

I found Beverly curled up under her blankets, a tub of Ben Mom only bought that ice cream twice a year because it was expensive, and Beverly rarely ever touched it unless she was feeling absolutely miserable.

She barely acknowledged me when I barged in. Her attention was fixed on the ice cream, spoon prodding at the melting mess in a way that suggested she didn’t know if she wanted to eat it or just let it dissolve into nothing.

The dim glow of the TV flickered across her face. The curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out the weak winter daylight and leaving the room bathed in the soft, flickering glow of her lava lamp. Her walls were plastered with posters—faces of her favorite celebrities, each image meticulously cut from magazines and taped up by her. Brad Pitt, Kurt Cobain, and a few models whose names I didn’t even know all glared down from every direction.

The rest of the room was no better. Clothes were scattered across the floor in a way that could have been mistaken for a battlefield. A pink bra hung on the knob of her drawer, one strap hanging limp like it had been discarded carelessly after an exhausting day.

I refocused on Beverly, watching as her fingers hovered over the tub of ice cream, her eyes glued to the TV. Friends was on, the laughter track swelling up as Monica shouted something about organizing the apartment.

Beverly’s lips twitched in what could have been the start of a smile, but it quickly faded as she poked the spoon into the melting chocolate fudge.

I dropped a plastic case onto her bed. “Got you a movie.”

Beverly glanced down at it, eyes widening slightly when she saw the VHS Tape’s cover. Clueless.

She had been talking about it for weeks, ever since Tiffany mentioned it and declared it a must-watch.

Beverly’s head snapped up. “Where did you get this?”

“I stopped by the video store on the way back.”

Her eyes lit up for a second before she masked it with suspicion. “Why?”

“Because you won’t shut up about it.”

“Since when do you listen to what I say?”

“Since always.”

She stared at me for a long moment, as if she was trying to decide if this was some kind of trap. Then, without a word, she grabbed the movie, slid out of bed, and popped it into the VCR.

“Where’d you get the money?” she asked skeptically.

“I made a bet with Jamal and got a few bucks.”

Her eyebrows shot up, clearly intrigued. “What kind of bet?”

I scratched my jaw, grabbing her Coke and taking a long sip before she could stop me. “Made him laugh during prayer.”

Beverly’s jaw dropped in disbelief, her eyes wide. “Blake!”

I fought to keep a straight face. “In my defense, it was his idea. I told him it was a bad idea, but he just smirked and said, ‘I never laugh during prayer. Impossible.’” I shrugged. “Turns out he was wrong. He felt so guilty he immediately started the prayer over. It was the most dramatic redemption arc I’ve ever seen. He prayed twice as long just to make up for it. Then he handed me twenty bucks and told me to never speak of it again.”

Beverly slapped a hand over her mouth. “You’re the worst.”

“But I’m twenty bucks richer.”

Her lips twitched, a hint of a smile threatening to break through. She wanted to stay mad, but I noticed the way her shoulders loosened, how her fingers curled around the movie case as if it held more weight than just a film.

“Whatever,” she muttered, but there was no bite to her words now. She grabbed the remote and switched the TV to the VCR input. Then she flopped back onto her bed, pulling the blanket over her lap as the movie started.

She looked drained. The kind of tired that didn’t just come from cramps, or school, or even what happened today. It was deeper than that. The kind of tired I knew I’d helped cause.

Guilt settled in my chest like a weight. I had no idea how to fix this. So I did the only thing I could think of.

“Move over,” I offered, settling in beside her and leaning back against the headboard. The opening credits rolled as I stole a glance at her from the corner of my eye. She didn’t protest. She didn’t tell me to leave. She didn’t ignore me the way I had ignored her.

The first few minutes were quiet, save for the hum of the movie. Cher strutted onto the screen, tossing her hair like it was a weapon.

Beverly shifted, a groan escaping her as she pressed a hand to her stomach. “Ugh, this sucks.”

“Cramps?”

She shot me a look that could’ve burned a hole through me.

I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. Reaching for the comb on her nightstand, I said softly, “C’mere.”

“Why?” she asked, wary.

I tugged at the end of her hair. “Just sit up.”

With a reluctant sigh, she gave in and sat up. I started running the comb through her hair, untangling the knots. She didn’t react, just kept her eyes on the screen, her fingers wrapped around her Coke can, her lips pursed slightly—whether from the pain or the movie, I wasn’t sure.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

I focused on the motion, on the feel of her hair slipping through my fingers, and how she used to ask me to do this before things got complicated.

As if the tension between us had reached its breaking point, Beverly let out a long, exasperated breath, her frustration finally bubbling to the surface. “You still suck, by the way.”

“I know.”

She didn’t let me off the hook so easily. “I mean it,” she huffed. “You ignored me for months, and I still don’t know why.”

I hesitated, fingers stilling in her hair for half a second before I kept going. “I just thought space was a good idea.”

“Yeah, great idea,” she shot back.

I winced at the sarcasm in her tone, my chest tightening as I watched her retreat into her anger. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, B,” I added softly, the words barely escaping my throat. It was the truth, but I didn’t even know if she could hear it anymore.

There was a fine line between hurting her and warning her off, and I could tell by her reaction I’d achieved the former.

“Well, you did,” she said quietly. “You really did.”

I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

I knew I wasn’t going to win this one. There was no excuse that would undo what had already been done. No matter how carefully I constructed my argument, no matter how many logical reasons I could give for why I thought pulling away was the right call—nothing was going to change the truth.

I had hurt her.

The problem wasn’t that I hadn’t thought through my actions. I had. In fact, I’d overthought them to the point of paralysis. I had convinced myself that the space I created was necessary—both for me and for her. That she would understand, eventually, that I wasn’t abandoning her, that I was giving us both time to breathe, to think.

But in doing so, I’d completely underestimated the effect my absence would have.

That’s where I went wrong.

I hadn’t thought about her. Not really.

My mind, always running through scenarios and solutions, had failed to account for something far more fundamental than logic. People weren’t equations. They weren’t variables to manipulate. The truth was, I had never given enough weight to the emotional toll of my silence. I hadn’t considered how my decision would make her feel, and that was the fatal flaw in my thinking.

I could barely make out the curve of Beverly’s side profile, but her body language told me enough. She wasn’t angry anymore. At least, not entirely. She was just…exhausted. Tired of waiting, tired of wondering, tired of not being seen. Tired of questioning if she was the one who had messed things up, tired of feeling like she was chasing a version of me that had already moved on.

I realized that sometimes, there were no perfect explanations.

Sometimes, the damage just was.

So I fell silent, letting her words settle around us, realizing there was nothing left to say.

Inhaling a deep breath, she glanced back at me. “Why are you braiding my hair?”

I shrugged. “Something to do with my hands.”

“You can’t braid.”

“I am braiding.”

She reached back, feeling the messy, uneven strands. “Oh God, this is horrible.”

“Wow. Ungrateful.”

She laughed, and something in my chest eased. That was the thing about Beverly. She never asked for much. Never demanded apologies, never wanted people to grovel. She just wanted effort. And right now, she was giving me a second chance without asking for an apology.

The tension between us slowly melted away as we kept talking about the movie. Somehow, we ended up in a deep discussion about women’s fashion.

“Would you wear one of these outfits?” she asked, pointing at the screen where Cher was strutting through school in a plaid yellow blazer and matching skirt.

“…No.”

“Coward.”

“What do you want me to say? I’m not walking around dressed like a schoolgirl.”

“You’d look cute.”

“You’re delusional.”

I finished the braid, tying it off as evenly as I could, and let my hand rest in my lap, trying not to look too proud.

She turned to face me fully, arms crossed. “Okay, fine. If you had to wear something from this movie, what would it be?”

I pretended to think hard. “That giant white fur coat.”

Beverly gasped. “No way.”

“What?”

“It’s ridiculous,” she said as she stretched her legs out, digging her toes under the blanket. “You would never pull that coat off.”

“That’s rich coming from someone wearing Snoopy pajamas.”

She gasped again, clutching the collar of her T-shirt as if I’d just insulted her entire wardrobe. “Excuse me?”

On screen, Cher and Dionne were walking through the mall, talking about their latest matchmaking scheme. Beverly sighed, watching with dreamy eyes. “I wish I had their closet.”

“You’d get lost in it, B.”

“That’s the dream, Blake. Imagine just waking up, pressing a button, and boom… Outfit picked for you.”

“Beverly, you’d be fighting the computer every morning.”

She gave me a mock-offended look. “I am not that picky.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You made Mom drive to three different stores last month just to find one specific shade of red nail polish.”

“It was cherry crush .”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Right. Got it.”

“Oh, come on,” she groaned, throwing a pillow at the screen. “There is no way Cher can just fail her driving test and get away with it.”

“She’s rich,” I countered with a shrug. “Rich people don’t fail things.”

“She totally flunked that test?—”

“So, you hate Cher now?”

“No, I love her. But I’m not letting her drive me anywhere.”

I huffed a laugh. “I’d let her drive me.”

“You’d die .”

“Worth it.”

Beverly swatted my arm, but she was laughing, and I could tell the whole ignoring-her-for-months thing was slipping to the back of her mind. She slumped further under the blanket, pulling it up to her chin as we kept watching.

She kept asking me questions about the characters, like she was trying to make the movie a quiz show, and I had to keep pretending I knew what I was talking about.

“Okay, but do you think Cher actually has a wardrobe like that in real life?” she asked, eyes wide, obviously envious.

I scratched my chin. “You know, I bet she does.”

“But how would she decide what to wear every day? She strikes me as the type to have a meltdown over the wrong shade of pink.”

We laughed through the next few scenes, Beverly’s eyes twinkling when Cher’s outfits got more extravagant and the plot got more absurd.

A few minutes passed before she let out a groan. “Ugh. Blake.”

“What?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “It’s getting worse.”

I frowned, pausing the movie.

“My uterus.” She groaned dramatically. “Why does it have to do this? It’s literally punishing me for not being pregnant.”

“I mean, technically, it’s?—”

She glared at me. “If you say ‘biology,’ I will throw?—”

I held up my hands. “Alright, alright. You know, if I were in charge of the world, I’d make period days mandatory sick days.”

“You are in charge of the world. You’re a man.” She shifted, curling in on herself. “Ugh. You don’t understand. It’s like my insides are at war with me.”

“Sounds awful.” I paused, thinking. “If it helps, I can suffer with you.”

“How?” She squinted at me.

I shrugged. “I’ll stub my toe or something.”

“Sure,” she huffed, shaking her head. “Let me know when you plan to kick the table leg in my honor.”

“I’ll do it right now.”

“No!” She chuckled, shoving my arm. “Idiot,” she added before she groaned again, flopping onto her side.

“You need pain meds?”

“Took some already. Not helping.”

“Hot water bottle?”

She sighed. “Dad’s using it for his back. I want chocolate, Blake. And fries. And pizza. And an entire cake.”

“Sounds like you just want food .”

“Yeah, but, like, specifically period food.”

“Is that a thing?”

“It is now.” She sat up slightly, eyes shining with fake intensity. “It’s like magic. You eat the fries, and suddenly, you’re healed.”

I nodded, pretending to be fascinated. “So, if I go get you fries right now, you’ll feel better?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes...”

I stood. “Alright. I’ll be back.”

Beverly gaped at me. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” I said, heading for the door. “Don’t die before I get back.”

When I came back twenty minutes later, holding a plate of fries, and a chocolate bar I’d stolen from the pantry, Beverly gasped like I had brought her a treasure chest.

The room smelled like carbs, melted ice cream, and the faint floral scent of her shampoo. Clueless played on, and, as much as I hated to admit it, I started enjoying the ridiculousness of it.

Beverly was all about the fashion, though. Every five minutes, she’d comment on someone’s outfit, either hating it or calling it the “peak of ‘90s fashion”.

I absentmindedly undid the braid I’d done in her hair earlier, my fingers working through it as she sighed heavily.

“Men have it so easy.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“You don’t get periods,” she replied, gesturing vaguely. “You don’t have to deal with cramps, or worry about birth control, or pregnancy, or—” She groaned. “Literally everything.”

“Sounds about right.”

She shot me a sideways glance. “You’re not gonna argue?”

“Why would I? It’s facts. Women get the short end of the stick in pretty much everything. Pay gaps, unrealistic expectations, the way they get treated just for existing. If men had to deal with cramps, or periods, they’d be throwing a fit about it. They’d probably even create a whole product line for it.”

She scoffed lightly. “Oh, they’d have invented a pill by now. A pill that makes you get your period in five minutes and then gets rid of it in two seconds.”

“That sounds about right.”

“It’s so frustrating,” she muttered, waving her fries around for emphasis. “Don’t even get me started on women’s razors. Why are they more expensive than men’s when they do the same thing?” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “It’s called the ‘pink tax.’”

I ran a hand through my hair, fighting back a grin as she got more worked up. “That’s some bullshit.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

The movie played on, but we were barely watching now.

“Men are celebrated for being ‘tough’ all the time,” Beverly went on. “But when women show any strength, they get labeled as ‘bossy’ or ‘crazy.’ It’s like we don’t get the chance to show anything without being called out for it.”

I took in a deep breath, thinking through everything she’d just said. She was right. And the more I thought about it, the more it pissed me off. In fact, it pissed me off in a way that left me almost speechless.

“Okay,” I started, trying to think of something to lighten the mood. “You do realize men have biological disadvantages too, right?”

She gave me a flat look. “Like what?”

“Random boners.”

She choked on her Coke. “ Blake ?—”

I laughed as she coughed, her face turning red. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for that .” She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed that smile until now.

“We die younger, statistically. Higher rates of workplace fatalities. Higher suicide rates. More societal pressure to suppress emotions?—”

“Blake.”

“Hmm?”

“Cramps.”

I nodded solemnly. “Point taken.”

“Would you actually date a girl like her?” she asked.

“Like who?”

She gestured at the screen, where Alicia Silverstone was flipping her blonde hair dramatically. “Pretty, rich, fashionable…”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider it. “She seems high-maintenance.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t let a girl like that ruin your life.” Beverly scoffed, throwing a pillow at me.

I caught it easily, snorting as I tossed it back onto the bed. “Okay, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“If you could steal one outfit from this movie, which one would it be?”

“The red Calvin Klein dress. No question.”

“The tiny one?” I said, eyes widening. “That’s a napkin with straps.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’snottiny, Blake. It’schic.”

“It’sbarely a dress.”

“It’siconic.”

I held up my hands, conceding defeat. “Fine, fine. It is.”

She smiled, picking up a few fries from the plate and chewing slowly, as if contemplating something. “So… Arabic, huh? Are you, like, fluent now or something?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. Arabic’s not like Spanish. You can’t just pick up a few words and get by. It’s…complicated.”

Beverly tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Complicated how?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking of how to explain it. “Well, the alphabet is completely different. And the vowels aren’t written, you have to just… know them. And the way sentences are structured is all backward compared to English.” I paused, glancing at her. “It’s like learning a whole new way of thinking, not just words. But I’m getting the hang of it. I can read and write a little, and I know enough to not sound like an idiot when I’m talking to Jamal’s family.”

She smiled softly. “That’s actually really cool.”

I looked down at my hands, suddenly aware of how tense I was. “Yeah, well, it’s not just about the language, you know. It’s like a way of connecting, of understanding something I didn’t before.”

“I get it,” she said, her eyes softer now. “You should teach me some words sometime,” she added, her voice sleepy with the fatigue that had started to settle over her. She yawned and stretched, her body curling up into a more comfortable position. “I’m getting sleepy.”

I glanced at the TV.

The credits were rolling, the movie finished without either of us noticing. “You missed the end of the movie,” I said.

She waved a lazy hand. “Let’s watch it again tomorrow,” she mumbled, her words slurring a little. Her eyelids drooped as she blinked at me. “You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked.

I settled back against the pillows. “Not until you’re asleep.”

A small sigh escaped her lips as she nestled deeper into the blankets, pulling them up around her shoulders.

She smiled—soft, sleepy, and real.

The glow of the TV flickered across her face, making her look almost unreal, like a dream I wasn’t ready to wake up from.

I didn’t say anything else. I just reached for her hand under the blanket, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She squeezed back.

And just like that, we were us again.