Beverly

Chapter 12

12

BEVERLY, 1997

15 years old

Steam curled around me in thick clouds, clinging to my skin as I stood under the scalding water, scrubbing until my skin burned. My nails dug into my flesh, desperate to rid myself of the invisible weight that clung to me, to punish the relentless feeling that wouldn’t release its grip.

But no matter how much pressure I applied or how pink and raw my skin became, I couldn’t wash away the feeling of helplessness, the shame I shouldn’t even have felt. I couldn’t scrub away the memory; it lingered, ghostly and insidious, crawling up my spine like an infection I couldn’t cure.

I flinched as the heat of the water finally registered, realizing too late that I’d stayed in too long again. My skin screamed in protest, and I hurriedly rinsed the soap off my body, my movements becoming panicked.

The steam was choking me now, the space too small, too enclosed.

I had to stop.

I had to get dressed, get out of the bathroom, out of the heat, out of my head.

With shaking hands, I turned off the water, the sudden silence ringing in my ears. A noise from downstairs caught my attention—Dad’s voice, gruff and familiar, followed by a deeper chuckle.

My hands fumbled as I reached for a towel, quickly drying myself off before throwing on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt.

As I made my way downstairs, the conversation sharpened into words. I reached the bottom step just in time to hear Dad say, “—walked all the way to the hospital.” He was shaking his head with something between admiration and disbelief. “Not bad for a boy with one working leg.”

Alaric, one of Dad’s colleagues at the station, sat across from him at the dining table, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he reached for his beer. He was Dad’s age, but meatier, heavier in build. They had matching expressions—tired, serious, the kind of men who had seen enough of the world to know its ugliest truths.

“Yeah, admirable for a guy with one working leg to drag himself to the hospital like that,” Alaric mused. “That kid’s lucky he didn’t get himself killed. What the hell was he thinking trying to stop a mugging? Said it was a whole group of them. Enormous guys. Wrestlers, he called them.” He took a swig of his beer, then sighed, shaking his head again. “Crazy people out there.”

“He goes to your school,” Mom said, turning her gaze to me.

I froze, fingers tightening around the stair railing.

Alaric nodded. “Your grade, actually.”

I knew what was coming before the name left his lips.

“Mason.”

Blake’s fork scraped against his plate.

Swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I stepped into the kitchen, forcing my expression into something neutral.

My lips pressed into a thin line as I shrugged.

Blake sat at the table, quiet, unmoving, but I could feel his eyes on me. A part of me didn’t want to look at him, afraid of what I might see there—what they might confirm.

He had something to do with this.

I knew it like I knew my own name.

Dad sighed. “Poor kid. Just trying to do the right thing.”

My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack. Blake had beaten him half to death, and Mason had spun it into a martyr’s tale. I wondered what he’d think of the “poor kid” if he knew that same boy had tried to force himself on his own daughter just days before. If he knew the fear I still carried like a weight in my chest, pressing, pressing, pressing.

A cold sensation spread through me. The world blurred at the edges, but I forced my face into a mask.

“I don’t know what this town is becoming,” Dad muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “But I’m not liking it.”

Neither am I, I wanted to say. But for very different reasons.

“You should make sure he gets some help making his way around,” Dad added.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Dad,” I replied, forcing calmness into my words. “He’s rich and has a lot of friends.”

“Rich doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Mom cut in, frowning at me.

Alaric nodded in agreement. “Your mom’s right. If anything, money makes you more of a target?—”

“I think Beverly means Mason always seemed entitled,” Blake interjected.

Dad shot him a disapproving look. “I don’t care how entitled a person is, they don’t deserve to be beaten to a pulp, Blake. He tried to do the right thing.”

Blake scoffed, shaking his head. “I disagree.”

Alaric gave a dry chuckle. “That’s not surprising.”

“He’s a bad person, and I wouldn’t take what he says seriously,” Blake said firmly, leaning forward slightly. “Personally, I don’t feel one bit sorry that he’s in the hospital.”

Dad let out a heavy breath. “You don’t mean that, Blake.”

“Oh, I do.”

I stared at Blake, my heart pounding in my chest, each beat so loud it drowned out everything else.

I wondered if it made me a terrible person to feel grateful. Blake had done something wrong—objectively, undeniably wrong. Something that, by any reasonable standard, couldn’t be justified. But I couldn’t bring myself to be upset. I couldn’t bring myself to care about Mason lying in a hospital bed. Not when, for the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe. Like the weight pressing on my chest had lightened just enough to let in air.

I should’ve felt guilty for that, shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t I’ve been disgusted with myself for sitting there, listening to my father’s disapproval, and feeling nothing but relief?

It felt like the world expected me to be upset.

But I couldn’t. Because Mason wasn’t the real victim.

I thought about that night—the way his hands felt on me, the slurred words he forced out as he told me to “just relax”. How my body had gone completely still when I realized, in that awful, sickening moment, what he wanted to do to me.

Dad sighed again, rubbing his temples, clearly debating whether to push further, but in the end, he let it go. He always did when Blake got like this. Maybe he thought of that dark room, of a younger Blake on his knees, pleading for someone not to hurt him. I saw that flicker of pain in Dad’s eyes from time to time.

Mom turned her gaze toward me, a hint of concern etched across her face. “Tiffany called twice, asking you to call her back. She sounded worried. Is something wrong?”

I quickly shook my head and forced a smile. “No, everything’s fine. Just…you know how she gets.”

She studied me for a moment, her eyes searching for something behind my words, but I kept my smile in place. “You should call her back,” she suggested gently.

“I’ll do it later,” I promised, though I wasn’t sure I would.

Mom hesitated before nodding. “Alright. Just know I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Thanks, Mom. I know.”

We ate in silence after that, the sound of silverware clinking against plates the only thing filling the void.

I barely tasted my food, my mind elsewhere.

After dinner, I grabbed Blake’s wrist as he turned toward the stairs, pulling him into the hallway.

His body tensed as I did, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t look surprised either. It was as if he knew something was coming, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Thank you,” I whispered, barely able to get the words out.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “For what?”

“For Mason.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction, as if he was reciting words he’d rehearsed.

My hand lifted before I could think better of it, my fingers brushing against his cheek.

There was nothing sibling-like about the touch, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Blake made no attempt to pull away or create any distance between us. He didn’t stop me as my fingers lingered, tracing a path across his skin with a deliberate slowness.

He didn’t lean into the touch, but he didn’t pull away either.

His stillness was just as telling as any reaction.

“I know why you did it,” I murmured, “and I will never speak a word of it to anyone.”

His gaze flickered to my lips before warming slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated, as slowly as before.

“Don’t lie to me, Blake.” I searched his face, not backing down. “We don’t lie to each other, do we?”

His breath was shallow, barely audible, and for the briefest of seconds, I thought I might hear the beat of his heart.

He let out a breath through his nose, then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “A concussion, a broken leg, a few cracked ribs, and ten stitches later, I called it even.”

A shiver ran through me, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from something else entirely; something I dared not name.

“If he ever touches you like that again,” he continued, his voice lethal, “I’ll kill him next time.”

Shaking my head, I breathed, “You don’t need to worry,” though it sounded more like a plea.

“You think I’m joking, don’t you?”

My lips twitched. “I hope you are.”

“I wish I were. But I’m not. If he dares to hurt you again, Beverly, I won’t stop until he’s not moving anymore.”

Before I could respond, footsteps rang out from behind us. I gasped and jerked my hand away just as Dad and Alaric rounded the corner.

“Get out of the halls,” Dad muttered, reaching out to tug lightly on my hair. “There’s an entire house you can take up the next time you decide to block it.”

I nodded, stepping back, but my eyes never left Blake.

“There won’t be a next time.”

* * *

That night, I tossed and turned, yanking the covers over me only to kick them off moments later. I turned onto my side, then my back, then my stomach, but the restlessness wouldn’t leave. My mind was too awake, spinning in circles.

Blake’s words from the hallway echoed in my head, pressing against my ribs. I won’t stop until he’s not moving anymore.

His voice had been so sure, like a promise carved into stone.

With a sigh, I flipped my pillow to the cooler side. I needed a distraction. Something to silence the chaos in my head, to drown out the thoughts that kept clawing their way back in.

I needed something to focus on. A book . But I didn’t have one.

My eyes flickered toward the door.

Blake had plenty. He always had books lying around, stacked on his desk, shoved under his bed, forgotten on his nightstand. If I borrowed one, he probably wouldn’t even notice.

Before I could let my mind spiral into a million reasons why I shouldn’t, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the hallway. Blake’s door was shut, but no light seeped from beneath it.

I paused, straining to listen, but there was no sound from inside.

He was asleep.

I hesitated for only a heartbeat before carefully turning the knob, slipping inside, and closing the door just as quietly behind me. His room was dark, the faint moonlight from the window casting long, pale streaks across the floor. It smelled like him—clean laundry, old paper, and something faintly familiar I couldn’t name.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed how tidy his room was. Unlike my chaotic space, Blake’s was meticulously organized—no stray clothes on the floor, no cluttered surfaces, nothing out of place. The only exception was a half-empty water bottle on his nightstand. And, of course, books.

I walked over to it, careful to keep my steps light as I scanned the neatly stacked books. Some titles I recognized, but there were a few I didn’t. Without thinking, I reached for the closest one, my fingers brushing the edges of the pages as I lifted it. It was well-loved, its spine creased from use. Tilting it toward the moonlight, I squinted to make out the title.

The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Of course Blake would choose something dark and philosophical for his bedtime read.

I glanced over at him, still unmoving beneath the covers, his breathing deep and steady. He looked so peaceful, so unlike the sharp, unreadable version of him I’d faced just hours ago.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I turned my attention back to the book, flipping it open to a random page. The words blurred in the dim light, but one line stood out:

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.

A rush of adrenaline coursed through me, though I couldn’t tell if it was from the words on the page or the fact that I was standing in Blake’s room in the middle of the night, with him sleeping just an arm’s length away.

Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself… I was absorbed in the paragraph when something slipped out from between the pages, fluttering silently to the floor. Frowning, I bent down, my fingers brushing against the glossy surface of a Polaroid.

A strange sense of anticipation tightened in my chest.

As I flipped it over, a flood of emotions hit me all at once, causing my heart to race uncontrollably, as if it were a wild animal suddenly unleashed from its cage.

It was a photo of me—taken on Valentine’s Day, a date forever etched into my memory.

Blake had snapped it while I was curled up with the book he’d left on my pillow, sunlight spilling through the window, wrapping me in a golden glow. My damp hair was tucked into a white towel, and I was wearing the pink Victoria’s Secret pajama set my grandparents had gifted me last Christmas.

I held my breath, stealing a glance at Blake’s sleeping form.

Had he kept this the whole time?

Hidden between the pages of a book?

A rush of heat crawled up my back.

I should’ve put it back. I should’ve closed the book, stepped away, and pretended I’d never seen it. But my fingers lingered on the glossy surface, and my heart pounded just a little too fast.

Blake wasn’t just keeping this picture; he was keeping it close.

I exhaled shakily, tucking the book under my arm as I slowly backed toward the door. But just as I did, the sheets rustled, and a low, sleepy voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Beverly?” Blake shifted up onto his elbow, blinking drowsily at me. His hair was tousled, messy, falling into his eyes, and his bare chest caught what little light filtered through the curtains.

I swallowed, gripping the Polaroid like a lifeline. “Uh—hi.”

“What’s got you looking so flustered?” His gaze drifted from my face to the book in my arms, then down to the photo in my hand. He frowned slightly, pushing himself up more. “You okay?”

I wasn’t sure if it was the dim light, the blanket that had slipped low on his hips, or the way he was looking at me, but something about the moment felt delicate, like stepping onto thin ice. I wasn’t even sure what to say, wasn’t sure if he could hear the way my breath hitched.

I cleared my throat and gestured to the book tucked under my arm. “Mind if I borrow this?”

“Only if you promise to return it,” he replied with a yawn. “Otherwise, I might have to hunt you down.”

I offered a quick nod.

Lifting the Polaroid, I asked, “You use this as a bookmark?”

His eyes flickered down to it. He didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he looked resigned. Maybe even a little amused.

A slow breath. Then, “Why not? It’s a great picture of you.”

I stared at him, waiting for more—for him to say something else, something that would make sense of the fire spreading through my chest.

Blake hesitated, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to wake himself up fully. Then he exhaled, leaning back against the pillows. His gaze drifted past me, lingering somewhere near the door, before settling back on my face.

“It just felt right,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “You’re always running around, doing stuff, thinking about a million things at once. But when you’re reading, you just…are.”

“And why exactly did you feel the need to keep it in here?” I pointed at the book again.

Blake stretched, resting an arm behind his head, watching me with an unreadable expression. “Because I like looking at it.”

His gaze held mine—unwavering, like he wasn’t even a little ashamed of the admission.

I licked my lips. “Uh?—”

He sighed, rubbing his temple. “Look, if you want to put it back, put it back. If you want to keep it, keep it. Just don’t freak out about it, okay?”

“I’m not freaking out.”

His brow lifted. “Your face says otherwise.”

I huffed. “Excuse me for being caught off guard by the fact that you’ve been secretly hoarding a picture of me.”

Blake let out a soft laugh. “It’s not that deep, B.”

But something in his voice said it was. The Polaroid suddenly felt impossibly warm between my fingers.

My pulse thrummed in my ears.

Blake watched me carefully. “You gonna stand there all night, or…?”

Shaking my head, I managed, “I should go.”

He hummed, his gaze lingering on me for a second too long. “Yeah,” he said softly, “you should.”

I should have left then. I should have walked out before I said something I couldn’t take back. I should have gone back to my room and pretended I hadn’t just found proof of something I’d been trying not to hope for. Instead, I stepped closer.

I wasn’t feeling like reading anymore.

And I definitely wasn’t feeling like sleeping.

Blake’s gaze was heavy on me, a quiet hum beneath my skin. He was waiting, arm still tucked behind his head, fingers idly tapping against the pillow.

The Polaroid still burned between my fingers, but I didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about why he kept it, why he looked at it, why the way he said it just felt right made something in me come undone.

I needed to do something. Something reckless. Something to shake this feeling loose before it swallowed me whole.

“Let’s go somewhere,” I blurted.

His brows furrowed as he cast a quick glance at the clock. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“So?” I shrugged. “Let’s do something reckless.”

I expected him to argue, or to roll his eyes and send me back to bed. But instead, he just said, “Define reckless.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, glancing toward the window. “I don’t know. Something that makes sense right now and will probably feel stupid in the morning.” I tossed the Polaroid onto his nightstand and crossed the room to his window, peering outside. The street was empty, bathed in the eerie glow of the flickering streetlamp. “Let’s drive.”

Blake sighed like he was already regretting humoring me, but then he pushed back the covers, rolling out of bed in one fluid motion. He didn’t even bother grabbing a shirt, just yanked on the nearest pair of jeans.

“Oh, the things I do for you,” he muttered, pushing me out of his room along with him. “If we get arrested, I’m blaming you.”

I smiled at the thought. “Deal.”

Three minutes later, we were in Mom’s car, the windows down despite the March chill, the radio humming softly.

He let me pick the music, and I flipped through the stations until I landed on Street Dreams by Nas, nodding along to the beat. It filled the car for all of ten seconds before Blake reached over and switched it back a track—to Heaven Ain’t Hard 2 Find by 2Pac.

I shot him a look, silently protesting my lost choice.

He just shrugged and said, “This one reminds me of you.”

A sudden tug at my heartstrings stopped me from protesting further. “Hm,” I hummed, tapping my fingers against my knee, watching streetlights blur past the windshield.

We drove past dark houses and empty streets, past gas stations with flickering neon signs, past the familiar edges of town.

The farther we went, the more awake I felt, as if every inch of me was buzzing.

“So,” Blake tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you actually going to tell me where we’re going, or are we just driving until we run out of gas?”

Suppressing a grin, I rolled the window down even further, letting the cool night air whip through my hair. “The beach.”

Blake’s eyes widened, his hand freezing mid-motion on the gear shift. “B, that’s an hour away?—”

“Then we’d better pick up the pace.”

“—and the water’s freezing?—”

“Come on, live a little,” I said, batting my lashes. “When’s the last time you did something just for the fun of it?”

He sighed, turning the volume up. “God help me.”

I stole a glance at his bare chest, the muscles gleaming under the soft glow of the dashboard lights. “You couldn’t put on a shirt?” I asked, fiddling with the hem of my pajamas that I hadn’t bothered to change before leaving the house.

Blake glanced down at himself, as if just now realizing his state of undress. “Didn’t think I’d need one. I didn’t think we’d be heading to the beach in the middle of the night. I figured it was just a quick drive to park somewhere and maybe grab some ice cream or something.”

I smiled slyly. “You underestimate me.”

“Clearly,” he muttered, eyes back on the road.

My knee bounced, buzzing. Maybe it was the thrill of sneaking out. Maybe it was Blake beside me, his hands gripping the wheel, his jaw tense in that way that meant he was fighting a smile.

“Trust me,” I said, propping my feet up on the dashboard. “The beach beats sitting around in a parking lot.”

He shot me a sideways glance. “That remains to be seen.”

He sighed again, this time with a hint of amusement, as the melody of Lovefool by The Cardigans filled the car. I couldn’t help myself; the moment was too perfect. I began to sing along.

“ Love me, love me, say that you love me… ”

Blake rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“ Pretend that you love me… ” I turned toward him fully, my voice growing louder and more dramatic.

“You really don’t have to do this, B.”

“Shut up,” I shot back. “You love my voice! Just admit it.”

He shook his head. “I really don’t,” he said, his lips pressing together in a weak attempt to suppress a grin.

He was trying so hard to keep up the act.

“You do.” I stretched out the word, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not?—”

“Admit it,” I teased. “You’re obsessed with me.”

The moment those words escaped my lips, he finally turned to me, a flicker of something deeper crossing his face that sent a thrill through me. “Obsessed is a strong word.”

“But accurate,” I murmured, holding his gaze, my pulse quickening as I tried to decipher his expression.

His lips parted, as if he was about to fire back with a clever retort, but something stopped him. Instead, he just shook his head, exhaling a deep sigh.

“See?” I grinned, just a little bit smug. “You can’t even argue.”

His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he kept his eyes glued to the road. “You’re something, that’s for sure.”

“You’d miss me if I were gone.”

His eyes found mine again, looking me up and down with a mix of amusement and something else that made my heart race. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” I nodded confidently, leaning back in my seat. “Don’t even pretend that you wouldn’t.”

His silence was telling enough.

By the time we pulled up to the beach, my pulse was thrumming with anticipation. The water stretched out in front of us, dark and endless, the moon casting a silver path across its surface. “Are you sure you still want to do this?” Blake asked.

“Obviously.” I didn’t hesitate, tugging off my pajama shirt and tossing it aside, followed quickly by my shorts and shoes. I stood there in my underwear, the thrill of the moment drowning out the chill of the night on my bare skin.

Blake sighed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe me, but there was a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. As he began to unbutton his jeans, I quickly looked away.

“Beverly Price,” he mused. “You getting shy on me now?”

I shot him a glare, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck. “Just get in the water.”

With a soft chuckle, he tossed his jeans aside and sprinted toward the shore in nothing but his boxers. The sand felt cold beneath my feet as I hurried after him, my heart racing.

Without warning, Blake dove in. A gasp tore from my lips as he disappeared beneath the surface. Then, a second later, he popped up, shaking his hair out like some kind of golden retriever.

“Cold?” I called out, arms wrapped around myself.

“Come find out.”

I hesitated for only a heartbeat before lunging forward.

The water hit me like a shockwave—freezing and breath-stealing. I surfaced with a sharp gasp, my lungs protesting as I shoved my hair back and glanced over to find Blake laughing at my expense.

“Told you,” he said, swimming closer.

“You didn’t tell me shit,” I gritted out, teeth chattering.

He was right in front of me now, so close that the water between us barely existed.

“What?” he murmured, voice softer now. “Regretting it?”

I shook my head, my breath coming faster. “No.”

For a moment, neither of us moved.

The waves lapped gently around us, the only sound between us the distant hush of the tide and the quiet pull of our breathing. The moonlight traced the angles of his face, catching on the droplets sliding down his skin and illuminating the way his hair glistened like spun gold.

Blake’s face hardened. “You’re shaking.”

I was.

From the cold, maybe. From something else, definitely.

His fingers brushed my arm—light, barely there, but I felt it everywhere. It was enough to make my breath stutter, enough to make me hyperaware of the space between us—too little and somehow still too much.

“I’m fine,” I said, though my body betrayed me, a tremor rippling through me.

“Yeah?” His lips curved, not quite a smile, more like something thoughtful. Calculating. His thumb drifted lower, just enough to brush the bare skin of my hip before retreating, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” My voice was quieter now, breathless in a way I hadn’t meant for it to be.

I swallowed hard, feeling my heart hammer against my ribs.

I wasn’t sure of anything right now.

Blake’s eyes held mine, the amusement in them fading into something quieter, something I couldn’t name. The waves curled around us, and every instinct screamed at me to lean in.

“You’re staring,” I whispered, my voice barely above the sound of the ocean.

“So are you,” he murmured back.

A quiet, nervous laugh escaped my lips. He wasn’t wrong.

His fingers brushed against my hip again, this time lingering, testing. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. I knew I should have pulled back, should have made a joke or done something to break the spell of this moment before it swallowed me whole.

But I didn’t. Instead, I let out a shaky breath, tilting my head up to meet his gaze fully. “Blake?—”

He didn’t let me finish.

One second, we were floating, the space between us thinning like a thread about to snap. The next, his hands were on my waist, and he was dunking me under the water.

A shocked gasp never made it past my lips before the cold swallowed me whole. I surfaced with a sharp inhale, rubbing the sting from my eyes, blinking rapidly as I tried to shake off the shock. “What the hell?”

Blake was already laughing, chest rising and falling with it, his eyes bright with mischief.

I glared at him. “You’re actually the worst.”

“Oh, come on.” He reached out with a grin, ruffling my hair. Water dripped down my face as I glared harder, but he only chuckled. “You were getting all serious on me.”

I was. And maybe that was the problem.

Scowling, I lunged at him, shoving a wave of water straight into his face. He barely flinched, shaking his head like a wet dog before retaliating, sending an even bigger splash in my direction.

I shrieked, stumbling back against the pull of the tide.

“You are so dead!”

“Catch me if you can,” he challenged, already swimming backward, that damn smirk still playing on his lips.

I didn’t think twice.

I chased after him, kicking against the waves. We spent the next few minutes like that—splashing and trying to one-up each other. Blake always had to turn everything into a challenge or competition, even something as simple as a splash fight. I wasn’t sure if it was the rush of winning or just the need to push my buttons, but either way, it made me want to keep up.

Eventually, the exhaustion caught up to us.

I let myself float for a moment, breath coming hard, staring up at the stars scattered across the sky.

Blake treaded water beside me, quieter now. “You happy, B?”

I turned my head to look at him, the wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead tempting me to reach out and push them back, but I stopped myself. “Yeah,” I admitted, the words slipping out more honestly than I expected.

He nodded, gaze drifting out toward the horizon. “Good.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.

Before I could say anything,he spoke again, his voice softer. “Thank you.”

I frowned. “For what?”

“For teaching me how to swim three years ago. If you hadn’t, I don’t think I’d be here with you right now. I wouldn’t have been able to stay afloat…in more ways than one.” He looked at me then, and there was something raw in his eyes, something vulnerable I wasn’t used seeing. “Beverly, I—” He stopped himself, taking a breath as if the words weren’t coming easily. “I just want to say… I owe you more than you know.”

The weight of his words hit me all at once, the memory of those summer days resurfacing. I felt a swell of gratitude, both for him and for the strange way our paths had come together.

I wanted to ask what else was going through his mind, to peel back whatever was going on behind those unreadable eyes. But before I could, he splashed me one last time and said, “Alright, let’s get out before we freeze to death.”

I groaned but didn’t argue, following him back toward the shore. As soon as I stepped out of the water, the night air hit me like a wall of ice. I shuddered violently, wrapping my arms around myself. Glancing down at my discarded pajama shorts, I realized that they were just about as useful as nothing at all.

Blake grabbed his jeans from where they’d been thrown carelessly on the sand and tossed them toward me. “Here.”

I hesitated, but the shiver running through me won over my pride. I pulled the jeans over my damp legs, zipping them up as quickly as I could. When I looked up again, Blake was watching me. His gaze was the same as always—unreadable, distant, like there was something he was keeping locked away.

“What?” I asked, pulling his jeans tighter around my waist.

He shook his head, his lips barely twitching. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

I could feel it, lingering between us, just out of reach.

And I realized, once again, that he was a shadow in my life—something not to be held, but to be admired from afar, teaching me to appreciate the things in life that can’t be owned.