Chapter 13
13
BLAKE, 1997
16 years old
You’d think swimming at night wasn’t that ‘reckless’. More people probably died slipping in their bathtubs than from taking a late-night swim. And it wasn’t like we’d been caught in a storm or fighting against a current—just two people floating under the stars, talking, getting lost in something neither of us had the guts to name.
But the universe had a way of humbling me.
Beverly got pneumonia. And not just the mild kind—the kind that knocked her out cold, leaving her pale and exhausted, her voice barely above a whisper when she actually spoke. The kind that had her burning up with fever one second and shaking from chills the next. She tried to brush it off at first, insisting it was just a bad cold, but by the third day, she could barely sit up in bed without looking like she’d run a marathon.
Mom nearly lost her mind when she found out how bad it was. She blamed herself for not noticing sooner, but really, it was my fault. I was the one who dunked her under, who kept her out there too long. The one who, apparently, forgot how basic human biology works and failed to consider that maybe prolonged exposure to cold water wasn’t a smart idea.
I should’ve known better.If I hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, maybe she wouldn’t have spent the next two weeks coughing like she had a pile of gravel in her chest.
She wouldn’t let me see her at first. Not even a glimpse.
“Blake, I swear, if you come in here, I’ll cough all over you,” she croaked through the door.
“Joke’s on you, I’ve had worse,” I shot back, lingering outside her room like a fool who didn’t know when to leave.
“I look like hell, Blake.”
Like I gave a damn what she looked like. I’d seen her face-plant into the dirt after trying to ride a skateboard for the first time.
I knew what she looked like in her less-than-perfect moments, and this? This was hardly her worst moment.
“You didn’t exactly look like an angel before,” I teased, hoping she could hear the smile in my voice, “so I don’t see the problem.”
A thud against the door. Probably a pillow. Or maybe she’d just given up and let her forehead hit the wood out of sheer exasperation. Hard to tell with her.
Regardless, I wasn’t going anywhere. She could fight me on this all she wanted, but logic was on my side. And logically, if someone was sick and feverish and potentially on the brink of death (dramatic? Maybe. But not impossible), then someone else should be there to make sure they don’t stop breathing in their sleep. Even though my mind throbbed with the need to study, I was too busy choosing Beverly over it to care.
I made excuses to check on her—dropped off soup, medicine, Gatorade. It didn’t matter that she barely touched any of it, or that she sent me away with a grumble or a weak wave of her hand.
I just needed to be there. To sit by her bed while she slept, even if she was barely aware of my presence. To make sure the fever wasn’t too high, to watch her chest rise and fall, to make sure she wasn’t slipping away from me.
At least she didn’t have to go to school for three weeks. She didn’t have to see Mason. He was out of the hospital, walking around like nothing happened, like he wasn’t a predator who deserved to be put back in the dirt where I’d left him that night.
If it were up to me, he never would’ve gotten out.
The days dragged on. Time didn’t heal anything, but Beverly got better. Slowly.
She changed, too. She stopped eating meat. I caught her staring at her plate during lunch, picking at the food like it was something she didn’t recognize.
When I asked her what was up, she shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “It just doesn’t feel right.”
She dyed a few strands of her hair pink, too, like she needed something new, something to mark the time before and after. I didn’t ask why. At first, I thought it was some fever-induced decision she’d regret, but when she saw her reflection, she smiled. A small, real smile. A smile I hadn’t seen in a while.
So I told her it suited her. Because it did.
Meanwhile, I was doing whatever I could to stay busy, to escape the thoughts that kept creeping in, reminding me how useless I felt. I got a job at the local cinema, working long shifts for minimum wage, smelling like popcorn oil every day. It was a crappy job, but it was something. Something that meant I could actually buy Beverly that ice cream I talked about that night in the car instead of just running my mouth like an idiot who had nothing to offer.
Because, really, what kind of guy was I if I couldn’t even buy her an ice cream?
I started going to the gym too.
When I wasn’t working, I put my body through hell, lifting weights until my muscles screamed, running until my lungs felt like they were being ripped apart. Every time I wanted to give up halfway through, all I had to do was think about Beverly being taken advantage of—about how I wasn’t there to stop it, how it could happen again, to her or to someone else, and I wouldn’t be strong enough to do a damn thing about it. The anger that came with that thought, it was like a fire inside me that wouldn’t go out. It just kept burning hotter, pushing me harder, driving me until I couldn’t feel anything but the ache in my body and the need to be better. Stronger. For her. For me.
One night, after the gym, I met up with Jamal.
He was working late at his family’s restaurant, wiping down tables when I walked in. The place had emptied out for the night, but the soft hum of the kitchen still lingered in the air.
When he looked up and saw me, his eyes widened. “Damn,” he said, setting down the rag. “What are they feeding you at that gym?”
“Protein,” I said with a wink. “And determination.”
He shook his head, laughing, and tossed me a piece of flatbread from behind the counter. “Eat.”
I caught it and didn’t argue. We sat in the back corner, the overhead kitchen lights humming behind us. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that made it easy to think too much.
“You ever gonna tell me what’s really going on?” he asked after a while, breaking the silence.
I tore off a piece of bread, rolling it between my fingers. “What’s there to tell?”
Jamal gave me a look—one of those that said he wasn’t buying my bullshit.
I sighed, leaning back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Just…everything. Like I’m just—” I cut myself off, shaking my head.
“Like you’re what?” Jamal pressed.
“Like I’m stuck.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Like I’m always almost something, but never enough.”
Jamal was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You know that’s bullshit, right? You’re the smartest person I know.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my bank account.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“Try saying that to someone who’s never had it,” I said, breaking off another piece of bread.
He didn’t have a comeback for that one. He just exhaled and leaned back, his gaze following mine up to the ceiling.
“Beverly’s different now,” I muttered after a while.
“Yeah. You are too.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jamal shrugged. “Just… Don’t lose yourself trying to make up for something that wasn’t your fault.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to. A thousand thoughts swirled in my mind, but the right words eluded me.
Time moved forward, whether I was ready for it or not. School, work, gym, repeat.
Beverly had officially started high school.
She was a freshman, even though she was older than most of the others. She had repeated a grade back in middle school, something that used to weigh on her but now gave her a strange sort of advantage. She carried herself differently, with a kind of resilience that the others hadn’t earned yet.
She was getting better, becoming different. Finding new things to love, new people to love. And me? I was standing on the sidelines, watching her change, watching myself change.
What else was new?