Beverly

Chapter 15

15

BLAKE, 1998

17 years old

Saturday mornings were supposed to be sacred. They were for sleeping in, avoiding all responsibilities, and staying buried under my blankets until I could no longer justify it.

But Beverly didn’t care about any of that.

The covers were ripped away from me with absolutely zero remorse, yanking me from the edge of a good dream. I groaned, curling in on myself as if that could somehow protect me from the impending doom. My hands flailed blindly in an attempt to reclaim the warmth that had been so cruelly stolen.

“Up,” Beverly ordered, sounding far too awake.

“Down,” I countered, my voice muffled in my pillow.

“Blake,” she warned.

I cracked one eye open to find her standing over me, hands on her hips, looking way too put together for this ungodly hour.

She was already dressed—Tommy Hilfiger jeans, a white tank top, and an oversized flannel that I was pretty sure was mine. Her hair was up, wisps falling loose around her face, and there was that look in her eyes—the I won’t stop until I get my way look.

“No,” I mumbled, tugging at the blanket she’d stolen from me, hoping against hope that she’d take the hint and let me drift back to sleep.

“Come on, Blake.” She hopped onto the bed, landing right beside me with an enthusiastic bounce that shook the mattress.

I grunted as I was jostled, shoving my face back into my pillow, wishing it would swallow me whole. “Why can’t you just let me sleep?”

“Because,” she declared, “I need moral support.”

“For what?” I grumbled, still half-asleep.

She leaned in, lowering her voice like it was some big secret. “I’m getting my belly button pierced.”

That woke me up.

I rolled onto my back and squinted at her. “Since when?”

“Since right now.” She was practically bouncing, biting her lip to keep from smiling too hard. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she whispered, nudging me. “We’ll make a day of it.”

Jesus Christ, she was excited about this

“A day of you getting stabbed with a needle?” I deadpanned.

“Yes.” She grinned. “And shopping.”

I pointed at my flannel. “That’s mine, by the way.”

She glanced down at it, then back at me. “Yeah. And?”

“Give it back.”

“Absolutely not. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

I blinked at her. “That’s not how clothes work.”

“That’s exactly how clothes work.”

“I hate you,” I muttered, rubbing my hands over my face, fully aware that I was losing this battle.

“You love me,” she corrected, her grin widening.

“I really don’t.”

“You’re going to make me use the face, aren’t you?”

I tensed. “Don’t.”

God help me, she did the face… Big, pleading eyes, a small, adorable pout, and a slight head tilt for maximum guilt trip efficiency. It was a lethal combination.

With a deep breath, I let out the longest sigh known to man. “Oh, the things I do for you.”

“Exactly,” she said triumphantly. “Now get dressed. We have a piercing to get and stores to raid.”

I gave one last dramatic sigh for good measure, but deep down, I knew the truth—I’d follow her anywhere.

* * *

The piercing studio was in a strip mall on Melrose, tucked between a record store and a tattoo parlor with flames painted on the windows.

The neon sign in the window flickered slightly, buzzing against the glass: PIERCINGS | TATTOOS | CASH ONLY.

The moment we stepped into it, I knew this was a mistake. The walls were plastered with posters of half-naked bodies covered in ink and heavily pierced people, their faces adorned with rings and studs in places I hadn’t even known could be pierced.

A neon sign buzzed over the counter: We Pierce Anything.

That sounded like a threat.

The air smelled like antiseptic and metal, with a faint trace of something floral—maybe incense or whatever cleaner they used to scrub down the chairs. A stereo in the corner played Closing Time by Semisonic, slightly crackly through the speakers.

Behind the counter sat a girl who looked like she had been born bored. She had black hair cut into a choppy bob, a silver hoop through her nostril, and dark lipstick that made her look permanently unimpressed.

“You here for a piercing?” she asked, flipping through a tattoo magazine like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Yeah,” Beverly said, practically buzzing with excitement. “Belly button.”

The girl sighed like she’d already predicted this. She reached under the counter and pulled out a clipboard. “Fill this out.”

“I can’t believe this is finally happening,” Beverly whispered to me as she grabbed a pen. “I’ve wanted this forever.”

Forever, in this case, meant since last Thursday, when she saw some model in a Vogue magazine “rocking” a belly ring.

Beverly took the form, and I leaned over her shoulder as she started writing. “Do they have a section where you sign away your right to sue when this inevitably gets infected?”

She shot me a look. “It’s not going to get infected.”

I crossed my arms. “You do realize there’s a high chance of that happening? Your belly button is literally the perfect breeding ground for bacteria. It’s warm, it traps moisture?—”

She smacked my arm with the clipboard. “Shut up , Blake.”

“I’m just saying, statistically speaking?—”

“Statistically speaking, you’re annoying.”

I sighed, but I didn’t let it go. “At least promise me you’ll clean it twice a day with saline solution. No sleeping on your stomach for a while. No touching it with dirty hands. No tight clothes. And definitely no swimming for at least?—”

“Are you the piercer? No? Then stop acting like it.”

I looked over at the girl behind the counter, who was watching us with mild amusement. “Back me up here. Belly piercings are one of the most likely to reject, right?”

She shrugged. “Only if you don’t take care of it.”

Beverly grinned smugly and went back to filling out the form. I sighed, shaking my head. While she scribbled away, I looked around again. My eyes landed on a sign NO SCREAMING in big red letters.

I nudged Beverly with my elbow. “Bet you break that rule.”

She glared. “I will not.”

The sound of the music in the background seemed to grow louder, or maybe it was just my head pounding with the thoughts of infections and bacteria. How many piercings got infected every year ? How many ended in horrifying medical disasters ? Probably a lot. Probably a concerning percentage.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the risks, the fact that I had no idea how sterilized the equipment was—hell, I didn’t even know if they used the proper antiseptic.

I blurted out, “Can you make sure the needle is clean?”

The girl behind the counter narrowed her eyes. “Of course. We sterilize everything.”

I turned to Beverly. “Did you research this place? Like, at all?”

“Blake.” Beverly patted my chest. “You are thinking too much. As usual. I am a grown woman?—”

“You are sixteen.”

After a few minutes, the girl took the clipboard back and led us to a small waiting area lined with a long vinyl couch that looked like it had seen better days. Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It by Will Smith was playing now; not exactly the soundtrack I wanted playing in the background of Beverly’s potential demise.

A guy came out from the back, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He was tall, mid-thirties maybe, with full-sleeve tattoos.

“You’re my belly button?” he asked.

“That’s me.” Beverly beamed.

He smirked and waved us back. “Come on in.”

As we followed him, I whispered, “Are we not going to address the fact that he just called you his belly button?”

Beverly shrugged. “Maybe it’s a term of endearment.”

“You ever done a belly button piercing before?” I asked, eyeing the guy suspiciously.

He met my gaze with an amused expression. “Daily.”

“Successfully?”I pressed, not hiding my concern.

“Blake,” Beverly hissed, grabbing my arm and dragging me into the back room. It was small, with a metal tray holding the tools, a sterilizer machine humming in the corner, and a big mirror mounted on the wall.

The guy, who introduced himself as Dean, gestured to the chair. “Alright, hop up here, and we’ll get started.”

Beverly climbed onto the chair without hesitation, even though I could see a slight tension in her posture. I stayed on my feet, my eyes darting around the room as I tried to process every single logical concern in my mind.

Dean snapped on a pair of black gloves. “You eaten today?”

Beverly nodded and lifted her shirt just enough to expose her stomach. “Yeah.”

I scoffed. “She had a Pop-Tart.”

He shrugged. “Should be fine.”

“Should be?” I repeated. “Not is ?”

He ignored me, unwrapping a fresh needle.

I watched Beverly squirm in the chair a little, clearly not as excited about the whole situation now that the reality of the needle was setting in. She tried to mask her nerves with a smile, but I knew she was holding her breath.

“You want a butterfly charm on the jewelry, right?” Dean asked, swabbing the area with something that smelled sterile but probably wasn’t.

Beverly grinned. “Yeah, a little dangly one.”

He nodded. “That’ll look good once it’s healed.”

“Isn’t a dangly one more likely to get caught on stuff?”

Beverly groaned. “Blake.”

The piercer chuckled. “Your boyfriend’s a worrier.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Beverly said quickly.

I ignored the sudden, unwelcome sting in my chest. “I just like to make sure she’s thinking things through.”

“Well, he’s right,” he admitted. “You’ll have to be extra careful with it.”

Beverly waved him off. “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright then.” He picked up the clamp and positioned it around her navel. Beverly tensed, and I could practically feel her heart rate increase. “Deep breath in,” he instructed.

I saw red. “B, you alright? Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she said, though her voice was a little higher-pitched than usual.

“And out.”

The needle slid through, and Beverly’s whole body stiffened, a sharp gasp slipping from her lips. Her fingers clenched the chair so hard her knuckles turned white.

I took a step forward, every single what if flashing through my mind, each one more unsettling than the last. “Hey, be careful.”

“I am. I’ve been doing this for years . She’s in good hands.”

Beverly cracked one eye open, her face twisted in a grimace. “Blake, shut up.”

I ignored her and asked him, “Are you sure that’s supposed to hurt that much?”

“It’s a needle going through skin,” he replied dryly. “What do you think?”

My jaw tightened.

I was suddenly considering the logistics of grabbing Beverly and running. “I think she’s in pain , and you should be gentler.”

“Oh my God.” Beverly groaned. “Do not yell at the man holding a needle in my stomach. Let him do his job.”

I scowled, watching Dean’s every move as he slid the jewelry into place. Beverly winced again, and something in me snapped. My fists clenched at my sides, the irrational urge to just stop the whole thing clawing at me, but before I could say anything else, he was already done. The butterfly charm dangled just above her belly button, catching the light.

“There,” Dean said, tossing his gloves. “All done.”

Beverly let out a slow breath, blinking like she had just come out of a trance. She stood, checking herself out in the mirror.

A slow grin spread across her face. “Well?” she asked.

I couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. “It does look good… But remember, no twisting or bending or?—”

“Blake, stop. I got it.”

I reached into Beverly’s bag where I’d tucked Mom’s Polaroid camera earlier and quickly pulled it out. I snapped a picture, capturing her in the mirror with her new piercing, looking so proud.

She turned, raising an eyebrow as the photo printed out.

“What?” I shrugged. “Wanted to capture the moment.”

“Alright, you’re good to go.” Dean handed her a pamphlet with aftercare instructions. “Head up front to pay.”

Beverly nodded, wincing slightly as she adjusted her shirt.

When we got to the front, she reached into her pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills.

I frowned. “What money is that?”

“Birthday money.”

I snatched the cash from her hand before she could protest, shoving it back into her wallet. “I’m paying.”

“Blake—”

“This one’s on me.”

Beverly scowled, crossing her arms. “I wanted to pay for it.”

“And I wanted to stay in bed this morning.” I pulled out my wallet and handed the girl my own cash.

She grumbled something under her breath but let me pay. As I opened the door, the sunlight hit her face, and she turned to me, smiling despite herself.

“I do love it, though,” she said. “It looks so good.”

“I give it two days before you regret it.”

She kicked me in the shin on the way out.

* * *

“So, what are you looking for?” I asked, already mentally calculating how many stores we’d hit before she was satisfied.

I was still vaguely concerned about the piercing—her stomach, the bacteria, the fact that she didn’t seem as immune to pain as she let on—but I’d pushed it all down for now.

It’s not like she’d listen to me anyway.

“Oh, you’ll see.” Beverly grinned, heading straight for a section of clothes that made me raise my eyebrows. She started pulling at pink tops—tight ones, flowy ones, ones with neon streaks down the sides—before tossing them to the side as she searched for something else. The pinker the better, it seemed.

She turned back to me, holding up a hot pink tube top with a mischievous glint in her eye. “What do you think? Too much?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems...very pink for you.”

Beverly’s grin faltered, her brows pulling together as she studied me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shifted my weight, suddenly aware I’d said the wrong thing. “I just mean you usually go for, like, baggy tees and jeans, not…” I gestured toward the tube top still dangling from her fingers.

Her frown deepened, and for a second, I thought she might drop the shirt altogether. Instead, she tilted her head, giving me a look like I was an idiot. “So, what? I can’t wear pink now?”

“That’s not what I said,” I protested quickly, but she was already turning back to the rack, yanking out another top—this one somehow even pinker.

“Maybe I just felt like switching it up,” she muttered, inspecting the fabric before she grabbed a pair of jeans that looked like they belonged on a model. Holding them up, she examined her reflection in the mirror. “What do you think?”

“I think,” I started, trying not to sound too judgmental, “those are really tight.”

“Blake, you’re so funny,” she said dryly, setting the jeans down and moving to the next section. “I need them to be tight. They’ll look better that way.”

She breezed past a wall of accessories, and I just followed, keeping my hands stuffed in my pockets and doing my best to stay out of her way.

“These are cute, right?” she asked, holding up a pair of silver hoop earrings. “Do these scream ‘I’m a bad bitch’ to you?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You already know the answer to that.”

Ignoring me, she tossed them into her basket and moved on.

“You’re a walking, talking Barbie dream,” I teased, watching her bounce from one thing to the next.

She found a white crop top with silver accents and held it up. “You think this would look good with my belly piercing?”

“What’s all this for, exactly? You buying stuff for some big date?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light, but it came out flat.

She stopped mid-pick, glancing at me. “No date, just a party.”

That hit me like a ton of bricks.

“A party?” I repeated, my voice betraying a hint of disbelief. “When? Where?”

“Just some house party,” she said, dismissing it with a wave. “Some guys from school are throwing it next weekend.”

I nodded slowly, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

A party.

Since the whole Mason thing, Beverly hadn’t shown much interest in going out. I wanted to be happy for her, to support her, but I also felt this gnawing in my stomach, this twisting thing that wouldn’t go away.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked. “I mean, it’s been a while since you’ve gone out.”

“Yeah,” she replied slowly, almost cautiously. “It will be fun.”

I stared at the clothes she was picking, but I wasn’t really seeing them. “Okay,” I finally said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “I’ll come with you. I’ll switch shifts with Liz at the cinema so I can go.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, her hand lingering over a glittery purse. “Blake, it’s fine,” she said softly, but there was something in her eyes that I couldn’t quite decipher. Something guarded. “You don’t have to.”

The air around me suddenly felt thicker, heavier.

“You don’t have to go alone.”

Beverly looked at me, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “I won’t be alone. Tiffany’s going with me.”

“What if something happens? What if?—”

“Blake, I appreciate it, I do,” she cut in, and I could see the way she was weighing her words carefully. She glanced away, shifting on her feet. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to babysit me. I’m not... I’m not a kid anymore.”

The words hit me like a slap, though she didn’t mean them to.

I was silent for a long time, just watching her, trying to piece everything together. Did she not want me there? Was I smothering her? Embarrassing her? The possibility that she didn’t that she didn’t want me there suddenly made my head spin. Was I being too overprotective? Was she getting sick of me?

Maybe I had messed things up without even realizing it. God, the last thing I wanted was for her to be embarrassed by me.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out at first. I felt like I was sinking, like the ground beneath me was dissolving.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

She didn’t respond right away, and I couldn’t decide if that was worse than just flat-out saying no.

Finally, she spoke, her voice firmer than usual. “I just want to do this on my own, okay?”

It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.

I took a step back, trying to regain control of my thoughts, but all I could focus on was that sinking feeling in my chest.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” I said, barely hearing myself. “I can’t just let you go by yourself.”

She reached over and squeezed my hand. “I know you’re just trying to help. But I need to try things on my own. I want to drink bad punch and dance and maybe make some mistakes.”

I stared at her, a bitter taste rising in my mouth. “What if I’m making a mistake letting you go without me?”

She sighed, shaking her head like I was missing the point. “Blake. I’ll be fine .”

“Yeah, because that went so well the last time, huh?” I muttered, feeling the heat rise in my chest. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but I couldn’t help it. All I could think about was the last time she had gone to a party and things went sideways. I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t help her. The guilt was still there, clinging to me, making me feel like I failed her.

My protective instincts were going off like alarms. She was too damn important to me. I wasn’t about to let her just waltz into a situation where things could go wrong again.

Beverly’s gaze darkened a little. “Don’t. Don’t bring that up.”

I winced, instantly regretting the words, but it was already out there, wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry.” I dragged a hand down my face, trying to get a grip on myself. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Blake.” Her voice softened, but the way she said my name made my heart ache. “You’re worrying too much. I’ll have Tiffany with me. You’re not the only one who cares about me.”

I wanted to argue, to tell her that I wasn’t just worried. I wanted to protect her, to make sure she was safe. But something in the way she said it made me question everything. Was she pushing me away? Did she think I was too overbearing, too controlling?

“You don’t want me there, do you?”

“It’s not like that,” she replied, but the way she shifted on her feet told me otherwise.

I grabbed a random T-shirt off the rack and pretended to examine it. “You think I’ll ruin it.”

“I think you’ll be…you know. The way you always are.”

“Overthinking,” I supplied.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Like at the piercing studio. And everywhere else.”

“So, what, you think I’ll follow you around all night, stopping you from having fun?”

She didn’t answer.

Which meant yes.

I nodded slowly, tossing the shirt back onto the rack. “Got it.”

“Blake…”

“No, it’s fine,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Go, have fun. Wear all the pink you want, B.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be like that."

“I’m just looking out for you, Beverly.”

She sighed, crossing her arms as she leaned back against a clothing rack. “I know. But you don’t have to be there for everything. I’m not some fragile little thing you need to protect.”

A tight knot formed in my chest.

Something about the way she said it made me feel like I was truly suffocating her, like the care I thought was helping was, in fact, the very thing pushing her away.

“Look, I just wanna have fun. I don’t want you to come because I don’t want you hovering over me all night,” she admitted. “You’d just be there, glaring at everyone and lecturing me about bacteria. Every time I drink something, you’ll ask if I got it from the bottle or if someone handed it to me. You’ll overanalyze every little thing, Blake. You’re going to make me feel like I’m being watched, like I’m not allowed to do anything without you second-guessing everything.”

I swallowed, trying to push the lump in my throat down. A rush of insecurities flooded my mind. I wanted to say something to make this better, but nothing felt right. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t want to lose her to the things I couldn’t control, but how could I explain that without sounding like I was suffocating her?

I couldn’t even look at her.

She wasn’t saying it, but I could hear it loud and clear: I was losing her. Not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, subtle way.

And that, more than anything, scared the hell out of me.

A cold silence settled between us.

The bustling mall around us suddenly felt distant, like I was hearing it from underwater. I tried to focus on something—anything—other than the way my chest ached. But all I could see was Beverly flipping through a rack of clothes like nothing had happened, like she wasn’t slowly slipping away from me.

“Okay, then.” I tried to keep the hurt from showing, to bury it under the armor of sarcasm. “Guess I’ll just read a book while you go have fun.”

Beverly frowned, her expression softening. “Blake…”

But I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want her to apologize.

I wanted her to want me there. To need me there.

But for the first time, I wondered if she needed me at all.