Chapter 17
17
BLAKE, 1998
17 years old
I should’ve left.
The moment I saw Beverly in that pink halter top, looking soft and bright and not mine , I should have turned around and left before this feeling could sink its claws into me.
Instead, I sat there, gripping the armrest of the couch like it was the only thing stopping me from making a bad decision.
Jamal was talking. Saying something about a girl he met last week, or maybe something about a song playing too loud over the speakers. I wasn’t listening.
Because Beverly was dancing—with that smug, bleach-blond moron who probably spent more time perfecting his tan than he did forming coherent thoughts.
I knew I shouldn’t have come. I should never have let Jamal drag me here, never let myself believe I could sit in the same room as her and pretend she didn’t own me.
But now, it was too late.
Pink. Silver. Bare skin.
I couldn’t stop seeing her.
She was playing with me. I knew it. She knew it.
The way she threw that sure over her shoulder, the way she didn’t even spare me a glance—she wanted me to react.
It was a test.
I just didn’t know the rules.
I didn’t know what she wanted me to do.
But I knew what I wanted to do.
I wanted to drag her away from him. I wanted to put my mouth where that stupid butterfly charm dangled above her stomach and see if she still thought this was a game.
But I did none of those things.
I just sat there, breathing through my nose, digging my fingers into the fabric of the couch, forcing myself to stay put.
Jamal shifted beside me. “Blake.”
I ignored him.
He tried again. “Blake…” His voice was casual, but I could hear the warning in it.
“She doesn’t even like him,” I muttered, my voice low. “It’s written all over her face.”
Jamal followed my gaze and sighed.
“She’s just—” I exhaled, my grip tightening. “She’s just doing this to piss me off.”
He cursed under his breath. “Alright, you need to breathe before you do something stupid. Because if this was my sister, I would do something stupid.”
The word rattled in my skull, scraped against the inside of my ribcage like something sharp and ugly. I hated it. Hated the way it sounded in my head, hated the way he said it, like that was all she could ever be. Like that was all she was supposed to be.
Sister , but she let him put his hands on her waist.
Sister , but she tilted her head just enough for him to whisper something in her ear.
Sister , but she knew exactly what she was doing when she glanced over at me, waiting for a reaction.
My jaw clenched so hard it ached.
I forced myself to sit back.
I could handle this. I had to handle this.
Beverly could dance with whoever the hell she wanted.
I had no right to feel like this.
A minute passed. Maybe two.
Then I heard her laugh.
Sharp. And wrong .
Because it was forced.
Because it wasn’t the real one—the laugh I knew by heart. The laugh that slipped out when she was actually happy. The laugh that curled through her throat when I said something completely unfunny just to make her roll her eyes, or when Tiffany tripped over air and swore she meant to do it.
This laugh? It was hollow. A performance.
Then I saw his hands slide lower, and Beverly flinched. It was barely noticeable—a quick, fleeting movement, so subtle that anyone else might have missed it.
But I didn’t.
Jamal groaned. “Ah, shit.”
I was already moving, already making my way through the crowd, my vision narrowing, my hands itching.
I was done watching.
Because he still had his hands on her.
Because Beverly wasn’t smiling anymore.
I reached him in seconds, grabbed his shoulder, and yanked him back. “Hands off.”
He stumbled slightly before turning to me with an irritated look. “What the?—?”
Then his eyes met mine. His cocky grin faltered.
“She’s done dancing with you.”
“You her boyfriend or something?”
I didn’t repeat myself.
His confidence wavered. He looked at Beverly for help.
She said nothing. She just stood there.
He laughed, raising his hands. “Alright, man. Whatever.”
Then he was gone.
I let out a breath, forcing my shoulders to relax. I waited, bracing myself for the inevitable storm. I expected Beverly to unleash her frustration, to tell me I was meddling too much, to call me overprotective, and to tell me to stay out of her business.
To my surprise, she didn’t.
Instead, she just stared at me, her eyes wide and unreadable, like she didn’t know what to say. Like she didn’t know what to do with me. Like she didn’t know what to do with herself.
The silence stretched.
Her mouth parted slightly, like she was about to say something, but then she closed it.
Silence can be more devastating than any argument. Did you know that? It holds a power to break hearts, to create distance where there should be connection.
I should’ve said something.
Should’ve asked if she was okay.
Should’ve admitted that I wasn’t.
But instead, I turned around and sat back down, feeling the weight of her silence settle like a stone in my chest.