Beverly

Chapter 20

20

BEVERLY, 1998

16 years old

The world was spinning. Or maybe it was just me.

Either way, I wasn’t handling it well.

The house was quiet, my steps a little too loud as I stumbled into the hallway, kicking off my shoes with less coordination than I would’ve liked. My dad was working a late shift, and my mom was probably already asleep. But Blake… Blake was here.

I knew he was. I could feel him. Even when he wasn’t in the room, even when we weren’t speaking, his presence lingered like something I couldn’t shake. I hated him for that. For being everywhere in my head.

I tugged my jacket off and threw it somewhere, then fumbled my way toward his room. I was drunk, but not enough to forget what I wanted to say.

This was so stupid… But I wasn’t just drunk—I was desperate. And full of something sharp and aching, something that had been festering since the moment he showed up at that party.

Blake’s door was cracked open. The light was on.

He sat on the edge of his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out, fingers absently playing with something on his wrist.

A pink scrunchie. My scrunchie.

Had that been there earlier ?

Had he been wearing it all night?

His shirt was slightly wrinkled, his flannel tossed onto the chair in the corner. His buzzed hair still looked wrong, and it made me angry all over again.

Blake looked up.

And now here I was.

Standing in his bedroom doorway at one in the morning, still in my stupid pink halter top, my silver hoops dangling against my neck, my mascara slightly smudged from sweat and alcohol and the weight of everything I didn’t want to name.

I stepped inside without an invitation, shutting the door behind me. Blake let out a slow, controlled sigh, watching me like I was a grenade someone had just tossed at his feet.

“Let me ask you something,” I managed,swallowing down the nerves clawing up my throat.

He ran a hand over his jaw, as if he already knew this wasn’t going to end well. “You’re drunk, B. And it’s late. Go to bed, yeah? You need to sleep it off.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” I said, stepping further inside. “I want you to answer me.”

Blake gave me a look that screamed he’d rather be doing anything else. “Is this about the party? Because if you’re about to yell at me for pulling that guy off you, save it. You didn’t want him touching you either.”

Before I could think about how ridiculous I sounded—I blurted out, “Why don’t you ever look at girls?”

Blake tensed, his fingers still wrapped around the scrunchie. His head tilted slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right.

“You never look at girls.” I crossed my arms, swaying slightly on my feet. “You never talk about them. Ever.”

He ran a hand through his freshly buzzed hair, his eyes unreadable. “So?” he asked, his voice flat.

“The girls at school talk about it, you know,” I continued. “How you’ve never had a girlfriend. How you never show interest in anyone.” Lies . They’ve never talked about it.

I just wanted him to say something. Anything .

I wanted him to snap.

Blake exhaled, slow and measured, as if he was already deciding how much patience he was willing to spare me. “And?”

I swallowed, trying to organize my thoughts, but everything felt a little blurry, a little too loose in my brain. “It’s just…odd. It’s odd that you don’t look at girls the way other guys do, and?—”

I broke off, dragging a hand through my hair in frustration. Blake’s expression didn’t change, but I swore I saw the slightest twitch in his jaw.

I kept going, the alcohol making me too bold. “They think you’re hiding something.” Liar, liar, liar. “And I just wanted you to know that if...” My throat tightened.

I knew I was pushing it. But I was so tired of never knowing.

“I want you to know I would never judge you or anything. I-I know there’s some of those assholes around, but seriously, nowadays it’s normal for people to be—” I couldn’t say the word.

I didn’t want to accuse him of anything.

You had to wait for someone to be ready to open up about it, right ?

Blake let out a humorless breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I mean, it’s just odd,” I said, the words tumbling out of me as I ignored the irritation rolling off him in waves. “You never mention anyone, never date, never?—”

“And what, Beverly? Go on. Finish the sentence.”

I winced at his tone. This was stupid. I knew it was stupid.

Blake stared at me for a long second. “You think I’m gay?”

“I don’t know! I just…” I just wanted him to prove me wrong.

I held my breath.

His eyes bore into me, unblinking. “I’m not gay, Beverly.” There was a pause before he continued, the words coming out with a force I wasn’t expecting—like he needed me to understand this as much as he needed to say it. “I like girls. I always have.”

I stared at him because that wasn’t an answer.

Not the answer I wanted.

So I pushed harder.“Then why aren’t you interested in going out? Or flirting? Or?—”

Blake shoved to his feet so fast that I stepped back. “ Fuck , seriously, B?”

“Watch it,” I warned, feeling small under his stare.

He stepped closer, and I stepped back. Not because I was afraid, but because Blake was angry, and I suddenly felt like I was standing on the edge of something I didn’t understand.

“No, you watch it ,” he said, cutting through my drunken haze like a knife. “You don’t get to come in here, drunk off your ass, and start making assumptions about me.”

“I’m not making assumptions. I’m just curious.”

Blake scoffed. “Girls. Always so eager to listen to rumors?—”

“No, no, no,” I cut in, feeling defensive. “I’ve noticed it, Blake. I’ve known you for years, and you’ve never shown interest in anyone. It’s weird!”

“Oh, I’m weird now?”

I groaned, dragging both hands through my hair as the tension in my chest began to make my head ache. My thoughts were swirling, alcohol still clouding my judgment.

Blake’s expression hardened. “I could date just for the sake of dating. I could hook up with a different girl every weekend just because everyone else is doing it. But I’m not going to waste a second of my affection on somebody I don’t care about.” His voice was cold, matter-of-fact. “Why use girls just for the sake of saying I did, huh? I don’t care about hookups. I don’t care about parties. That’s not me. You know that.”

I blinked, momentarily thrown off by his words.

“I’m going to do things my way, at my pace,” Blake continued. “I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not to impress others. And if that makes me some kind of freak in your eyes,” his voice dipped lower, “then I don’t care. I won’t chase after girls just to prove something to a bunch of people who don’t know a damn thing about me.”

I swallowed hard. “I never said you had to?—”

“Then what’s the problem? What’s this all about?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Blake studied me, his green eyes piercing in a way that made my stomach tighten. “What’s this really about?” he pressed, his voice low, almost accusing. “You want to see me with someone, Beverly? You want proof?”

My brows furrowed in confusion before my blood ran cold.

I barely recognized my own voice when I whispered, “What?”

Blake wasn’t the type to lash out, not like this. But there was something reckless in his eyes now, something simmering just beneath the surface.

“If you want me to go out with a girl that badly, fine… I will. Go ahead. Pick a girl. I’ll take her out tomorrow. Kiss her, even.” His eyes bore into mine, searching. “Is that what you want, B?”

My stomach twisted violently. “Don’t be an ass.”

Blake’s gaze softened just the slightest bit, but I hated him.

I hated him for saying it.

“Then stop acting like this, Beverly.”

I couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore, so I stared at the floor, my mind racing to find some way to make it better, to make this moment go away. “I… I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to explain yourself.”

Blake let out a sharp breath, his chest rising and falling with the force of it. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if he needed something to do.

“Forget it. You’re drunk.”

I sucked in a shaky breath. “Blake…”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then he reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and tossed it to me. I caught it, fumbling slightly, my drunken brain struggling to register what I was holding.

A cell phone.

Small. Blue. Brand new.

I stared at it, confused. “What?—?”

“It’s yours.”

I blinked. “Mine? You…you got me a phone?”

“Us.”

Guilt crashed into me so fast and hard that I felt it in my ribs, in the pit of my stomach, in the unsteady grip of my fingers around the phone. My phone. My first phone.

I felt like I was going to throw up from the guilt.

Blake shoved his hands into his pockets. “For the next time you’re at a party and need to call someone.” His voice was flat. “You shouldn’t have to rely on other people.”

I looked at him, the fight bleeding out of me, draining into the floor, leaving nothing but shame in its place.

Blake—always looking out for me, always making sure I had everything I needed, even when I pushed him away. Even when I was reckless and thoughtless and selfish.

“This is my first phone,” I whispered.

“I know.”

I ran my thumb over the keys, blinking back the ridiculous sting behind my eyes. I didn’t deserve this. Not after tonight. Not after what I’d just done. Not after the things I’d said.

“When did you buy it?”

“Earlier.”

Earlier.

Before the party.

Before I’d let some guy put his hands on me just to get a reaction out of him. Before I’d made a complete fool of myself.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my lips together.

When did I become this person?

When did I start treating him like this?

I had spent all night trying to get under his skin, like some pathetic, desperate girl in a movie.

I forced myself to swallow past the guilt sitting like a stone in my throat. “But that’s so—” My voice wavered. “Blake, these are expensive. You must’ve spent a fortune…”

Blake shrugged.

I clutched the phone in my hands, staring down at it like it held all the things I didn’t know how to say.

“Just keep it on you, alright?” His voice was tired, like he was done talking. Like he needed me out of his room.

“Blake, I?—”

“Goodnight, Beverly.”

He turned away, walking to his dresser like I wasn’t still standing there.

That was it.

He ignored me. Dismissed me.

Left me standing there, holding a gift, feeling like I had lost something I never even had.

I barely remembered walking into my room.

My legs felt unsteady, the alcohol still humming in my bloodstream, but it wasn’t the dizziness that made me sway—it was the ache. The sick feeling in my stomach that wouldn’t go away. It sat in my stomach, heavy and unwelcomed, twisting in ways I didn’t know how to stop.

I shut the door behind me and collapsed onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling as Blake’s words clung to my skin like something I couldn’t scrub off.

Swallowing hard, I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the night away, willing the alcohol out of my system, and willing myself to forget the way he looked at me when he said, ‘Pick a girl. I’ll take her out tomorrow.’

I pressed the heels of my palms against my closed eyes, but it didn’t help. Nothing did. Nothing could drown out the heavy pressure on my chest, the dull ache of Blake shutting me out.

Goodnight, Beverly.

Rolling onto my side, I fumbled blindly for the phone I’d tossed onto the sheets. My fingers curled around it, gripping the small device like it was my lifeline. I brought it close, my breath hitching when I clicked a button and the screen flickered to life.

NOKIA

I blinked against the dull glow that cut through the darkness of my room, struggling to make sense of the tiny buttons. My vision was blurred by unshed tears, alcohol, and regret.

The guilt was still there, curling under my ribs like a bruise.

With trembling hands, I pressed a few buttons, half expecting it to explode in my grasp.

A menu popped up. No missed calls. No messages.

It took me longer than I’d like to admit to get to my contacts. There were only two saved numbers. Home and Blake.

My chest caved in.

He’d already saved himself in my phone. Of course, he had.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to open a new message. My fingers froze over the keyboard as I tried to figure out what I wanted to say.

I typed the first thing that came to mind.

I hit send before I could overthink it. My heart raced wildly as I stared at the screen, desperately willing him to answer.

A second passed.

Then another.

Then the phone buzzed.

I clicked the button, and his reply appeared.

That sick feeling in my stomach only got worse.

I blinked at the screen, my vision growing even blurrier, my fingers shaking as I tried to type something else.

I licked my lips, hesitating.

I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t know where to start.

So I typed something else instead.

I typed, deleted, typed again.

My lips twitched despite everything.

A few seconds passed.

I huffed out a small, breathy laugh.

I bit my lip. I wasn’t even sure why I was still annoying him, why I was still trying to pull something out of him after everything I’d done tonight. But I couldn’t stop.

I felt a shift in the weight pressing down on my chest, just a little. It wasn’t relief, but something close. I curled in on myself, gripping the phone tighter. There were so many things I wanted to say, but none of them felt like enough.

I stared at the words until my vision blurred again.

The words seemed pathetic even as I sent them.

I didn’t deserve his patience, understanding, or kindness.

Seconds stretched out, slow and painful.

The response took longer this time.

A painful release of air escaped my lungs.

I didn’t have a reply to that.

Not one I was brave enough to send.

So I settled for something easy.

I curled deeper into my blankets, pressing the phone against my chest. The sick feeling was still there—lingering, stubborn, refusing to loosen its grip.

But this helped.