Beverly

Chapter 21

21

BLAKE, 1998

17 years old

I woke up to the sound of something buzzing against my nightstand. At first, I thought I was dreaming.

Then I cracked my eyes open, groaned, and blindly reached for the source of the noise. My head was pounding—not from alcohol, but from sheer exhaustion.

I finally grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen.

1 New Message

I stared at it for a second, my mind sluggishly catching up.

I’d spent half the night glued to my phone, watching her cycle through guilt, playfulness, and drunken confessions. And now she wanted to get breakfast?Like she hadn’t spent last night pushing every button she could find?

I rubbed my eyes and sighed, debating whether to answer. Ignore it. Make her sit with what she did for a little longer . But the second I had that thought, my fingers were already moving.

I let out a slow breath, running a hand over my face.

This girl.

Yawning, I grabbed a hoodie off the chair and shuffled to the bathroom. I quickly brushed my teeth, still feeling half asleep. The cold splash of water against my face helped clear some of the fog, though it didn’t quite banish the exhaustion.

I headed downstairs, each step making the hardwood floor creak beneath me. Mom’s car sat parked in the driveway. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about driving, but saying no to Beverly?

That wasn’t an option.

As I reached for the keys on the kitchen counter, I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs. She was already dressed—looking like she’d just rolled out of bed but somehow still managed to look effortlessly put together.

She popped her head around the corner and gave me that wide-eyed, innocent look she always wore when she knew she had pushed things a little too far. “You ready?” she asked, bouncing on her heels. The oversized sunglasses perched on her face didn’t fool me for a second. She was hungover.

“Ready.”

She flashed a sweet smile, practically skipping out the door ahead of me. As I unlocked the car, she slumped into the seat with a dramatic sigh. “God, you’re a saint.”

I shot her a quick glance, my eyes lingering for a second longer than necessary. “I do have my moments.”

I caught the scent of her Tommy Girl perfume mixed with something artificial—probably the remnants of last night’s alcohol seeping from her pores.

Putting the car in drive, I stared ahead, wondering if this whole breakfast thing was just a way to keep the peace or if she genuinely didn’t remember everything from last night.

Beverly leaned back, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “Thanks for driving.”

I gave her a wink but didn’t respond, just kept driving down the street. I wasn’t sure what to do with her yet. Her texts last night had been a soft landing after the absolute mess she’d made.

She shot me a glance, her lips twitching. “You’re in a better mood than I expected.”

“And what exactly were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” Beverly shrugged. “Grumpy, brooding Blake? The one who gives me long, dramatic silence?”

“I don’t do that.”

She hummed under her breath, almost like she was trying to fill the space, but it didn’t really do anything to break the tension. Then, casually, she asked, “So, did you have any fun last night?”

I shot her a look. She was testing me. Again .

“I mean, it was your first party, right?”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “It was a blast.”

She grinned. “Oh yeah? What was the highlight?”

“Leaving.”

“Not the part where Rachel climbed into your lap?”

“Drop it, B.”

“Or the part where you told me to dance for you?”

I sighed through my nose. “Beverly.”

She chuckled. “Or the part where I actually?—”

“You’re pushing it,” I warned, keeping my eyes on the road.

She poked me in the side. “You’re so fun to mess with.”

I shook my head, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

She stretched out in her seat, sighing contentedly. “And yet, here you are, driving me to McDonald’s on a Sunday morning.”

I didn’t respond.

Because she was right. And that was the problem.

Eventually, the golden arches of McDonald’s came into view, standing out like a beacon in the morning fog. I slowed the car as we approached the drive-thru. I glanced at the menu, trying to act like I wasn’t as familiar with it as she was.

A crackling voice broke the silence. “Hi, welcome to McDonald’s! What can I get for you today?”

“Three pancakes, a side of hash browns, and an orange juice,” I told the intercom.

Beverly turned to me with a slow smile. “You remembered my order.”

“You get the same thing every time.”

She leaned forward, her hands folding in her lap as she looked toward the speaker. “And a sausage egg McMuffin,” she added confidently.

“No, just the pancakes, hash browns, and orange juice,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if the voice on the other end even heard me. It didn’t matter. Beverly was already staring at me, her mouth parted in stunned confusion.

“What?” she finally said, her voice a little higher than usual. “You love the McMuffin.”

I raised a brow. “B, when was the last time you actually saw me eat one of those? Or, for that matter, anything with meat in it?”

She blinked at me, her eyes narrowing in thought, as if the answer should be obvious, but she was coming up empty. For a moment, she just stared at me, confusion flickering across her face. Her lips parted, as if she was about to say something, but then she stopped. “I… I can’t remember.” Her voice was soft, laced with surprise. “You stopped eating meat? When?”

A quiet laugh escaped me. “Since you’ve stopped eating meat, over a year ago.”

Her eyes searched my face for any trace of a joke, any sign that I was messing with her. But there was none. I wasn’t joking.

The cashier gave me the total, and I pulled forward.

Beverly’s gaze shifted between the intercom and me, as if she was trying to figure out if she’d missed something, if she’d forgotten a detail about me that felt fundamental. “I had no idea,” she said, her voice quiet, almost apologetic. “I didn’t even realize.”

“It’s okay, B. It’s not a big deal.”

She nodded slowly, as though trying to wrap her mind around the revelation. “I guess I’ve just…never paid attention.”

“It’s no big deal, Beverly.”

She rested her head against the window. “I feel like death.”

“Good. You did this to yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “I’m aware.”

Silence stretched between us as we pulled up to the window.

I handed over a twenty, took the bag, and parked in the lot.

Beverly immediately reached for the pancakes, groaning as she took a bite. “I love you,” she moaned around the food.

I tensed. “You were an idiot last night.”

She swallowed, looking down at her food. “I know,” she said, taking another bite and chewing slowly. “Are you still mad at me?”

“No. I’m just…” I stared ahead, drumming my fingers against the wheel. “You push me, B. You push me too much.”

“I know,” she admitted quietly.

I turned to her then, studying her face. She looked exhausted. Maybe from the drinking. Maybe from other things.

I sighed, running a hand through my freshly buzzed hair. “Beverly.”

Her head snapped up at the way I said her name.

“I need you to stop. I need you to stop testing me.”

She blinked. “I wasn’t?—”

“You were.” I held her gaze. “You know you were.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

I shook my head, gripping the wheel. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Her breath hitched slightly, her fingers tightening around her orange juice. Then, barely above a whisper, “Neither do I.”

I exhaled, letting my head fall back against the seat.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know how much she owned me.

“Eat your food, B.”

She didn’t argue. Just unwrapped her hash browns, slowly picking at the edges.

The tension stayed. Because there were some things we couldn’t take back. Because the next time she tested me…

I didn’t know if I’d let her win.

* * *

I was restless. Even after I went home, showered, and grabbed a book, I couldn’t sit still. I tried sitting in the backyard under the oak tree—the same place where Beverly used to read her magazines beside me, where she used to steal my books just to irritate me, where she used to kick my leg whenever I ignored her for too long. But the book in my lap felt like dead weight.

I read the same line six times before I gave up, climbed into the car, and drove to Jamal’s.

The drive was short, but my thoughts stretched long.

By the time I parked in front of his place, the sun was sitting high in the sky, beating down on the pavement. I barely had time to knock before the door swung open.

“Blake!” Jamal’s mom answered the door, beaming when she saw me. “You finally come visit me,” she said in her thick accent, pulling me inside before I could protest.

“I was just here last week,” I pointed out, the smell of food hitting me the moment I walked in.

She waved a hand, dismissing me like that wasn’t nearly enough. “You boys disappear for hours at that gym. You know Jamal is always grumpy after workouts? Like a tired little baby.”

“He says it’s your fault because you make him eat too much.”

Her eyes widened. “This boy. I should disown him.”

I laughed softly. “You wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t… But he should still learn some manners.”

“I have manners!” Jamal called out from his room.

His mom rolled her eyes, then turned back to me with a smile. “You’re here just in time. You’ll eat with us, yes?”

I hesitated, but she was already pulling me into a hug, patting my back. I still wasn’t used to that—affection, warmth that didn’t come with conditions.

It made me uncomfortable, but not in a bad way.

Jamal’s dad was nowhere in sight, but the TV was on in the other room, playing a soccer game at full volume.

“You look tired,” she noted, cupping my face for half a second before turning back to her pot. “Sit, sit. I’ll make you a plate.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Thank you, Mrs. Majeed.”

“And tell Jamal to come eat before I drag him out by his ear.”

I suppressed a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

I found him sprawled out on his bed, flipping through a basketball magazine. He barely looked up when I walked in.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he muttered. “Took you long enough, Loverboy.”

“Loverboy? I will drive home.”

“Oh, come on. You knew I was gonna say something.” He smirked. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

I frowned. “Hear what?”

He raised a brow. “You only come here when you’re either (a) pissed off, (b) overthinking, or (c) both.”

I scowled, shutting the door behind me. “Can we not?”

He gave me one last look before pushing himself off the bed. “Fine. Let’s eat. You can sulk later at the gym.”

* * *

The weight of the barbell rested heavily against my palms. Good. I needed it to be heavy. I welcomed the burn, the ache in my muscles, the sweat dripping down my back.

Because lifting made sense. Lifting had rules. Reps, sets, form—everything had a structure. Everything had an outcome. You push yourself hard enough, you see results. There were only a few things in this world I could control, and my body was one of them.

The gym was alive with sound—grunting, weights clanking, sneakers squeaking against the rubber floor, and the steady beat of 2Pac’s All Eyez on Me thumping through the speakers.

“Seven,” Jamal counted lazily, sitting on the bench beside me. “Don’t die, Loverboy.”

I gritted my teeth. “Stop calling me that.”

I could feel his smirk without even having to look at him. “Nine.”

My arms trembled as I lowered the bar again, frustration flaring hotter than the workout itself. I pushed through the last rep and racked the bar, shaking out my arms as I sat up. My body ached, my head throbbed, but none of it compared to the weight sitting heavy in my chest.

I loaded another plate onto the bar.

Jamal frowned. “You sure you want to go that heavy?”

I ignored him.

He rubbed a towel over the back of his neck. “Alright then.”

Sweat dripped down my brow as I sat down on the bench, squeezing a water bottle in my hand.

My arms felt like they’d been torn apart and put back together—exactly the way I wanted them to feel.

“Tiff said Bev was hungover as hell this morning.”

I blinked, pausing mid-uncapping. “Tiffany? Since when do you talk to Tiffany?”

“Since I got sick of only hearing your voice every day.”

I rolled my shoulders. “She was hungry.”

“Who, Tiff?”

I shot him a look. “Beverly.”

He huffed. “What, you jealous? You don’t want me talking to your girl’s best friend?”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

Jamal laughed, shaking his head. “Man, don’t make that face. You look constipated.”

“Shut up.”

“You gonna tell me why you’re working out like you’re training for war, or am I just supposed to guess?”

“Drop it.”

“Blake, you stress me out.”

I didn’t respond, just wiped the sweat off my forehead with a towel. I needed to not think about Beverly.

I needed to not think about the slow roll of her hips.

“Last night,” he said. “You. Beverly. What the hell was that?”

I took a sip of water.

“Oh boy, I’ve never seen someone so deep in denial.”

I clenched my fists, staring straight ahead.

“Avoiding the conversation isn’t going to make it go away.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You done?”

“Fine, fine. We can talk about other things.”

“Like?”

“Like…how your foster dad is probably looking at crime scene photos while eating a sandwich right now.”

I snorted. “Probably.”

Jamal stretched. “Man, I don’t know how you live with a cop.”

“He’s alright.”

“Now. But what about when you start committing crimes?”

I gave him a flat look.

He grinned. “Hypothetically, of course.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

Jamal hummed in agreement. Then, after a pause, “He still working those late shifts?”

“Yeah,” I replied, lying back on the bench and letting out a slow breath. “He had a double yesterday. Honestly, though, he’s a good guy. I respect him. A lot. He actually listens. Doesn’t try to push me into being anything I’m not, just lets me figure things out on my own. A lot of people wouldn’t be like that. Some would’ve given up on me by now. But he hasn’t. He’s the kind of man who shows up, does his job, and still somehow manages to give a damn about the people in his life. He’s a good man.”

Jamal was quiet for a while, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about his own family. “I’m glad he’s that guy for you. You deserve it,” he finally said. “What about your mom?”

“She’s… She’s been swamped with work lately,” I replied with a sigh. “I barely get to see her anymore. And when I do, she’s usually too tired to do much. It’s like all she does is work and sleep these days.”

There was a long pause, then Jamal spoke again, this time more carefully. “And…you hear from…you know.”

“No.” I flexed my fingers, rolling my wrists.

That’s what the gym was for. To not think about things like that. Not about my biological father, rotting in a cell. Not about my foster dad, working nights because crime never sleeps.

And definitely not about Beverly.

“McHayes.”

The sound of my last name snapped me out of my thoughts.

I turned to see Scott Reynolds standing near the squat rack, shaking his head as he approached. “Man, I haven’t seen you in forever . You still hiding in the library?”

I sat up, the corners of my mouth lifting just a little at the sight of him. “Something like that.”

Scott wasn’t exactly a close friend, but he was one of those guys who knew everyone. We ran in the same orbit, even though we didn’t exactly share a social circle. We’d had a few classes together in high school, played on the same basketball team in middle school before I quit. And somehow, Scott always seemed to pop up at the strangest times, like he had some weird sixth sense about where you were, what you were doing.

“Still with the books, huh?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face. “How’s that working out for you? Got any big plans in the pipeline?”

I laughed under my breath. “Something like that,” I said again.

Jamal leaned in toward Scott with an exaggerated, teasing expression. “Scotty, still got that six-pack from middle school? Or did you trade it in for a dad bod? I mean, it’s been what… five years since we saw you in the gym?”

Scott gave Jamal a playful shove, but his grin was wide. “Speaking of bodies, you should come to my party next weekend. I swear, it won’t be a disaster like Evan’s. This one will be chill. No drunk idiots jumping off roofs.”

Jamal raised a brow. “What’s the real reason you’re inviting Blake to a party, Reynolds?”

Scott’s smirk widened. “You got me.” He turned back to me. “So, here’s the thing. I was talking to someone the other day. And she may or may not have said she thinks you’re—” He made a vague hand gesture. “You know, hot.”

I sighed, already regretting this conversation. “Tell her I’m not interested.”

Scott blinked. “You don’t even know who it is.”

“Still not interested.”

“Come on. She’s cute, McHayes. And she actually likes you. That doesn’t happen every day.”

Jamal barked out a laugh. “That literally happens every day.”

Scott scoffed. “Dude, he never gives anyone a chance?—”

I shot him a warning look.

He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. No accusations. But seriously, what’s the deal? You waiting for the perfect girl or something?”

Jamal snorted. “Oh, he’s waiting, alright.”

I ignored that comment.

Scott folded his arms, studying me like I was a puzzle that needed solving. “Look, just come to the party. Meet her. If you’re not into it, cool. But at least give it a shot.”

“No.”

Scott sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“He’s very possible,” Jamal said with a stupid grin on his face. “Just not in the way you’re hoping.”

Scott frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just that our boy is already spoken for.”

I shot him a glare. “Jamal.”

Scott was watching me like I was some kind of science experiment. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head, trying to figure me out.

Then his eyes flicked past me, toward the treadmills, and he grinned. “Oh, this is perfect.”

I sighed. “What now?”

He jerked his chin toward something behind me. “You see that girl over there?”

I didn’t turn. “No.”

“Okay, well, she’s been looking over here every five seconds.” He winked. “I think she’s about to make her move.”

Jamal’s brows lifted. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Scott put a hand on my shoulder, mock serious. “Blake, buddy, you do know how this works, right? When a cute girl asks you for help, you flirt back.”

“No, no. Blake doesn’t flirt,” Jamal said. “Blake exists, and girls just suffer in silence.”

I ignored both of them, wiping more sweat off my face with my towel, but sure enough, footsteps approached.

“Hey,” a voice said, soft but confident.

I exhaled slowly before finally turning.

She was petite, toned, with brown hair tied in a high ponytail. There was a light sheen of sweat on her neck, like she’d been here long enough to be serious about her workout. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her name.

“Hey,” I said flatly.

She smiled, shifting her weight slightly. “You’re Blake, right?”

Jamal coughed loudly, like he was trying not to laugh.

I ignored him. “Yeah.”

Her smile widened. “I thought so. You were in my English class sophomore year. I’m?—”

“Sydney,” Scott supplied, grinning.

She gave him an amused look. “You could’ve let me introduce myself.”

Scott shrugged. “I like to help.”

I glanced back at Sydney, who was still smiling at me, and I already knew what this was. Her eyes kept flicking to my arms, my shoulders—assessing, but not in the way people did when they were picking apart my form.

I could feel Scott and Jamal watching, waiting for me to engage. I was already exhausted.

“So,” Sydney started, her voice casual but with an edge of playfulness, “I was wondering if you could help me out.”

Here we go.

“With what?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

She gestured toward the dumbbells. “I want to start lifting heavier, but I’m not sure I have the right form.”

Scott grinned. “Oh, Blake is your guy.”

I shot him a glare.

He smirked.

I glanced back at Sydney. She was watching me expectantly, lips curved slightly, waiting for me to respond.

I want to start lifting heavier.

That was bullshit. She knew it. We knew it. But I was supposed to play along with it. I was supposed to lead her to the weight rack, stand behind her, place my hands on her waist, hips, ass—wherever. It was supposed to be one of those charged moments, dripping with tension, leading straight to a bathroom stall where she’d moan my name before forgetting it entirely. I’d seen it play out before. Hell, I’d seen it plenty of times. I knew the script.

The offer was written all over her, a silent plea for me to take what was being offered.

For a second, I let myself imagine it—my hands in her thick, dark hair, gripping her hips, lifting her small frame against me, the sharp gasp when I finally put my hands where she wanted them, the way her fingers would tangle in my shirt. The thought made my blood run faster, a reaction to the idea of finally feeling the warmth of a woman’s body.

But then again…

I’d rather fuck my math textbook. At least that would give me some kind of stimulation. And besides, when I pictured a girl tangled in my sheets, she didn’t have brown hair. She had blonde hair. Blue eyes. And a name that I couldn’t say without feeling like I was bleeding from the inside out.

A meaningless hookup wasn’t worth my time, not when the only girl I actually wanted had a hold on me that I couldn’t shake. The realization was disappointing. More than that, it was frustrating. If I had it my way, I’d let my mind wander elsewhere, let someone else’s hands make me forget.

If it were up to me, I’d be imagining this girl, or any girl, and taking the out she was so clearly offering.

But my brain didn’t work like that. Attraction should have been simple, interchangeable. But obsession was a different beast entirely. It latched on with sharp teeth and refused to let go.

“Blake?”

Sydney’s voice pulled me out of my head, snapping the thread of thoughts tangled too tightly around Beverly. I blinked, refocusing on her face—hopeful, expectant—but the fog of my thoughts refused to clear.

I exhaled slowly and glanced down at my watch. 4:18 PM.

I pushed Beverly’s pink scrunchie higher up my arm, letting the elastic bite into my skin. “Can’t stick around,” I said, already backing away. “I have to pick up Beverly from dance class.”

Scott’s brows lifted, and he gave me an incredulous look. “Blake, seriously? It’s just dance class. How about I pick her up instead? That way, you can get to know Sydney a bit. Help her lift something. Make sure her form is nice and…tight.”

Sydney let out a small, breathy laugh.

It faded when I didn’t react.

I shook my head, not even entertaining the offer. “I haven’t seen Beverly in four hours and forty-two minutes.”

Scott made a face. “And?”

“I can’t wait another hour.”

Sydney tilted her head, watching me with curiosity. “Is she your girlfriend?” she asked, trying to sound casual, but the hint of disappointment in her tone was obvious.

Scott snorted. “His sister,” he corrected, shaking his head in disbelief at my complete and utter lack of interest in the girl standing in front of me.

Sydney frowned, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Oh…is she young? Is that why you have to pick her up from dance class?”

“She’s sixteen. Her feet get sore after class, and I don’t want her walking home in pain.”

Sydney hesitated, like she wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Oh…”

Scott, however, looked annoyed. “Dude, I just told you I’d pick her up. I wouldn’t make her walk home.”

I leveled him with a look. “Beverly doesn’t like you.”

A lie. A petty, unprovoked lie. I didn’t even know if Beverly knew him. But the words left my mouth before I could think about them, and I didn’t bother to take them back.

Scott blinked. “What? Why the hell not?”

I shrugged. “Because.”

Jamal let out a low laugh. “Man, you’re a menace.”

Scott rubbed a hand over his face. “Whatever. Not my loss.”

Sydney looked like she wanted to say something—maybe ask a question, maybe just make sense of why I had shut her down so completely. But I didn’t give her the chance.

I backed away, shaking my head. “Sorry, guys. I’ll see you around.” Looking at Sydney, I added, “It was nice to meet you.”

She inhaled slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that. And when I offered a small, polite smile, a faint pink blush rose to her cheeks—like my attention alone was enough to make her feel something.

Hell, I wished I felt something. Anything.

I wished I could look at her and see what Scott saw.

I wished I wanted to stay.

Most of all, I wished I was normal.

But instead, my mind was already somewhere else—on a girl with sore feet and ballet calluses, waiting for me in a parking lot.