Beverly

Chapter 22

22

BEVERLY, 1998

16 years old

The door to the dance studio swung shut behind me, the final echoes of Ms. Sander’s voice fading as I stepped outside. My feet ached, and my ankles throbbed from a combination of exhaustion and bad decisions.

I peeled off my dance shoes as I sat on the curb, stretching my legs out in front of me and wincing as I rolled my ankles.

The sun had started to dip lower in the sky, casting the parking lot in a warm, golden glow. I had my bag next to me, my water bottle in my lap, and an oversized hoodie thrown over my leotard. I must’ve looked ridiculous—makeup still half-smudged from the night before, hair barely holding together in a messy bun, every inch of me screaming tired .

And I was.

Tired of feeling him everywhere.

Tired of wanting things I wasn’t supposed to want.

I swirled the water in my bottle, taking a slow sip, keeping my head down. Because if I looked up, I’d start scanning the parking lot for Mom’s car. And if I scanned the parking lot for Mom’s car, I’d have to admit I was waiting for Blake to be here.

Which was ridiculous.

Because I knew he was coming.

He always came.

And now, I was just sitting here, picking at a loose thread on my hoodie—the one I’d stolen from Blake’s room months ago and never gave back—my stomach twisting with something that felt too much like anticipation. The McDonald’s breakfast sat heavy in my stomach, and my headache had faded to a dull throb, but last night still clung to me.

Blake’s hands on my waist.

Blake’s voice in my ear.

Blake staring at me like he was trying not to ruin me.

I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes for half a second. That’s when I heard the low hum of a car engine.

I didn’t need to look up. I knew it was him.

A second later, he pulled up in front of me, parking the car with the same precise, controlled movements he did everything else with. He didn’t get out right away. Just sat there for a second, hands gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead like he was debating something.

I watched him, ignoring the way my stomach twisted when I saw what was on his wrist.

My scrunchie.

He’d pushed it higher on his forearm, and something warm curled through my chest before I forced myself to shake it off.

When he finally got out, his jaw was clenched, his buzzed hair still making me irrationally angry, and his green eyes unreadable as he walked toward me.

Blake, always looking like he belonged somewhere else.

I stayed where I was, massaging my foot.

Blake stopped a few feet away, his gaze flicking over me as if scanning for any sign of injury, checking for any bruises. He wasn’t wearing his flannel today, just a plain black T-shirt that stretched over his arms and shoulders in a way I definitely wasn’t paying attention to. He shifted his weight like he was waiting for me to say something first.

But the only thing I could think to say was, I missed you.

So I said nothing at all and slowly lifted my foot, pointing at it with a flat expression.

“Your feet hurt?” he asked.

I shrugged.

He sighed through his nose, and without saying another word, he crouched down in front of me. He grabbed my ankle and tugged my foot onto his knee, his fingers brushing against my skin as he inspected it.

I sucked in a breath.

He traced his thumb over the spot I had been rubbing, pressing lightly. “I told you to get new toe pads.”

I swallowed. “Didn’t have time.”

He pressed a little harder, his hands warm, firm, familiar—practiced, like they belonged there.

I wanted to hate it.

But I didn’t.

I hated that I wanted him to keep doing it.

“Did you stretch enough?”

“I stretched plenty,” I groaned. “But Ms. Sanders made us go over the routine six times. Six. Times.”

“That’s what happens when you sign up for this.”

I shot him a look. “You sound like Dad.”

“Always so stubborn,” he muttered, pressing a little harder.

“Always so bossy,” I shot back.

His mouth twitched.

I stared at the top of his head.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

I blinked. “What?”

“My hair.”

I hesitated. Then, stupidly, honestly, quietly, I said, “Yeah.”

His fingers stilled for just a second before he chuckled under his breath and resumed. “Good.”

I frowned. “Good?”

Blake finally looked up at me. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

So I did what I always did. I pushed.

“You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

“I told you—it was getting in the way.”

A lie.

I narrowed my eyes. “Of what?”

He didn’t answer.

I wanted to yank my foot out of his grip and stand, my heart throbbing in protest. But I didn’t move. Because part of me wanted to see how long Blake McHayes would stay there, crouched in front of me, his hands wrapped around my ankle like he was holding something delicate.

“You need to ice it,” he said.

I nodded. “I know.”

He reached out and took my bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You say that every time.”

“And yet, you keep doing it.”

He shot me a look that screamed drop it , so I did.

Then, without warning, his hands moved—one bracing my calf, the other sliding up to my back. Before I could protest, he lifted me, his grip firm but careful, like I was something both breakable and immovable all at once.

“Blake—”

“Don’t start,” he muttered, adjusting his hold as he carried me toward the car.

I could’ve fought him, could’ve insisted I was fine, but the truth was, my body had already given up the argument. My muscles ached, my head still felt too heavy from last night, and the warmth of his touch sent something traitorous curling low in my stomach.

Blake walked with steady, unhurried steps, like he wasn’t in any rush to let go, and I hated how much I noticed it.

“I can walk,” I said, mostly just to say something.

Blake hummed, tightening his grip on me. “Sure. And I can let you, but we both know you’re gonna whine about it the whole way.”

I narrowed my eyes, but the effect was lost considering I was quite literally in his arms. He reached the car, somehow maneuvering me while opening the passenger door, then lowered me down onto the seat with the same calculated ease. His hands lingered for half a second, like he was making sure I wasn’t about to crumple to the ground, before finally stepping back.

The sudden loss of warmth was worse than I wanted to admit.

I swallowed, shifting against the seat, not trusting myself to look at him.

He sighed and tapped his fingers against the open door. “You gonna buckle up or just sit there looking miserable?”

I shot him a glare but grabbed the seatbelt, yanking it across me. He smiled slightly, then shut the door. The car smelled like him—a scent that always made me feel as though I were stepping into a space that existed only for the two of us.

As Blake walked around to the driver’s side, I stared out the windshield, gripping the fabric of his hoodie like it might ground me. I shouldn’t feel like this. I shouldn’t want his hands on me. But last night was still on my skin. The way he held me, touched me, the way he looked at me—like I was something he wanted but knew he wasn’t supposed to have.

The driver’s side door opened, and he slid in, his presence filling the car like it always did.

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, staring straight ahead before finally glancing at me. “You good?” he asked.

No. “Yeah.”

He didn’t believe me. I could tell by the way he didn’t start the car right away, by the way his jaw tensed. His wrist—the one with my scrunchie still wrapped around it—twitched slightly.

Something about that stupid piece of fabric on him made my throat tighten. I reached out, my fingers brushing against his wrist. “Is that…”

Blake pulled his hand away before I could touch it, shifting his grip on the wheel. “Yeah.”

I wanted to say something. Anything.

Instead, Blake clicked his tongue, finally turned the key in the ignition, and muttered, “Let’s get you home, Beverly.”

And just like that, the moment—whatever it was—was gone.

He pulled out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.

I huffed. “You don’t even like pink.”

“Guess I do now.”

“Since when do you wear it?”

“I don’t know.”

I knew that was a lie. Blake never forgot things.

I stared at him, trying to piece together what this meant—if it meant anything at all. Because it had to mean something, right? Boys don’t just steal hair ties and wear them for months for no reason.

“You were with Jamal today, weren’t you? Did you have a good workout? Was he being annoying?”

Blake let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I was with him. Since when does he talk to Tiffany?”

I side-eyed him. “What?”

“He told me they’ve been talking.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Wait, do you think… Do you think they like each other?”

Blake choked on a laugh. “Jamal and Tiffany? No.”

I crossed my arms. “Why not? Jamal’s… He’s nice enough, right? I mean, he’s… I don’t know. Funny. Not bad looking.”

“Tiffany would eat him alive.”

“Blake?”

“Yeah?”

“You smell like sweat.”

Blake snorted, finally shooting me a glance. “Thanks, B.”

I bit the inside of my cheek as I watched him.

There were so many things I wanted to ask, things I’ve been dying to understand.

Why did you ask me to dance for you ?

Why did you let me dance on you ?

Why do you pull me in, only to keep me at arm’s length ?

Why do you always look at me like I’m something you can’t have, yet something you desperately want anyway ?

What are you waiting for? A signal, a sign ?

What do you want from me ? Something real or just the idea of me ?

Do you ever wonder if I’m waiting for the same thing ?

If I would’ve been a braver girl, I would’ve asked these questions. But I wasn’t brave. I was terrified—terrified that if I asked, if I pressed too hard, I’d push him away for good. That whatever fragile balance we had would shatter, and he’d leave me with nothing but memories and regrets.

So instead, I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I got under his skin.

I turned my head toward the window, feigning indifference, keeping my voice light—just a casual afterthought.

“Some guy flirted with me today.”

I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his entire body go still, the air in the car shifting, thickening.

“Yeah?” His voice was flat.

I nodded, tracing my finger along the hem of my hoodie. “Mm-hmm,” I lied. “Outside the studio. Some guy walked up and asked if I needed a ride home.”

“Well, you didn’t take it.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact.

“No. I told him my ride was already coming.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy, unspoken things lingering in the space where words should have been. I just wanted to see if I could pull something out of him—some crack in the armor, some flash of emotion that he couldn’t suppress.

Blake exhaled slowly, his knuckles white against the wheel. “Who was he?”

I shrugged. “Some guy. Older. Maybe nineteen? He had nice eyes, though.”

Blake’s jaw clenched, and his shoulders stiffened as he changed lanes a little too sharply.

I swallowed the satisfaction curling in my stomach and tilted my head slightly, watching him more closely out of the corner of my eye. “He asked for my number. I gave it to him. I think he’s gonna ask me out.”

Blake flexed his fingers and shifted in his seat.

“You think I should say yes?”

His green eyes cut to me. His jaw ticked once before he looked away. A long pause followed. Then, Blake’s voice like sandpaper, “I don’t even know him. What am I supposed to say, B?”

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You sure?”

I let the silence stretch, let the tension simmer between us, let him sit in it. Then, just as he was about to park in front of the house, I pushed one step further. “He said I had a pretty smile.”

Blake hit the brakes a little too hard.

My stomach flipped. Not from the sudden stop, but from the reaction I’d been waiting for.

I bit back a laugh, watching him fight whatever war was raging in his head. He put the car in park, exhaling slowly like he was forcing himself to stay composed.

“Still not mad?”

“No,” he bit out.

I smiled. And then—just to test him, just to see if I could break past whatever wall he was desperately trying to hold up—I leaned in, voice dropping to something too soft, too sweet. “Would it bother you if I said I liked it?”

His jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might crack.

I tilted my head, watching him with quiet amusement.

“Jesus Christ, Beverly,” he hissed, meeting my gaze again. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

His hands dropped into his lap, his fingers curling into fists, but his voice cracked just slightly when he said, “I did. I told you last night.”

Last night.

I like girls. I always have.

Pick a girl. I’ll take her out tomorrow.

My throat felt tight, my pulse a little too loud in my ears. “No. You didn’t tell me shit .”

“I’m not playing this game with you.”

I swallowed, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my hoodie, nails pressing into my palms.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then, without looking at me, Blake reached over and unbuckled my seatbelt. His hand brushed my hip in the process, but it didn’t linger. And then—so softly I almost didn’t feel it—he tugged the end of my hoodie, his fingers barely catching the fabric before letting go.

“Go inside.” His voice was rough, low, but not angry.

Still, it was a dismissal.

I grabbed my bag and opened the door. “Thanks for picking me up, Blake.”

He didn’t react.

Then I remembered.

The phone.

Pulling the Nokia out of my pocket, I turned it over in my hands, then waved it in the air. “By the way,” I said, “I’m gonna rack up so many charges on this thing.”

Blake blinked once, twice, then ran a hand over his face. “Beverly, I swear?—”

I grinned and started typing.

Blake’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He sighed, pulled it out, read the message, then looked at me like he was debating throwing into traffic.

His fingers moved.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

I chuckled, typing again.

“You are a nightmare, B.”

I smiled to myself as I typed again.

I looked up.

Blake was staring at me.

Not glaring. Not smirking. Not looking irritated.

Just…staring.

I swallowed hard, tightening my grip on my phone.

I had meant it as a joke. I had typed it without thinking.

But now, as Blake’s gaze lingered on me, as if he was on the verge of saying something but couldn’t, regret gnawed at me.

I dropped my gaze and started typing again. Something stupid. Something to lighten the mood.

But before I could send it, my phone buzzed.

I snorted.

And then—because I was a coward—I deleted the message I was about to send and replaced it with something easy.

Blake huffed, shaking his head.

I smiled. “C’mon, McHayes. Get your wallet out.”

Blake gave me a long, exaggerated look that told me he wasn’t thrilled about the sudden detour to the nearest McDonald’s. But like always, he started the engine without another word.

Because of course he did.

Because, despite all my flaws, he would always do whatever it took to make me smile.

Don’t think I didn’t know that Blake was right.

I was a nightmare.

I was childish, petty, impossible.

But it was the only way I knew how to handle this—him, us, the growing mess that we never acknowledged but danced around like it wasn’t swallowing us whole. Pushing him was the only thing that gave me any sense of control.

Because as long as he looked at me like I was nothing but trouble, as long as he clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes and let that sharp edge creep into his voice, then I knew that I hadn’t lost him. Not yet. Because Blake had always been slipping through my fingers. Not in the obvious ways—not in a dramatic, walking-out-the-door, never-coming-back kind of way. No, Blake’s disappearances were quieter, more insidious. He pulled back in increments, like he was training me to not notice. One day, he’d stop knocking on my wall before bed. The next, he wouldn’t sit next to me at lunch. Then he’d stop looking at me when he spoke. Then he’d stop speaking to me at all. And before I knew it, I’d be standing in front of him, begging him to just say something, and he’d be looking at me like I was nothing more than a memory.

Like he’d already made peace with letting me go.

So I never let it get to that point.

I made sure I was impossible to ignore.

I poked, prodded, teased, tested—all to see if I could still make him snap. I stole his hoodies, left my perfume on his pillows, tangled myself into every part of his life until I was woven so tightly into the fabric of his existence that he couldn’t cut me out without unraveling himself, too.

I was relentless. I had to be.

Because when Blake got angry, when he stared at me like I was the most frustrating person on the planet, it meant he was still mine. And I needed that reassurance like I needed air.

If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, right? If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have looked at Drew like he was ready to end his life, right?

My behavior was fear—the thing that crawled into my chest late at night when everything was quiet and there was nothing left to distract me. What if one day, he really did stop reacting?

What if he woke up one morning and decided that I wasn’t worth the effort anymore?

But what scared me most was that I wasn’t sure anymore if I was still pushing him because I wanted him to stay…or because I wanted him to break.

Because what if I wanted to know what would happen if Blake stopped holding back?

What if I wanted to see what he looked like when he finally lost control?

What if I wanted to see what would happen if he let himself want me out loud?

What if I wanted to feel his hands on me the way I wasn’t supposed to?

And what if I didn’t want to stop him?

What if I kissed him?

Would he let me?

Or would he run?

I told myself I didn’t want to know.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

I was going to find out.