Chapter 25
25
BLAKE, 1998
18 years old
At some point, I ended up back at home.
I turned off the engine and just sat there.
Because if I walked inside, I knew she’d be waiting.
She’d be there.
In my walls.
In my sheets.
In my fucking bones.
I ran a hand over my face and grabbed my phone.
Sure enough, her name was sitting at the top of my messages.
I stared at the screen.
Don’t, Blake. Don’t go up there. Don’t let her win.
I should have ignored her.
Should have tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, walked inside, and taken a shower cold enough to scrub her out of my system. I knew better than to take the bait.
Because I was.
I glanced down at my wrist like I needed confirmation, like I didn’t already know it was still there.
What was I supposed to say to that?
What was I supposed to say when every inch of me felt like it was being pulled in two directions at once?
I let out a slow, controlled breath, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
This girl was going to kill me.
I shut my eyes, gripping the phone like I wanted to crush it in my palm. I should’ve ended it there. I should’ve left her on read, turned off my phone, and done anything but let her win. But instead, I did the stupidest thing I could have possibly done.
I threw open the car door.
Because I was weak. Because, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, I was losing—control, pride, the version of myself I thought I had built to survive people like her.
Because I was a fool, and every inch of me belonged to Beverly Price, whether I liked it or not.
Make me.
Two words. That’s all it took.
That’s all she ever needed to do.
My chest felt too tight, too full, like if I didn’t move, if I didn’t do something, I was going to explode.
I shoved open the front door and made my way inside, my feet moving on instinct. The house was quiet. Mom was asleep. Dad wouldn’t be back for hours.
And Beverly was waiting.
I climbed the stairs two at a time, my pulse hammering against my skull. By the time I reached her room, I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t knock. I just shoved the door open and stepped inside, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Beverly was sprawled across her bed, tangled in her sheets, her bare legs stretched out, and her fingers lazily flipping through a magazine. She didn’t even bother to look up, as if she hadn’t just spent the last few years digging her nails under my skin and prying me open.
She wore nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and a white shirt she had stolen from me months ago. Her blonde hair was down now, falling around her shoulders in a way that looked effortless but wasn’t. She licked her finger, turned a page, and acted like I hadn’t just broken every rule by walking into her room without a second thought.
“About time,” she drawled lazily, still not looking at me. Her lips twitched as she flipped another page. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d just sit in the car all night.”
I stood there for a moment, my chest rising and falling with the effort to keep my composure, but something thick and heavy coiled in my throat.
“Why are you just standing there?”
I shut the door behind me.
Beverly looked up at me, watching me with that look.
The one that said she was winning.
I crossed the room in a few steps and stopped beside her bed. “Get up.”
She raised a brow in amusement. “Bossy.”
“Up. Now.”
She rolled her eyes but sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Bare legs. Soft skin. Pink nail polish .
I ignored all of it.
Or at least, I tried.
“Here,” I hissed through gritted teeth, pulling the scrunchie off my wrist and tossing it onto her lap.
She blinked, caught off guard. “What?—”
“You left it on me for years . Take it back.”
She swallowed, her fingers curling around the fabric.
God, I hated this . That she was looking at me like she wanted to pick me apart piece by piece, until there was nothing left but her name carved into my bones.
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No witty comeback, huh?”
She sighed, the fabric of my shirt slipping off her shoulder.
I could feel the tension thickening in the room, pulling tighter and tighter. Then she tilted her head slightly, watching me like she was debating something. And then, before I could even argue, her hands slid up my forearms. I went completely still as her nails scraped against my skin, leaving invisible marks in their wake.
My throat went dry. My fingers twitched at my sides.
She was looking up at me through her lashes, waiting. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to turn around, to walk away, to put distance between us before I did something I couldn’t take back. But then her fingers traced over the veins in my wrist, light, barely-there touches, like she was trying to see if I’d stop her.
My pulse pounded beneath her touch, a traitorous rhythm that gave me away.
Beverly’s eyes flickered to my jaw, to my throat, watching the way I swallowed hard. I reached down and brushed my thumb over her cheek, just once, just for the illusion of having her.
Her breath was warm against my skin, close enough that I could feel it when she whispered, “Blake.”
My name. Not a teasing, smug remark. Just my name.
I didn’t even realize I was moving until I grabbed her wrist. Her breath hitched. I stared down at her, my grip tight, but not enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure she couldn’t pull away.
Not that she tried.
Her pulse fluttered against my fingers, but she didn’t move.
She wanted me to do something.
She was waiting.
I tugged her forward and she gasped softly, stumbling into me, her hands landing against my chest.
I let go of her wrist, but my hands didn’t leave her.
They couldn’t.
Instead, my fingers traced down her sides until I was gripping her waist. I felt it her stomach tense beneath my palms. Felt the way she leaned in just slightly, like her body already knew what she wanted before she did. Her lips parted slightly, her breath coming out in uneven, shallow exhales. And hell, if that wasn’t the worst part—the way she wasn’t pushing me away. The way she was waiting. The way her hands curled into the fabric of my hoodie, holding on like she wanted me to stay.
“Say it again,” I rasped, the words slipping out of me without thinking. My voice was rough, lower than I’d meant it to be.
“Say what again?” she whispered. “That I want to kiss you?”
My fingers dug into her waist. “Yeah,” I said, my voice thick, a mix of want and need that I didn’t bother hiding anymore. “That.”
Beverly wet her lips, like she was thinking. Like she was about to say something stupid. Without hesitation, without second-guessing, I pushed her back onto the bed, catching myself on my forearms so I wouldn’t crush her. Her breath hitched, and before she could say anything, I pressed my mouth to her throat.
She let out a strangled little sound, her fingers twisting in my hoodie, her back arching slightly.
I wasn’t thinking anymore. I wasn’t even breathing.
I dragged my mouth along her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against her skin, slow and deliberate, feeling the way she trembled beneath me. I let my hands slide lower, my palms dragging down her sides, over the soft cotton of her shirt, down to the curve of her waist, the dip of her hips.
“Blake.”
My name. Whispered. Pleaded. Broken.
It sent a shockwave through me.
I dragged my mouth along her jaw, pressing against the spot just beneath her ear, sucking gently—just enough to feel her squirm.
“B.” It was the closest thing to a warning I could give.
Her fingers shook as she reached up, pulling me closer.
“Still wanna kiss me?” I asked, my lips inches from hers.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
Jesus Christ.
The look on her face was both hell and heaven all at once.
Hell, because I’d spent years pretending I didn’t want this. Hell, because I’d spent years trying to suppress the way she made my pulse race just by existing near me. Hell, because I’d spent years telling myself that Beverly Price was untouchable, off-limits, a line I wasn’t allowed to cross. Because every rule I had ever made, every bit of restraint I had spent my life perfecting, every ounce of self-control I had built brick by brick—she had shattered all of it with one look, one whisper, one soft, breathy yeah . Hell, because I knew the second I kissed her, I wasn’t coming back from it. I wasn’t walking out of this room and pretending like we were just us again. I wasn’t going to be able to sit across from her at breakfast and act like my body didn’t remember the shape of hers under my hands. Like I didn’t burn for her.
And Heaven—Heaven, because I had Beverly right here. Underneath me, looking at me like I was hers. Like I wasn’t just the boy she grew up with. Like I wasn’t just Blake, the too-quiet, too-broody, too-broken kid her father took in.
Like she had been waiting for this just as long as I had.
I kissed her then, hard and unforgiving, one hand gripping her wrist, the other tangling in her hair, pulling her closer.
Beverly’s legs slid up to wrap around my waist, and I let out a low, needy sound against her lips.
There was no space left between us now, no room for doubt. We were tangled, lost in each other, in this moment that felt like it would stretch into eternity if I didn’t ruin it.
My hands were everywhere, as desperate as I felt.
I tilted my head, deepening the kiss, tasting her breath, swallowing her small, surprised noise like it was mine to keep.
I was never coming back from this. There was no undoing it. No untying the knots she had wrapped around me. No taking back the way my body had memorized hers, the way she had whispered my name like it was something holy.
I had spent years telling myself that I couldn’t have her.
That I wouldn’t.
And now I was kissing her like she belonged to me. Like she had always belonged to me. Like I had the right to press my hands against her skin and steal every breath she had to offer.
I pulled away just enough to look at her.
Her lips were parted, swollen from mine. Her blue eyes were glassy, wide, searching—like she wasn’t sure if I was about to kiss her again or walk away entirely. I wasn’t sure either.
A shaky breath left her. “Blake…”
A few words formed in my head.
And then—nothing.
Just her. Just Beverly.
Just the weight of her in my hands, the taste of her name on my tongue, the scent of her hair in my lungs. Just the way she fit against me like she was carved from my ribs, like she was made to be pressed into me like this, breathless and wanting.
I almost laughed.
I almost cried.
Because I felt her everywhere.
In the spaces between my ribs.
In my bones, in my blood, in my lungs, in the marrow of me.
In the places I thought were mine alone.
I buried my face in the crook of her neck, my grip tightening like I was trying to keep this moment from slipping through my fingers, like I was trying to keep myself from falling apart.
I’m pretty sure I love you, B. The words burned at the back of my throat, a confession I wasn’t ready for, a truth too heavy to speak. So I swallowed it down like poison.
Because if I said it, it would be real, and real can slip away—crumble in the face of time, distance, and the things we can’t control. It can fade like a memory, slipping through your grasp before you can hold onto it.
Instead, I let my lips brush against her jaw, let myself feel her heartbeat against mine. I kissed her like I was losing her. Like I had already lost her a thousand times before in a thousand different ways. Like I would spend the rest of my life trying to get her back.
“Blake,” she whispered again, my name trembling on her lips.
I swallowed, my chest tightening like it was caving in.
I felt like I was being ripped apart.
“I feel you—” I chocked out, my voice raw, cracking under the weight of her. “I feel you everywhere.”
Beverly went still.
I pressed her palm over my chest, over the place where it ached, where she had lived for years without even realizing it.
“In my ribs,” I managed, barely breathing. “In my blood. It… It hurts so bad, B.”
My throat burned, my body trembling from the effort of holding myself together, of keeping all the pieces of me from splintering at her feet.
“I don’t know how to want anything else,” I admitted, my voice breaking like glass.
She exhaled shakily, tilting her head so our noses brushed. “Then don’t.”
Her eyes were glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling as if she had just run miles.
Christ, she was beautiful. Not just beautiful in the obvious, head-turning way, but in a way that made you believe an artist would be envious for never having captured something like her on canvas.
I hated her for it. Hated that every time I tried to look away, my gaze always found its way back to her. I hated that she was looking at me like I was something to be adored. I hated that I wanted to be. I hated that I wanted this so badly, wanted her so badly, that I felt like I was bleeding from the inside out.
“Blake,” she whispered again, softer this time.
I shuddered. “Don’t say it like that.”
Her brows pulled together. “Like what?”
“Like you know what you’re doing to me.”
Her lips twitched. “I do know.”
“You don’t,” I said, my voice low, barely more than a breath. “You have no idea.”
Her fingers dug into my arms. “Then show me.”
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “B.”
“Show me, Blake.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting a battle I was dangerously close to losing. Every part of me wanted to give in to the urge building in my chest, but I needed to take it slow. “I don’t know what to do with this,” I whispered, the words slipping out like a secret I wasn’t ready to share but couldn’t keep inside any longer.
“With what?”
“With us, B. With the way you make me feel.”
“I know,” she said, her voice soft.
I opened my eyes and met hers, and something inside me broke loose. I cupped her face in my hands and swallowed, the words so close to falling from my lips.
But I couldn’t. I was too much of a coward to say it out loud.
So instead, I took a breath, shifting closer, pressing my mouth against her lips. “I hate you,” I whispered, but my voice wavered, betraying me.
Beverly huffed a breathless laugh. “No, you don’t.”
I pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
And that was my mistake.
Because they were wide, blue, deep, endless.
And they were looking at me like she already knew.
Like she had known long before I did.
“Say it,” she whispered.
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Beverly?—”
She shook her head. “Say it.”
My throat burned.
My body ached.
And suddenly, I was so fucking tired. “I’m yours, B.”
Beverly let out a sound between a laugh and a sob, and before I could say anything else, she yanked me down to her. Her lips crashed against mine with a desperation that stole the air from my lungs, as if she was afraid I’d take it back. I kissed her back with everything I had—every shred of frustration, every inch of longing, every second I’d spent trying to convince myself I didn’t want this.
Beverly made a quiet, desperate little noise against my mouth, and I was done for. Without a second thought, I rolled onto my back, taking her with me, pulling her on top of me in one smooth motion. She gasped, her hands catching against my chest, her knees pressing against my sides, her weight settling over me in a way that sent a tremor through me.
My hands found her hair as I let my head fall back against the pillow, my lips parting beneath hers as she kissed me, kissed, kissed me. She tasted like soda and vanilla lip gloss and mine.
And in that moment, I realized I would never love anything the way I loved Beverly Price.
Not in this life.
Not in the next.
Not in any version of myself that could have ever existed.