Beverly

Chapter 27

27

BLAKE, 1998

18 years old

I woke up feeling wrecked. Not the kind of wrecked that a hot shower or a good stretch could fix. This was something else. Like I had been broken apart and put back together in the wrong order. Like something in me had shifted permanently, and now I had to live with it. Like I had spent the entire night fighting some invisible war, except there was no battlefield, no enemy—just her. Just Beverly Price, breathing slow and even against my chest, curled into me like she belonged there.

The room was dim, the soft morning light creeping in through her curtains, casting long shadows against the walls. Outside, the world was already waking up—cars rumbling down the street, birds calling from the oak tree in the front yard, the faint sounds of our parents moving around downstairs.

It was Monday. We had to go to school. And I didn’t care.

Because Beverly’s legs were tangled with mine. Because her arm was draped over my stomach, her fingers curled slightly into my shirt, like she had fallen asleep holding onto me.

Because her mouth was right there, inches from my throat.

I swallowed, trying to regulate my breathing, trying to keep my brain from short-circuiting.

It didn’t work.

Because my brain was still stuck on last night.

Still stuck on the feeling of her lips against mine.

Still stuck on the way she looked at me in the dark.

Still stuck on the sound of my name on her lips.

Still stuck on the way she broke apart in my arms.

And now? Now, I was supposed to just wake up, go downstairs, eat breakfast, and pretend like my entire world hadn’t just shifted on its axis? Yeah. No. But I couldn’t just stay here all day, either. Because it was Monday. Because Mom and Dad were downstairs. Because if I didn’t move now, I wouldn’t move at all.

I exhaled slowly, my fingers twitching against Beverly’s back.

I needed to get out of this bed before she woke up and looked at me like she had me wrapped around her little finger.

Because she did.

I took a deep breath, forcing my body to cooperate as I slowly, carefully , tried to untangle myself.

Bad idea. The second I shifted, Beverly sighed—a sleepy, content sound that made my chest feel too tight.

Her arm curled tighter around me, like she could sense I was trying to leave, like she wasn’t ready to let me go yet.

And just to finish me off completely, she mumbled my name. Soft. Slurred. Like she had spent the entire night dreaming of me.

Jesus Christ.

I was never recovering from this.

I clenched my jaw, staring at the ceiling, willing my pulse to calm the hell down. It didn’t. Because Beverly shifted. She stretched, her body pressing into mine as she let out another soft, devastating sigh, her bare leg sliding against my sweatpants like she was trying to kill me.

I kept my gaze locked on the ceiling, willing her to go back to sleep. She didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

Because Beverly Price existed to test me.

And then, to make sure I never knew peace again, she looked up at me. Sleepy. Soft. A little too smug. “Mm.”She hummed, rubbing her cheek against my chest like a cat stretching in the sun. Then, quietly, sleepily, wrecking me beyond repair: “Morning, Blake.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Morning, B.”

She blinked up at me with that same lazy gaze, brows furrowed, her voice thick with sleep. “You’re still here.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was an observation.

Like she had expected me to run.

Like she thought I was still the same guy I was before last night.

I wasn’t.

Brushing my thumb against her cheek, I watched the way her eyes softened. “Yeah. I’m still here.”

She smiled. A slow, devastating thing. It knocked the air clean out of me. I felt my entire soul leave my body. She smiled wider—knowing, victorious. Like she had just won something.

Like she knew I was done.

And I was. Done pretending.

I wanted her. And I wasn’t hiding it anymore.

I let my head drop back against the pillow, pulling her closer. She made a small noise of surprise, her breath hitching as I rolled us over, pinning her beneath me.

Her eyes flickered with something wicked. “Oh,” she breathed, her voice pure trouble. She looked up at me through her lashes. “You’re in a mood.”

I dragged my gaze over her face and watched as a flush crept up her cheeks, the way she tried to act unaffected even as her body gave her away. “We have to go to school,” I said finally.

“Do we?” she pouted, her eyes full of something that wasn’t helping my self-control. “Call in sick.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, brushing my lips against her forehead. “B, I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

She shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything,” she said, grinning like she already knew I’d give her anything she asked for.

God help me.

If she kept looking at me like that, we weren’t going anywhere.

I sighed, trying to find the last shred of willpower I still had “Beverly.”

“Blake.”

I swallowed, pulling away just enough to look at her. And when I looked at her, really looked at her, all the teasing, all the smugness, all the fire in her eyes dimmed.

And suddenly, my heart was a mess in my chest.

Beverly’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. “You meant it, right?” Her fingers squeezed mine, trembling slightly. “Last night. You meant it, didn’t you?”

Her eyes searched my face, desperate for reassurance.

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, B. I meant it.” And then, before I could overthink it, before I could ruin it, before I could give her even a second to doubt it: “I’m telling them.”

Her brows pulled together. “Telling who what?”

“Mom. Dad. Everyone.” My voice was hoarse, rough around the edges. “I’m telling them about us. I’m done pretending.”

Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something—argue, maybe, tease, make a joke to lighten the moment.

I didn’t let her.

“I’m yours, B. And I’m not hiding it anymore.”

Her eyes went wide. For a second, she just stared at me.

Like she didn’t believe it.

Like she had been waiting to hear it for so long that now that it was real, she didn’t know what to do with it.

I chuckled softly. “Speechless?”

She let out a breathless laugh, blinking rapidly. “Shut up.”

I grinned. “Say it back.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling—the kind of smile I wanted to bottle up and sip from on the bad days. And then—soft, quiet, wrecking me completely, “I’m yours, Blake.”

My throat tightened.

I kissed her.

Beverly let out a soft breath—relief, maybe?

She smiled against my lips. And I knew, right then and there, that I was never going to stop chasing that smile.

* * *

The November air clung to my skin as I pulled into the driveway, cold and biting, seeping into my bones even with the heater blasting. My fingers gripped the steering wheel, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs like it wanted to break free. The weight in my chest had been building all day, pressing down on me with every second, with every stolen glance at Beverly, with every time I let myself imagine this moment and its aftermath. I had spent the entire day preparing myself. For saying the words out loud. For watching the look on their faces as I shattered whatever image they had of me.

Every class blurred together, every conversation with Jamal was white noise, every glance Beverly threw my way sent my pulse into overdrive. Through every meaningless, forgettable moment in school, I had been rehearsing the words in my head. Not because I thought they’d be hard to say, but because I needed to say them right. I had always thought about this moment in the abstract—some far-off, hypothetical conversation that I could put off for later, when I wasn’t so afraid of what they’d say, what it would mean. But last night had changed everything.

Last night, I had let myself have her.

And now, I had to stop pretending I didn’t want to keep her.

I wanted them to understand . I needed them to know that this wasn’t something reckless, something I hadn’t thought through. That it wasn’t just teenage stupidity, some impulsive mistake.

But more than that, I didn’t want to live in fear of losing them. Arthur and Jenna Price had raised me like their own, had given me a home, a second chance at a life I never thought I’d have.

But Beverly had been their daughter first .

The words that had been resting on my tongue all day suddenly felt heavy, like they might crumble under their own weight. Because this wasn’t just a confession—it was a shift, a moment in time that would divide my life into a before and an after. I had no illusions about that. It might change the way they trusted me. Hell, it might change everything.

I was afraid of losing their respect.

I didn’t want to see my mother’s face fall, didn’t want to see my father’s jaw tighten, didn’t want to watch them exchange looks and wonder where they had gone wrong with me.

I still wanted to be someone my father could be proud of. I still wanted to be someone my mother could look at and see as her son.

I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening around the wheel as my mind raced ahead to all the possibilities, all the ways this could go wrong. Would Dad be angry ? Disappointed ? Would he look at me like I was something less ? Would he look at me and see something tainted, something unworthy of the second chance he had given me?

My father, who had built his life on duty, lived by rules and expectations. My father, who believed in honor, in integrity, in doing the right thing. My father, who had never explicitly told me who I was allowed to love but had told me who I was meant to be.

And Jenna…who had held my hand when I had night terrors. My mother, who had run her fingers through my hair when I couldn’t sleep. My mother, who had kissed my forehead and whispered that I was good, that I was hers, that I was loved.

I had spent my whole life trying to earn their respect. Trying to be the kind of son they could be proud of, the kind of man who deserved the second chance they had given me.

Would this take that away?

Would she look at Beverly and see something shameful, something unnatural? Would she blame herself for not keeping us apart? Would they look at me like I had ruined something sacred? Would Mom cry? Would they think I was taking advantage of the life they had given me?

Would Dad tell me I had to leave?

I didn’t know.

But I knew I was tired of hiding. I was tired of flinching every time Beverly got too close in front of them. I was tired of pretending she was just my sister when nothing about what I felt for her had ever been brotherly. I was tired of the guilt. The shame. The fear of being caught.

I wanted to be honest.

I wanted to be better—not the scared boy who had spent years keeping her at arm’s length, too afraid of what people would think, too afraid of how much I wanted her. And I wanted to respect Beverly enough to stop making her feel like a secret.

I glanced toward the passenger seat.

Beverly was quiet. Too quiet

She had been like that all day.

She had been patient with me all day. She hadn’t pushed, hadn’t teased, hadn’t tried to make this into another one of our games. She knew this was different.

She was waiting for me to say it—to stand in front of the people who raised us and speak this thing into existence, to make it real.

And I would. I was going to look my father in the eye and say, There’s something you should know. I love Beverly, and I’m not sorry for it.

And then I was going to wait.

For the anger. For the disgust. For the fallout.

I was going to stand there and take it, like a man.

Swallowing, I turned off the engine. I reached over, fingers brushing against Beverly’s wrist, squeezing lightly.

Her blue eyes flicked up to mine.

I forced a small, reassuring smile. “Ready?”

Beverly nodded, but she didn’t let go of my hand.

“Are you scared?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

She exhaled, then gave my hand another squeeze. “Me too.”

“Then we’ll be scared together, B.”

I’d rather be scared next to her than brave without her.

She let out a small breath, almost a laugh, then nodded again.

And then, together, we walked inside.

The house smelled like dinner. Roast chicken, maybe—something warm and comforting. My hands were already shaking. I clenched them into fists, trying to steady myself.

We turned the corner into the kitchen and found them both sitting at the table.Mom, hands folded neatly in front of her, staring down at the tablecloth. Dad, rubbing his temples, exhaustion carved deep into his face.

A lump formed in my throat.

I cleared my throat. “Hey.”

Mom turned at the sound of my voice, offering a soft, tired smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”

I flexed my fingers at my sides, exhaling through my nose.

Now, Blake. Now was the time.

Before I could lose my nerve.

Before I could convince myself to run.

I opened my mouth, the words ready, the syllables perfectly arranged in my head, my pulse hammering in my throat?—

“Blake,” Dad said, “before you say anything, your mom and I have something we need to talk to you both about.”

No. No, no, no.

I had my thing to tell.

I had a script in my head.

I was supposed to be the one talking.

Mom shot Dad a quick look, her eyes—so much like Beverly’s—filled with something I didn’t like. Fear. Resignation. A quiet, aching kind of sadness.

I exchanged a glance with Beverly, but she looked just as confused as I felt. “Okay,” I said slowly. “What is it?”

Dad sighed heavily, finally looking at us.

I felt it in my ribs before I even knew what it was. Dread .

He gestured toward the table. “You should sit down.”

I blinked.

I had come in here prepared to say those same words. But suddenly, something was happening. Something bigger than me, bigger than whatever I had planned to say.

Beverly hesitated beside me, fingers twitching at her sides, like she wanted to reach for my hand but wasn’t sure if she should.

We sat down. Dad ran a hand over his face. He looked…older. More tired than I had ever seen him.

“I went to the doctor,” Mom said, her voice steady but quiet, like she had rehearsed this a thousand times in her head.

A cold, hollow feeling settled in my stomach.

“Mom,” I rasped, my voice breaking against the syllable. Everything in me tensed.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Because I knew what she was going to say before she even said it. I had noticed—the weight loss, the fatigue, the way she had stopped eating full meals, the way Dad looked at her like she was something he was trying to hold onto.

“I haven’t been feeling well for a while, and…well. They ran some tests.”

Beverly stiffened beside me.

Dad’s throat worked, like he was trying to find the right words. Mom looked between us, her hands folding together on the table.

And then she said it.

“I’m sick.”

It landed like a gunshot.

My vision blurred at the edges, the words hammering against my skull, pounding, pounding, pounding. My ears started ringing, like my body was trying to protect me from the impact of what had just been said.

“No. No.” Beverly’s voice cracked. “No, no, no. That’s not?—”

Mom was already standing, already reaching for her. “It’s okay, baby?—”

“How is that okay?!” Beverly’s voice broke.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” she said, too soft, too careful. “I’ll be fine.”

But she wouldn’t be sitting here like this if that were true.

She wrapped her arms around Beverly, pulling her close, stroking her hair, whispering things too soft for me to hear.

I just sat there. Frozen. Silent.

I studied, really studied her, and I saw it. The way her skin had paled. The slight hollowness around her eyes. The way she smiled, like she was trying to keep us from worrying.

And I wanted to scream. Because I should have noticed. Because I did notice. Because I had known something was wrong, but I had told myself it was nothing. I had told myself she was just tired, that maybe it was stress, that whatever it was, it would pass.

But it wasn’t passing.

It was real.

And I couldn’t do anything about it.

“It’s early,” Dad said after a while, his voice steady but strained. “The doctors caught it early.”

But the way his hands curled into fists, the way his eyes momentarily darkened, said everything.

It didn’t matter that they caught it early.

It mattered that it was there at all.

Mom must have seen something in my face because she reached for me with trembling hands, pressing a palm against my forearm. “It’s—” Her voice cracked slightly. “I don’t want you to panic.”

Panic ?

My body was nothing but raw nerves and pounding blood.

“We’re going to fight this,” Dad said, offering a faint smile. “We’re going to be strong. As a family.”

I felt my ribs caving in. They were trying to crush my lungs, trying to make sure I couldn’t take a full breath.

My body was already bracing for the worst.

My throat closed.

I couldn’t do this.

I couldn’t do this now.

Not after last night. Not after having Beverly.

Not after finally letting myself want her out loud.

Not when I was about to tell them everything.

Everything I had spent last night telling myself—everything I had promised her, every word I had let slip between us—it all felt like a cruel joke.

I had let myself believe in something.

And now? Now, I had to bury it.

My pulse pounded in my ears.

Mom was saying something, something about appointments, about treatment, about hope.

I barely heard it. Because my own heartbeat was too loud.

I didn’t even realize I was shaking until Beverly’s fingers brushed against mine. I jerked away. Not because I didn’t want her touch.But because if she touched me, I was going to break.

All the words I had been about to say?Gone.

All the courage I had built up?Gone.

All the hope I had let myself feel?Fucking gone.

Because I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t be selfish.

I couldn’t stress Mom out.

I couldn’t make this about me.

I had to be the son they deserved.

I had spent my whole life being a problem. I had spent my whole life taking up space where I didn’t belong. I had spent my whole life wondering if I was something they regretted.

I would not be a burden now.

I would not make this about me.

I would not do anything that would take even a fraction of their energy away from what really mattered.

We sat there for an hour. Maybe more.

Mom talked.Dad talked.Beverly asked questions.

I didn’t say a word.

Swallowed the words I had been practicing all day.

Shoved them deep down, where they couldn’t see the light.

I felt Beverly’s gaze burning into me.

I didn’t look at her.I couldn’t.

Because I had already forgotten how to be hers.

Because in that moment, I had remembered what I was first.

A son.

I let my body go cold. Erased the way she had looked at me that morning. Erased the way she had whispered, “I’m yours.”

And when I finally forced myself to look at Beverly, to the girl who had spent the whole day waiting for me to say something that I no longer had the right to say, she knew.

She knew before I even said a word.

She knew before I could even walk away.

And Christ, I wish she hadn’t looked at me like that.

Like I had just broken her heart.

* * *

I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands buried in my hair, elbows digging into my knees. The room was silent, suffocatingly so, except for the occasional sound of my own ragged breathing. It felt like the walls were closing in, each inch closer a reminder of the words I couldn’t say, the future I couldn’t claim.

A soft knock at the door shattered the silence. I knew it was Beverly. Who else would it be? I kept my eyes fixed on the wall, my body rigid. She knocked again, a little louder this time, her voice muffled through the door.

“Blake, I know you’re in there…” Her voice wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t demanding. It was unsure. Small.

“B,” I said, not loud enough for her to hear. The shape of her name on my lips felt like a betrayal of the promises I couldn’t keep.

The knocking came again, more insistent this time.

The weight in my chest only grew, pressing against my ribs until it felt like they might crack.

“Blake?” Her voice was soft, a whisper nearly drowned out by the pounding in my ears. “Please, can we talk?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What could I possibly say ?

Talking meant facing what I had just done, facing the hurt I saw in her eyes when I looked away from her. The same hurt that was now clawing its way up my throat, threatening to spill out.

“Blake, please .” Her voice cracked, a desperate, choked sound that made my heart lurch painfully against my ribcage.

The silence stretched out, and then I heard what I had been dreading—the sound of her crying. It was soft, heartbreakingly gentle, not wanting to intrude but unable to be completely silent.

My throat tightened, the sound of her tears like a weight on my chest. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms.

I wanted to pull her into my arms and whisper that everything would be okay, even if I didn’t believe it myself. But I couldn’t. Opening that door felt like opening a gate to a flood I couldn’t control.

Pressing my palms against my ears, I shut my eyes tightly, trying to block out the sound of her crying. It was self-preservation; it was cowardice. I leaned forward, my head bowed as I fought the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

“I’m sorry, B,” I whispered to no one, to the four walls that offered no comfort, to the door that kept her out. More tears welled in my eyes, a hot, painful sting that I fought to hold back. I buried my face into my pillow, my body shaking with silent sobs.

Beverly’s crying stopped, but she didn’t leave. I could feel her, just beyond the door, as if waiting for any sign that I was still there, still hers. But I couldn’t give her that. Not now.

Not when everything was so fraught with pain and fear.

I bit down on my lip, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to stop myself from calling her name. Even as my body shook. Even as I heard her break down again on the other side of the door.

Even as my own tears fell, silent and bitter.

Finally, I heard her move—her footsteps soft as she walked away. The finality in that small sound, the soft echo of her retreat, was a sharp ache in my already fractured heart.

I lay there in the growing darkness, as the evening crept in and the shadows grew longer. The door next to mine clicked shut.

I shuddered, feeling everything inside me collapse.

She was right there.

But she may as well have been a thousand miles away.

“I’m sorry, B,” I whispered into the emptiness.

But there was no one there to hear it, just the echo of my own regrets, bouncing off the cold walls of my room.