Beverly

Chapter 32

32

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

I regretted everything.

I regretted not getting my license when I had the chance. I regretted waking up to my period and still stubbornly deciding to go through with this stupid date. I regretted not taking extra painkillers before leaving the house. But most of all, I regretted the fact that I was about to pedal all the way into the city while feeling like my insides were being shredded to pieces.

The smart thing would have been to reschedule, to curl up in bed with a heating pad and binge-watch something mindless while devouring an ungodly amount of chocolate. But I couldn’t. Because if I canceled, Blake would win.

To make matters worse, I had chosen the pinkest outfit I could find—because why not be cute while suffering? A cropped cardigan in the perfect shade of bubblegum pink paired with a matching skirt that, in theory, screamed stylish and chic.

In reality, it was a disaster. The skirt rode up with every step, and the breeze outside promised to make things even worse.

I tugged it down for what had to be the hundredth time, already exhausted by the battle I was clearly destined to lose.

I stared at my bike, as if hoping it might suddenly transform into a car. No such luck.

Taking a deep breath, I swung my leg over the seat, wincing as a sharp ache spread through my lower stomach. I groaned, hating the way the waistband of my skirt dug into my stomach.

But I wasn’t backing out now.

I quickly tied my hair into a loose ponytail, adjusted my skirt as best as I could, and, after one last, resentful glance at my bike and a silent promise to myself, I pushed off.

“This better be worth it, Reese,” I muttered under my breath.

The sun was already beating down, making my skin sticky and my patience thinner by the second.

And, because the universe was cruel, I had barely made it down the street when a car rolled up beside me, creeping along at my pace as if it had nowhere else to be.

I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Blake.

Coming back from the gym, probably.

The car window slid down with a sharp hiss, and the pounding bass of Still Not a Player by Big Pun blasted from the speakers—loud enough to make the pavement vibrate and my irritation grow with every passing second.

I focused on the road ahead, willing myself to ignore him.

Blake didn’t get the hint.

“Don’t tell me he didn’t even pick you up, Beverly,” he called over the music, his voice dripping with something between amusement and judgment.

I gritted my teeth.

I wasn’t doing this. Not today. Not when I had cramps ripping through my stomach. Not when I had spent the entire morning psyching myself up for this date.

I kept my eyes straight ahead and pedaled harder. Blake was like quicksand—the more I fought him, the deeper I sank.

He revved the engine slightly, inching forward. “What kind of guy asks a girl on a date and doesn’t even pick her up?”

I exhaled sharply, gripping my handlebars tighter. “Go away, Blake.”

“You’re wearing pink.”

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “What, you think I should’ve worn all black and moped around town instead?”

“No,” he said after a long pause, and I hated how soft his voice sounded. “I think you look good.”

I nearly veered into a parked car, coming dangerously close to kissing its bumper. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I wasn’t going to do this. So I did the only thing I could do.

I ignored him. Pedaled faster. Put distance between us.

Blake drove faster, pulled ahead, and slammed the brakes—parking the damn car directly in my path.

I braked hard, my heart slamming against my ribs as I came to a jerky stop. “Are you kidding me?” I hissed. “Move the car.”

He rested an arm against the open window, tilting his head slightly, scanning my outfit, my bike, my face. “I’ll drive you.”

I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. “No, you won’t.”

“Get in the car.”

“Why? So you can ruin my date before it even happens?”

He drummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. “Beverly.”

I crossed my arms. “Blake.”

“Get in the car, Beverly.”

I glared at him, putting every ounce of defiance I had into it. “Do I look like I need a ride?”

“Beverly, you can barely sit on that thing.”

I waved him off dismissively. “I can handle it.”

“And the cramps?”

I stiffened.

“You’re pale, you’re sweating, and you’re wearing that face,” he said, gesturing in my direction. “The one you make when you’re in pain but trying to act like you’re not.”

I refused to react. I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Because I was in pain. My cramps were getting worse, and my legs burned from the short distance I had pedaled.

But this wasn’t about comfort; this was about principle.

“I’m meeting Reese,” I reminded him, emphasizing the name. “You don’t get to play the overprotective big brother now.”

His jaw ticked. “Get in the car, Beverly.”

“I am not arguing with you about this, Blake,” I gritted out. “Move the damn car.”

“No.”

“Blake—”

“Get in the car.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still on that bike.”

“I like my bike.”

“You hate your bike.”

I clenched my jaw.

He wasn’t wrong.

And that pissed me off even more.

“Beverly, just—” He sighed, frustration creeping into his voice. “Just get in the car.”

“Why do you care?”

“You know why,” he replied with a low exhale. “And because you look like you’re about to pass out. Because if you were mine, I’d pick you up.”

I hated him.

I hated him, I hated him, I hated him.

I hated him more than I ever thought possible.

Because even now, after everything, Blake could still do things like this. He could still be like this—infuriatingly kind, annoyingly protective, and impossible to ignore. He could still get under my skin, mess with my head, and twist my heart with every word he spoke. He could still make me feel things I didn’t want to feel.

I swallowed, forcing my expression to stay flat. “Yeah?” I said. “Well, I’m not yours.”

Blake’s grip on the wheel tightened. Then, without another word, he reached across the seat, pushed open the passenger door, and looked at me. “Beverly, for God’s sake.” His voice softened. “Get in the car.”

I stared at the open door.

I should have just kept going. I should have pedaled past him, flipped him off on my way down the street, and met Reese like a normal girl going on a normal date. But I was in pain, and my stomach was cramping so hard it felt like a punishment. And the thought of biking all the way into the city when there was air-conditioning right there?

Fine.

With as much attitude as I could manage, I shoved my bike toward the curb, stalked over to the car, and slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me.

Blake didn’t look smug. Didn’t say I told you so.

He just reached for the volume knob, turning the music down to a low hum, and started driving.

And I hated that, too.

Because it almost felt comfortable.

* * *

Blake drove like he did everything else—calm and controlled. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his fingers tapping idly against the leather.

I hated that I noticed.

But I hated even more that I remembered exactly how those hands felt when they weren’t wrapped around a steering wheel.

Shifting in my seat, I crossed one leg over the other and kept my gaze locked on the blurred cityscape outside the window.

The car smelled like him. Of course, it did.

The scent wrapped around me, pulling me straight into the past, into memories I’d spent the last five months burying.

“I can hear you thinking,” he said.

“Oh, so now you’re a mind reader?”

His eyes stayed on the road. “Please. If I could actually read your mind, I would’ve lost it a long time ago.”

I shot him a look. “You’ve already lost it.”

“Yeah?” He glanced at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And whose fault is that?”

“Your own. For being impossible.”

Blake hummed low in his throat, like he was considering it. “Or maybe you just bring it out of me.”

I ignored him, my fingers curled around the hem of my skirt, willing my body to relax.

It wasn’t working.

“So,” he drawled, his voice deceptively casual, “tell me about this date you’re about to go on. What’s Reese taking you to do?”

I exhaled sharply. “You wouldn’t care even if I did,” I muttered, my words laced with a bitterness I couldn’t hide.

“Humor me.”

I bit back a groan, my gaze fixed firmly on the view outside the window. Anything to avoid looking at him, to keep from being dragged into whatever game he was playing. “It’s dinner,” I said, the words flat and dismissive, hoping he’d just let it go.

“That’s it?” He made a low noise in his throat. “How original.”

“Not all of us require elaborate plans to have a good time.”

“You’re easy to please, huh?”

I turned just enough to glare at him. “Oh, I’m sorry, should I be demanding yacht rides and diamond bracelets?”

Blake shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

“God, you’re unbearable.”

“Funny,” he mused, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, “you used to think I was someone worth liking.”

“You used to be a lot of things,” I muttered, willing my body to stop reacting to him, to ignore the way my heart betrayed me, hammering loudly enough that I was sure he could hear it too.

“Hope he knows what he’s doing,” he murmured. “Would be a shame if you wasted your best pink outfit on the wrong guy.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and pulled at the hem of my skirt, suddenly hating how obvious the color was against the black interior of the car. Now I wished I had worn something else. Something boring. Something he wouldn’t look at twice. Something that wouldn’t make his gaze linger on my legs before he caught himself and turned his eyes back to the road.

His fingers tapped against the gearshift, tap, tap, tap , in time with Always Be My Sunshine by Jay-Z.

I swallowed hard. I hated that song. Not because it was bad, but because I loved it. Because Blake had put it on a mixtape for me once, back when mixtapes still meant something, back when we still meant something.

“Where am I dropping you off?”

“Sunset and Vine.”

Blake hummed. “Good spot.”

I nodded, not looking at him.

And that should have been the end of it. Blake was just giving me a ride. Just getting me from point A to point B.

“Is this your first date with him?”

I sighed, shifting in my seat. “Yes, Blake.”

“You nervous?”

“Why do you care?”

His wrist flexed as he made a turn. “I don’t.”

I stared straight ahead, watching as the city came into view. “Then don’t ask.”

“Beverly, I know you’re nervous. You keep fidgeting.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“If you say so.”

“Why are you so annoying?”

“Born this way.”

I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head.

“What do you like about him?”

I blinked. “Excuse me? What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one.”

“Are you serious?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

I closed my eyes for a second before forcing them open again. “He’s nice, okay?”

Blake made a low, unimpressed sound.

My patience snapped. “What do you want me to say, Blake? That he’s the love of my life? We both know that’s not true.”

“Why didn’t you tell him to pick you up? That’s what a guy does, right? When he’s taking a girl on a real date. He picks her up. Opens the door for her. Tells her how pretty she looks in her little pink outfit.”

My fingers dug into my thighs.

“Did he even ask?” he continued, his voice annoyingly soft. “Or did you just offer to meet him there?”

“Just drop it, Blake. You don’t get to judge this.”

Blake exhaled sharply, rolling his neck. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess I don’t.”

We were at a stoplight now. The tension in the car felt like a living thing, pressing against every inch of me. I crossed my arms. “You’re just going to sit here, picking me apart, asking questions I have no interest in answering, and you have no real desire to hear? What’s the point? Because nothing good is going to come of it.”

“What’s the point?” he repeated. “I don’t know. Are you going to act like you don’t want to be here?”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“You’re still here, though.”

“Only because my uterus is trying to kill me.”

“You could’ve taken the bus.”

“Excuse me?”

“You could’ve asked Tiffany to drive you,” he continued. “You could’ve canceled altogether. But instead, you got on that bike, even though you were miserable, even though you didn’t want to, even though you knew there was a chance I’d see you.”

I opened my mouth, ready to fire something back—something clever, something cruel, something that would make him feel how furious I was?—

“You knew I’d stop.” Blake sighed, glancing at me. “So, what—you’re planning on suffering through a date while you feel like shit?”

I gritted my teeth. “I can handle it.”

“Yeah? And is Reese going to handle it when you start regretting this whole thing ten minutes in?”

“Regretting what, exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Forcing yourself to have fun with some guy who doesn’t even know you hate raw onions. Or that you always order Sprite at restaurants but never finish it. Or that?—”

“Don’t start,” I cut him off. “I don’t need to hear it.”

“How long do you think you’ll last?”

I exhaled slowly. “With what?”

“Pretending you like him.”

My throat went tight.

Blake hummed like he had already won.

But I wasn’t going to give him that.

I turned to face him, refusing to shy away from his intense gaze. “I do like him,” I said, my voice softer, but no less firm.

“No, you don’t.”

I pressed my lips together, looking away.

“Beverly.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know me.”

“I do know you.”

My fingers curled into fists. “Not anymore.”

Blake huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s funny, because I know you wear Tommy Girl during the week because it makes you feel fresh and put-together, but on weekends, you switch to Poison by Dior because it makes you feel dangerous.”

I scoffed, but he wasn’t done.

“I know you read the last page of a book first, even though you swear you don’t. I know you hate gold jewelry, but you wear that one gold bracelet because your grandmother gave it to you. I know you pretend not to care about birthdays, but you always get quiet the night before yours, like you’re secretly hoping someone will make a big deal out of it.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“I know you keep a pack of spearmint gum in your bag even though you hate the taste, just in case someone else wants a piece.” His voice was slow, as if he were dragging the words out just to make me squirm. “I know you always set three alarms in the morning, but you wake up on the first one and just lie there, staring at the ceiling. I know you can’t sleep without white noise, so you keep a fan running even in the middle of winter. I know you avoid sad movies unless you’re alone because you hate crying in front of people. I know you write text messages and then delete them before you send them. I know you hate when people touch your hair, but you let me mess with it anyway.”

I swallowed hard, but he just kept going.

“I know you don’t actually like soda, but you drink it anyway because you like the carbonation. I know you hum to yourself when you’re thinking, even if you don’t realize it. I know you avoid stepping on sidewalk cracks, even though you would never admit to being superstitious. I know you tell people your favorite color is pink, but it’s really green—you just don’t want to deal with the questions. And I know you hate saying goodbye, so you always say ‘see you later’ instead.”

I swallowed again, hating the way my throat burned.

Blake let out a long, shaky breath, his eyes drifting to the windshield before meeting mine again.“And I know?—”

He stopped himself.

I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to hear what he was about to say. But my pulse thundered in my ears, demanding an answer.

“Know what?” I asked.

He shook his head once. “Nothing.”

“If there’s something you need to say, say it now, Blake.”

“I know that if he touches you, you’ll be thinking about me.”

A violent shiver ran down my spine, every muscle in my body tightening. I should have never gotten in the car. I should have known that this conversation would tear me apart.

“Drop me off at the corner,” I told him, my voice shaking slightly, betraying the facade I was desperately trying to maintain. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Nice try,” he said. “Does Reese know how stubborn you are? How you tap your fingers when you’re impatient? That you only drink soda if the ice is crushed?”

“I swear to God, Blake?—”

“Does he know,” he said, “that you only bite your lip like that when you’re trying not to say something you want to say?”

Damn it.

I had been biting my lip.

Blake didn’t look away from the road. He didn’t give me the satisfaction of seeing whatever expression was on his face.

“He isn’t gonna like that you showed up with me,” he added.

I laughed, shifting in my seat. “Reese isn’t that insecure.”

Blake hummed, unconvinced. “We’ll see.”

“I don’t even know why you’re driving me,” I muttered.

“Because you’re in pain.” He turned his head slightly, one brow lifting as he gave me a once-over. Then his lips twitched. “B, you’re wearing two different earrings.”

What ? My mouth fell open slightly. I reached up immediately, my fingers brushing over my earlobes. One hoop. One stud.

I wanted to die.

A soft chuckle slipped past his lips. “Well, this is a new one.”

I groaned, slouching lower in my seat. “Blake.”

“Beverly.”

I met his gaze. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know.”

That scared me more than anything.

Blake always knew.

He always had the answer.

The car slowed as we reached the restaurant.

“Don’t go,” he said suddenly, his voice rough, like the words had been dragged out of him.

I blinked. “What?”

“You don’t even like him.”

“You can’t know that.” I hated how weak my voice sounded.

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “If you tell me you really want to go, I’ll drop it.”

I wanted to say yes . I wanted to force myself to believe that I wanted to go to dinner with Reese. But the words were stuck in my throat, lodged there like a knot I couldn’t untangle.

“That’s what I thought.” In one swift movement, he pulled the car over, tires screeching against the pavement.

I lurched forward, catching myself with a sharp inhale. “Wh?—”

“Come here.” His voice was low. Rough. A little desperate.

“Why?”

Green eyes locked onto mine. “Come here, Beverly.”

I swallowed, my heart thudding violently against my ribcage. “No,” I said, the word coming out defensively.

Blake’s hand shot out, pulling me toward him.

A strangled breath escaped me as my hands hit his chest, the seatbelt locking into place and keeping me half-twisted toward him, my knees brushing against the center console.

I opened my mouth to tell him to back off, to move, to do something other than sit there and look at me like he was trying to memorize every inch of my face.

But then he spoke. Soft. Broken. “Please don’t go, B.” The words barely made a sound, but they hit me like a punch to the ribs. “I know I don’t deserve to ask for anything,” he said quietly. “I know I can’t undo any of it.” He swallowed. “But Beverly, I?—”

I shook my head.

I couldn’t do this.

Not now. Not today.

Not when I was already unraveling at the seams.

I ripped my seatbelt off, my hands shaking as I reached for the door handle. “I have to go.”

For a second, I thought he might stop me. Thought he might reach across the console, might pull me back, might finally say the words that had been sitting between us for years.

But he didn’t.

He just sat there, hands gripping the wheel, staring out the windshield like he was trying to convince himself to let me go.

I had one foot out the door when Blake said, “Please.”

I froze with my hand still on the door handle, gripping it so tightly my fingers ached. “If you really don’t want me to go, you’ll tell Mom and Dad what you wanted to tell them months ago.”

His eyes snapped to mine, something panicked flashing behind them, as if I had just reached inside his chest and gripped his heart in my hands.

I tilted my head, arching a brow.

He didn’t say a word. Because he wouldn’t.

And I knew why. Because Blake never took a step unless he was sure of the outcome. I understood why he hadn’t told them back then. Why he hadn’t said a word when Mom got sick, when everything felt like it was hanging by a thread. I understood why he had buried it, swallowed it whole, let it rot inside of him instead of speaking it into existence. I got it.

But now? After all this time? After months of silence, of pretending I didn’t exist, of ignoring me like I was nothing just because he was too afraid to deal with what he felt?

What was his plan? Apologizing in stolen moments, pulling me aside when he felt like it, whispering things when no one else could hear, and then expecting me to pretend none of it ever happened? Expecting me to wait for him to decide when it was convenient to care again? Keeping me a secret?

No.I wouldn’t do it.

I wouldn’t let him pull me back into something that would only end with me shattered at his feet. I deserved better than that. And maybe that was the worst part—knowing he knew that, too.

I stared at him, waiting. For what, I didn’t know.

My voice was quiet when I said, “Thanks for the ride, Blake.”

I got out of the car and told myself I wanted to walk away.

Blake’s mouth parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

Before I shut the door, I looked him n the eye and said the only word that mattered now.

“Goodbye.”