Beverly

Chapter 34

34

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

I stared at the ceiling fan in Tiffany’s room, watching it spin in slow, lazy circles. The blades needed dusting. I could see the buildup from here. That should’ve made me want to get up and clean it. But nothing made me want anything lately.

I sighed, letting my head loll to the side. Tiffany was sitting on the floor, painting her toenails a shade of baby blue that clashed horribly with the hot pink scrunchie in her hair, her tongue poking out in concentration.

“You’re so quiet,” she noted, blowing lightly on her big toe. “It’s stressing me out.”

I shrugged, my fingers idly turning a page of a Vogue magazine, eyes scanning over an article about summer trends I had no real interest in. “I’m thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” she said. “Please say something juicy. I’m bored out of my mind.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Nothing juicy.”

“Ugh.” She let her head fall back. “Then what?”

“I don’t know. Just…life, I guess.”

She made a face. “Ew. That’s the worst.”

“Tiff, I have no idea what I’m doing. Everyone else has plans. College, jobs, moving out. And then there’s me. Stuck. Just…existing. I keep thinking about my future, and every time, I come up blank. What am I supposed to do? Get a degree in something I don’t care about? Work at the theater forever? Flip burgers?”

Tiffany pursed her lips, tapping the polish brush against the rim of the bottle. “Okay, first of all, flipping burgers is beneath you. You’d burn down the kitchen in two seconds.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not the point.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“That’s the thing,” I admitted. “I don’t know.”

“Dancing still makes you happy, right?”

I frowned. “Yeah, but?—”

“So do something with that.” She gestured at me with the polish brush. “You’re always dancing, always practicing, always in the studio. If you’re not at work, you’re at dance. If you’re not at dance, you’re choreographing something in your head while you’re supposed to be paying attention to literally anything else.”

“You can’t make money as a dancer,” I replied, my voice edged with frustration. “Not unless you’re, like, a star. And even then, it’s?—”

“Who said anything about being a dancer, Bev?” she cut in. “Be a teacher. Run your own studio one day.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I’m serious!” She waved her hands like she was unveiling a grand idea. “ Little Beverly’s School of Dance .”

I gave her a deadpan stare. “Little?”

“Fine,” she said with a grin. “ Big Beverly’s School of Dance.”

I groaned. “I hate you.”

“You love me. But, for real, I think you’d be a good teacher.”

“Tiff,” I sighed, “it doesn’t make money.”

“Everything makes money if you’re smart about it.”

“Tiffany, it’s not realistic.”

“You know what’s not realistic? You working some office job for the next thirty years, slowly losing your mind because you hate every second of it. Just saying.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek.

She wasn’t wrong.

I loved dance. It was the only thing that had ever made sense to me, the only thing that had ever made me feel like me . It was the one thing I could count on, the one thing I could escape into when everything else felt too much. And maybe I had thought about teaching before. Maybe I had let myself imagine what it would be like to run my own studio, to watch kids fall in love with dance the way I had. But imagining something, and then actually doing it?

That was different.

“Not every job has to make you rich, Bev?—”

“Easy for you to say. You actually have a plan.”

She had already applied to UCLA. She had a whole life waiting for her. Dorms, new friends, endless possibilities. She talked about it constantly, her excitement bubbling over in every conversation. I had nothing. I wasn’t Tiffany, who had been planning to study fashion since we were fourteen. I wasn’t someone with a clear dream, a destination that made sense to others.

I glanced at the clock. Blake’s going to college soon…

That thought had been creeping up on me for weeks, but now it was starting to suffocate me. He had already picked his classes. Blake was going to make so much money one day, and I…

I was going to be left behind.

Tiffany must have seen something shift in my expression, because she sighed softly and scooted closer, tucking one leg underneath her. “This is about Blake, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said automatically.

She gave me a look.

I huffed, sitting up. “Fine. Maybe.”

She rested her chin in her palms. “He’s just going to college, Bev. It’s not like he’s moving to another country.”

Might as well have been.

“You don’t need to compare yourself to him. You know that, right?”

I stared at my hands, picking at my nail polish. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

I didn’t know how to explain it.

How do you explain what it feels like to have someone be part of your life for so long that you don’t even remember a version of yourself without them? And then, one day, you wake up and realize they have a future that doesn’t include you. That their life is going to move forward, whether you’re in it or not.

That’s what Blake was doing. He had his future mapped out. He had somewhere to go. And me? I was stuck here.

“Bev,” Tiffany said gently. “It’s okay to not know what you’re doing yet. You don’t have to have it all figured out.”

“Blake does…”

“Yeah, but Blake’s not you .”

No. He wasn’t. He had plans, a scholarship, a future that was set in stone. And I had a part-time job at a movie theater and a dance class that wasn’t going anywhere.

I exhaled sharply, my shoulders slumping as I leaned against the headboard. “I’m just tired, Tiff.”

Her expression softened.

Tired wasn’t even the right word…

It was deeper than that. It was exhaustion in my bones, in my brain, in the part of me that was supposed to know what came next but didn’t. It was that gnawing feeling that I was supposed to be doing something. That I was supposed to be figuring it out.

Because wasn’t that what getting older was? You woke up one day and suddenly had a plan, a direction, a purpose.

That’s what it seemed like for other people.

For Tiffany, with her spreadsheets and college applications.

For my classmates who talked about career paths with the kind of certainty I couldn’t even fake.

It felt like everyone else had been given a manual on how to be a functioning adult, and I had somehow missed the meeting where they handed them out.

What if I never figured it out? What if this was it?

What if I was always going to feel like I was waiting for something that wasn’t coming? That’s what getting older was, wasn’t it? Waiting and pretending. Pretending you knew what you were doing, even when you didn’t. Pretending the future wasn’t terrifying. Asking yourself why it seemed so easy for everyone else, why you felt like you were constantly two steps behind.

I stared at my hands, like somehow they might hold the answer, but all I saw were the same fingers that had always been there.

“I think I might be broken,” I muttered.

“Jesus, Bev. Dramatic much?”

I sighed, dragging my fingers through my hair. “I’m serious. Don’t you ever feel like you have no idea what you’re doing? And I’m not talking about college or jobs or whatever. I mean…everything. Your whole life. What are we even doing ?”

She gave me a flat look. “Beverly. I’m deciding my entire future based on vibes . Of course I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, but don’t you ever feel like…” I hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Like maybe you should have figured it out by now? Like there’s some… I don’t know. Some feeling you’re supposed to have? Some big realization that’s supposed to hit you and make everything make sense?”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow. “Beverly, everyone’s pretending. Everyone is faking it. Some people are just better at making it look like they know what they’re doing.”

I rubbed my forehead, staring at her. “That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.” She snatched the magazine from my hands. “You think our parents know what they’re doing? You think they have some secret formula for adulting that we’re just missing? Because I’m telling you, they don’t. My mom told me last week that there are days when she still feels like a kid playing dress-up, pretending she knows what she’s doing. Some days, she calls my grandma when she’s overwhelmed, just to ask for advice. I’ve caught her in the kitchen more times than I can count, pacing with the phone pressed to her ear, whispering, ‘Mom, what do I do?’ My point is, we’re all just kids. Just taller, slightly more tired children. The sooner you come to terms with that, the easier it’ll be to breathe through all of this. Life isn’t about getting it right. It’s about figuring out how to fake it well enough to survive.”

“Well, that’s not the motivational speech I was hoping for.”

She grinned. “Too bad. It’s the one you’re getting.”

I huffed. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Tiffany insisted. “You just make it complicated. Stop overthinking. Life’s a mess.”

I nodded slowly. “I guess I just thought that by now, I’d feel different. Like I’d wake up one day and suddenly understand what I’m supposed to be doing. But I still feel like the same person I was at twelve. Just…with more responsibilities and better eyeliner.”

Tiffany let out a breath, stretching her arms above her head. “You know what? We need a distraction.”

“A distraction from what?”

“From your existential crisis. And your terrible taste in men. Why take life so seriously if no one ever makes it out alive?”

“My taste in men isn’t?—”

“You’re not gonna sit here and mope all day. It’s almost June. You know what that means?”

I stared at her. “Summer?”

“Exactly. And what do we do every summer?”

“Stay inside with the AC blasting?”

“ No , Bev. We swim.”

“That’s your big distraction idea? Swimming?”

“Duh,” she muttered. “Every summer since we were, like, thirteen, we’ve gone swimming as soon as it’s warm enough. And I know you haven’t been in the water since last year.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Last summer felt like a lifetime ago, like a version of me that didn’t exist anymore. Back then, everything had been normal. Back then, I could jump into a pool without feeling like something was missing. Back then, I didn’t have to wonder if I’d turn my head underwater and expect to see Blake swimming beside me.

“C’mon,” Tiffany said, batting her lashes. “We’ll go to my uncle’s place. No creepy old guys in speedos, no screaming kids. Just us.”

“I don’t even have a swimsuit.”

She gasped. “We are fixing that immediately.”

I groaned. “Tiff?—”

“No excuses, Beverly Price. You, me, the mall, right now. We’re getting you something that screams sexy, and tomorrow, we’re spending the entire day swimming, tanning, and not thinking about our complicated lives.”

Well, that did sound nice. And I needed a break. I needed to get out of my own head and let myself have fun for once.

“Fine.”

Tiffany beamed. “Good. I’m thinking a cute little bikini. Maybe something red. No, scratch that, too basic. How about a fiery orange one? It’ll make you look sun-kissed even before you hit the water. Or we could go bold with a tropical print?—”

“Tiff—”

“Ugh, I can’t decide, Bev. And don’t even get me started on accessories. Sunglasses, a cute beach hat, maybe a beach bag that matches, like one of those woven ones? We’ll grab some cute sandals too, because your toes need to?—”

* * *

Tiffany had talked me into way more than I planned to buy—bikinis, sunglasses, a floppy sunhat I’d never wear, even a yellow beach bag I’d probably regret later. But for once, I didn’t care. Shopping with Tiffany had been exactly what I needed—something mindless, something fun.She made me try on half the store, twirling in front of the mirrors while hyping me up so loudly that even the cashier started laughing. We left with shopping bags swinging, frozen lemonades in hand, and the promise of a perfect, carefree summer day tomorrow.

I had found the perfect bikini, too. Not a fiery orange one or some wild tropical print—just a simple, soft pink bikini that fit me like it was made for me.

The shopping bags dug into my wrist as I swung open the front door, my chest still warm from laughter. “Mom?” I called out, kicking off my sandals.

Silence.

I frowned, nudging the door shut behind me. “Mom?”

Nothing.

No sounds from the kitchen. No smell of dinner cooking.

The living room was empty, the TV off.

I glanced at the clock. She had probably gone to bed early, or maybe she was next door with Mrs. Thompson, listening to another long-winded complaint about the neighbor’s pink fence. Dad was working late, as usual.

A slow, disappointed sigh left my lips.

I’d wanted to show her what I got, to hear her tell me that the pink bikini was so me . Even if she would’ve rolled her eyes at some of Tiffany’s more questionable choices, she would’ve smiled, told me I looked beautiful, and tucked my hair behind my ear like she always did.

My throat felt tight.

For a second, I debated just taking my bags upstairs and calling it a night. But my hands were practically itching to show someone, to hear someone tell me you look good in that, Bev.

My eyes flicked toward the hallway.

Show Blake instead .

The thought came so naturally, so easily, that I didn’t even stop to consider it. Because that’s what I always did. I’d come home, find him, flop onto his bed, and pull things out of my shopping bag one by one while he pretended not to care but still paid attention anyway. Blake always had something to say—half teasing, half genuine. That’s so short, you’re gonna give Dad a heart attack . Or, That one makes your legs look even longer.

Before I could think too hard about it, my feet carried me toward his door, past family photos and the old mirror that had hung on the wall since before I was born.

Blake’s door was cracked open, just enough for me to hear the low murmur of voices. I figured he was just muttering to himself like he sometimes did when he was working through a math problem. I pushed it open without hesitation, already lifting the pink bikini top out of the bag, holding it against my chest.

“Hey,” I said brightly. “Tell me this isn’t cute?—”

I stopped mid-sentence.

Because there was a girl sitting on his bed.

Brunette. Pretty. Probably a year or two older than me.

She wasn’t touching him. She wasn’t even that close to him. But she was there . Her long, sleek hair cascaded over her shoulders—the kind you’d see in shampoo commercials. She sat with one leg casually crossed over the other, a tank top hanging effortlessly off her frame, and tiny gym shorts revealing toned legs, as if she had just walked out of a fitness ad.

Blake was standing near his dresser, mid-motion, as if he had just thrown something onto it. He had been laughing, and the sound still lingered in the air, wrapping around me like a noose.

My fingers went slack.

The pink bikini slipped from my fingers, falling to the floor. For a long, drawn-out moment, I stood there, staring, too stunned to move or speak. I stared at her like she wasn’t real.

Like maybe if I blinked enough times, she’d disappear.

She didn’t.

Blake’s eyes locked onto mine, and he froze, staring at me as if I had just shot him. Something inside me cracked so hard I swore the whole room could hear it.

I could barely breathe, let alone move. My brain refused to make sense of what my eyes were seeing. None of it made sense.

There was a girl sitting on his bed. A girl who wasn’t me .

My brain tried to tell me it wasn’t a big deal. That Blake could have girls over. That he could do whatever he wanted. But the truth was, none of those thoughts could silence the panic rising in my chest. It swelled up inside my throat like I was drowning in air. Then came the hurt—sharp and unforgiving, like stepping on glass and realizing too late that you’re bleeding.

The girl looked up then, as if she had only just realized someone else was in the room. She blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard by my presence. And then, as if this wasn’t already humiliating enough, she gave me a small, polite smile.

Blake still hadn’t said anything.

I took one slow step backward.

Then another.

Blake moved. “Beverly?—”

I turned and walked out.

I didn’t run. I didn’t slam the door. I just walked. One foot in front of the other, my ears ringing, my breath shallow. I felt like I was floating, as if I had stepped into some alternate reality where Blake didn’t look at me like I was his anymore. Where there were other girls in his room. Where I was just a stranger walking in on something I had no right to interrupt.

I didn’t even know what I felt—anger, embarrassment, hurt—all of it knotted together in a tight mess that made my chest ache, as if someone had wrapped a rope around my ribs and was pulling, pulling, pulling. I didn’t hear anything except the rush of blood in my ears and the sound of Blake’s footsteps following me.

“Beverly, wait.”

I didn’t stop moving until I was in my room.

Staring at nothing.

I leaned back against the door, sliding down to the floor until I was sitting, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. My breath came in shallow gasps, as if I’d been running for miles. I was broken in a way I couldn’t even begin to explain.

Because Blake had been my first instinct.

And I had been so stupid to think he was still mine.

A sharp knock at the door made me flinch.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Beverly.”

I ignored him.

Another knock. More insistent. “Open the door, B.”

I stared at the floor, my breath shaky.

“Beverly.”

The doorknob turned.

I shot to my feet, twisting the lock before he could get in.

My fingers trembled around the handle.

“You’re locking me out?”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Oh, I don’t know, Blake, should I leave my door open? Seems like that’s your thing.”

Silence.

Then a sharp breath. “Jesus Christ.”

I heard it then—the subtle tremor in his breath, the way it shook, as if the frustration he was holding in was barely contained.

I swallowed, hating how my chest tightened at the sound.

“It isn’t what you think,” he said, his voice lower now.

“Who is she?”

“Her name’s Sydney. She’s no one, Beverly. I barely know her. She’s from the gym. She needed help with something?—”

“Oh, yeah?” I cut him off, my voice rising despite myself. I could hear how wild I sounded, but I didn’t care. The anger was a living thing in my chest, clawing to get out. “Help with what, exactly? How to take off your shirt?”

“A project for school ?—”

I scoffed, pushing off the door. “What subject did she need help with that required her to be in your bedroom?”

“Are you listening to yourself right now? She asked for help, that’s all. She didn’t want to meet at the library because her ex works there.”

I swallowed hard.

I hated this.

I hated him.

I hated myself more.

“Jesus, Beverly.” His fist hit the door, hard enough to make the wood shake. “Why do you assume the worst of me?”

I stared at the locked door like I could see through it. “Blake, you let me walk in on you with some girl?—”

“Who I wasn’t doing anything with,” he cut in.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes!”

I let out a shaky breath, pressing my hands against my temples. “I don’t even care,” I said. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”

“Then why the hell are you acting like this?”

I froze.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

I did care.

I cared so much that it hurt.

“I don’t care what you do,” I lied. “Go away.”

“You looked like you cared.”

“Just go away,” I repeated, my voice quieter now, betraying the vulnerability I was desperately trying to hide.

“If you don’t care, then why does your voice sound like that?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You really think…” He trailed off, like the words were stuck in his throat. “You think I’d just bring someone home like that?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

Silence.

Then, his voice turned rough, frustrated. “You know what, Beverly? I don’t have to tell you everything.”

I flinched like he’d slapped me.

I stepped back from the door. “Then I don’t have to listen.”

“You’re pissed because you’re jealous?—”

“Jealous?” I echoed, breathless.

“I think you’re pissed because you hate the idea of me being with anyone else. And you know what? You don’t get to have it both ways. You don’t get to push me away and?—”

“You think I pushed you away?” I snapped. “Are you serious?”

“You act like I’m the only one who let things get bad. Like you didn’t met with Reese and let him kiss you?—”

“Blake, I’m done. Just go away.”

“Beverly, open the door.”

“No.”

“Beverly.”

I heard it.

The way his voice cracked. The way he was desperate now.

But I wouldn’t do this.

I wouldn’t let him in just because his voice sounded like that. Just because he was suddenly remembering me.

I took a step back.

Then another.

Then, softer, careful, he said, “Did you need something?”

I blinked.

For a moment, I had forgotten.

Forgotten the stupid shopping bags.

The bikini.

The fact that I had walked in here wanting to see him.

“No,” I whispered.

Then I walked to my closet, pulled out my duffel bag, and started packing.

Because I couldn’t be here.

Not tonight.

Not with the version of myself that still cared.