Beverly

Chapter 42

42

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

Because I was too busy loving you.

No. No, no, no, no.

I couldn’t get away fast enough.

The weight of those words had crushed the air out of my lungs. I felt them everywhere—in my throat, in my hands, in my chest, where my stupid heart was pounding way too hard, way too fast, like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

I had waited years for those words.

I had imagined them spilling from Blake’s lips a thousand different ways, longed for the confirmation of something I’d always suspected but never dared to believe.

And now?

Now, I wanted to shove them right back down his throat.

Because it didn’t change anything.

Because it didn’t undo all the times he had pushed me away.

My chest felt too full, as if something was clawing inside me, desperate to escape, desperate to breathe.

I swung my leg over my bike, my heart pounding in a rhythm I couldn’t slow down, my pulse thrumming with too many emotions at once—anger, confusion, heartbreak, frustration.

I needed to get to work. Needed to slip into my usual routine, stand behind the ticket counter, and lose myself in the noise of moviegoers asking for popcorn with extra butter.

I needed to pretend he never said it.

I pedaled toward the street, gripping the handlebars tighter than necessary, my knuckles turning white. And then I saw Sydney.

She was sitting in her car, her hands clutching the steering wheel, her forehead pressed against it as if she was trying to keep herself from falling apart.

For a second, I hesitated.

Because I could have just pedaled past her.

I could have pretended I didn’t see her.

I could have let her cry alone.

We had spent so much time pretending not to notice each other. Avoiding eye contact like it was some unspoken rule.

But no girl should ever sit alone in her car, crying over a boy.

I exhaled sharply, my grip on the handlebars loosening.

Setting my bike against the curb, I crossed the short distance to her car and knocked gently on the window.

Sydney startled, quickly wiping her face as she turned her head. Her eyes widened in surprise before narrowing with suspicion. “What do you want?”

With a sigh, I motioned for her to roll the window down.

Her brown eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged beneath them, making her look less like the girl who always had it together and more like someone who had just lost something she thought was hers. She scowled but rolled the window down anyway. “What?” she snapped.

I ignored the bite in her voice. “You okay?”

She let out a humorless laugh, wiping at her face aggressively. “Seriously?” She gestured at herself, at her tear-streaked cheeks and trembling hands. “Do I look okay to you?”

“No,” I said, raising a brow. “You look like someone who’s trying really hard to be mad when they’re actually just sad.”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t, what? Don’t act like I care?” I leaned against the car, crossing my arms. “Sorry, can’t help it.”

She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “Jesus Christ, I don’t need your damn pity, Beverly. I mean, go ahead,” she muttered. “Tell me. You win. You have him, okay? I give up. I’m done.”

God, I wanted to be mad at her.

“I didn’t say you needed pity.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked.

I thought about that for a second.

Maybe because I had been there—sitting alone in my room, trying not to cry, feeling like I had lost something I hadn’t been ready to let go of.

Maybe because, despite everything, I didn’t hate her.

So I answered honestly.

“Because no guy is worth crying over like this.”

Sydney snorted, bitter and exhausted. “Please spare me the ‘you’re better than this’ speech. I don’t need it.”

“Good. I suck at speeches anyway.”

For a second, I thought she might snap again or just roll up the window in my face, dismissing me without another word.

Instead, she let out a shaky breath and looked down at her lap. Her voice was quieter when she spoke. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping slightly.

“I wanted him to love me,” she admitted, so softly that if I hadn’t been standing right there, I might have missed it. “I really, really thought…if I just gave him enough time… I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“Then why does it feel like I am?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

Because I understood exactly what she meant.

Her lip trembled, and a fresh wave of tears spilled over.

I reached into my bag, pulled out a handful of tissues, and shoved them into her hands.

She took them without a word, dabbing at her wet cheeks. “You’re nice,” she muttered, as if it annoyed her.

“You deserve nice.”

She sighed, staring out the windshield for a long moment. “He’s just…so easy to love, isn’t he?”

My heart twisted painfully in my chest.

My first instinct was to argue, but the truth was that once you loved Blake McHayes, it was damn near impossible to stop.

“Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “He is.”

Sydney wiped her eyes, her breathing finally starting to even out. Then, out of nowhere, she let out a dry, almost amused huff. “You know what’s pathetic? The second I walked away, all I could think about was storming back in there and yelling at him again. Just to get it out of my system.”

“Go for it. I’ll even hold him down for you. Get it all out.”

She let out a soft, almost reluctant laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Be nice to me. You don’t have to be nice to me.”

“I know.”

She let out another soft laugh, then sighed. “God, I feel so, so stupid. I knew he didn’t love me the way I wanted him to. But I kept convincing myself that maybe if I was patient enough, if I was good enough, if I gave him enough time, maybe he’d?—”

“You’re not stupid, Sydney.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, looking down at her lap.

“Hey,” I said gently. “Look at me.”

She did.

“You’re not stupid,” I repeated firmly. “You’re not pathetic. You’re not weak. And you sure as hell are not unlovable.”

Her throat bobbed.

“You are Sydney-freaking-Covington,” I continued, a smile tugging at my lips. “You are smart and beautiful and confident, and you don’t need him to be any of those things.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

She wiped it away quickly. “God, I hate you.”

I grinned. “No, you don’t.”

She sniffled, rolling her eyes. “Whatever.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then, she inhaled, as if she was forcing herself to let it go.

She wiped at her face again. “God, I must look like a mess.”

“You do.”

She shot me a glare. “You’re supposed to lie.”

I shrugged. “You want honesty, or not?”

She straightened in her seat, cleared her throat, and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Where are you going?”

“Work,” I replied.

She nodded, staring straight ahead. “Get in,” she muttered, brushing hair out of her face. “I’ll drive you.”

“What?”

“Just get in the car, Beverly.”

I almost said no. I almost told her I’d rather take my bike, that I needed the air, that she didn’t owe me anything.

But then I saw the way her hands were shaking against the steering wheel. The way her swollen eyes flicked to the passenger seat like she couldn’t stand to be alone right now.

So I opened the door and slid inside.

Sydney wiped her nose with the sleeve of her dress, sniffed, then flicked on the headlights and pulled away from the curb.

As we drove, and the silence settled between us, I realized I wasn’t sure who I was running from more.

Blake, or the part of me that still wanted to turn back.

He was a phantom in my heart, a shadow I couldn’t outrun, even when I tried.

* * *

By the time I made it to work, I was already running on fumes. My emotions had been dragged through the dirt and stomped on multiple times in the last hour, and the last thing I wanted to do was pretend to care about people’s popcorn preferences.

But I needed the distraction.

For the first forty minutes of my shift, I went through the motions—scanning tickets, filling buckets with popcorn, trying to shove Blake’s voice out of my head. Trying to forget the way his face looked when he told me he had been too busy loving me.

Like it was some tragic, inevitable thing.

Like I was supposed to feel sorry for him.

I gritted my teeth and slammed the cash register shut a little harder than necessary.

“Geez, you look like you’re ready to commit murder,” Riley commented, lazily stirring a cherry slushie with a straw.

“Want to be my first victim?” I asked sweetly.

“Hey, I’m just saying.” She gestured vaguely at my posture. “You’ve been out of it all night. Your energy is all—” she waved her hands around dramatically, “— off .”

“It’s not off .”

“Beverly, you handed that guy ten dollars in change for a five-dollar bill.”

I groaned, rubbing my temple. “He didn’t give it back?”

“No, he did, actually. But only because he has a crush on you.” She slurped her drink loudly. “Anyway, guess who gets to clean up the disaster in Theater 4?”

“Not me,” I said automatically.

“Yeah, see, I already called it. Enjoy the mess, babe.”

I scowled. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too.” Riley winked, hopping off the counter.

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed a broom and made my way toward the dimly lit hallway, expecting the same mess I always found: a sticky floor, stray candy wrappers, and popcorn scattered across every surface—the kind of mess that made me question whether people were raised in barns.

What I wasn’t expecting? Blake . He was sitting in one of the empty theater seats, his long legs stretched out in front of him, looking way too at home for someone who did not belong here.

My fingers clenched around the broom handle like a weapon. “You’re not scheduled today,” I said, my voice perfectly flat.

He was wearing a white T-shirt, the sleeves snug around his arms, and gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. He looked like sin and regret wrapped in the kind of nonchalance that made me furious. I exhaled sharply through my nose, scanning the room for any sign of the “mess” I was supposed to deal with.

But there was nothing. Nothing . No spilled popcorn, no overturned sodas, no abandoned napkins crumpled on the seats. The place was spotless.

My gaze snapped back to him. “Did you?—?”

The opening credits of Clueless flickered to life on the screen.

The last time we watched it, I had been curled up in my bed, too angry to admit I had missed him, too stubborn to let him fix things with a VHS tape and his hand in my hair.

My heart skipped a beat in spite of myself, that familiar ache creeping back into my chest. “You planned this? You can’t just?—”

“Had Riley help,” Blake admitted, not even pretending to play innocent. “She loves me.”

I scoffed. “She tolerates you. You’re seriously going to sit here and watch my favorite movie like that’s going to fix anything?”

“Thought it was worth a shot.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Okay, listen?—”

“No.” I held up a hand. “You can’t?—”

“Before you say anything,” he cut in, “I came to apologize.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

He nodded. “Yeah. So, go ahead. Let me have it.”

Oh, this was going to feel good.

I could practically taste the satisfaction already.

“You hurt me,” I began, taking my time with every word. “You really think one measly apology is going to fix that?”

His throat bobbed. “No.”

“You think I’m just going to forgive you because you showed up here with your sad little eyes and your messed-up hair?”

He dragged a hand through his dark blond hair, which did nothing but make it messier. “No…”

“You think just because you finally realized how you feel, I should fall into your arms and act like nothing ever happened?”

He hesitated. Then, quieter, “No.”

I stepped closer, close enough to see the guilt burning in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for me but didn’t dare. Crossing my arms, I said, “So, apologize.”

“I’m sorry.”

I raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Beverly—”

“No, no, no. That’s not good enough. Try again.”

“Beverly,” he said again, quieter this time. “Please.”

I wasn’t going to make it that easy for him.

I glanced at the glowing exit sign, weighing my options. Then I took a step back, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. “Not good enough,” I repeated, my tone colder this time.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

I let the silence stretch, enjoying the way he shifted restlessly, the way his hands flexed as if he was dying to touch me but knew he didn’t deserve to.

I smiled, slow and sweet. “Beg.”

Blake’s eyes gleamed under the flickering light of the movie screen. He let out a slow breath, his gaze flicking over my face as if he was trying to decide if I was serious.

“You heard me,” I said. “You want my forgiveness? Beg for it.”

He pushed himself up from his seat and dropped to his knees, right there in the empty theater.

“I’ll do it,” he said, spreading his hands wide, looking utterly miserable. “I’ll beg until my knees give out if that’s what you want. Beverly, I’m sorry. For every time I made you doubt how I felt. For being a coward when you needed me to be brave. I’m—” He swallowed, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out.

“That’s it?” I said dryly. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“You want me to crawl? To grovel like I’m a desperate fool? You want me to tell you that I can’t breathe right when you’re not beside me? Because I will,” he promised. “I’m done running.”

I hummed, tapping my chin. “That’s a good start.”

He made a frustrated noise. “Beverly.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to be good at this, Beverly,” he admitted. “At saying the right thing. At handling this in a way that doesn’t make me a complete idiot.”

I took a slow step closer, towering over him. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“You ignored me.”

“I know.”

“You let Sydney think she had a chance.”

His eyes squeezed shut. “I know.”

“I hate that you made me wait for something I already knew.”

Blake blinked up at me, his hands resting on his thighs. “Please, B,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”

“Make me.”

“Just tell me what you want. Tell me what you need me to do,” he said. “Tell me how to fix it.”

“I want you miserable,” I confessed with a shrug.

“Done.”

“Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For pushing you away. For making you wait for something I wasn’t brave enough to say. For pretending I didn’t want you when I’ve wanted you every single second of every single day.”

“Say I deserve better.”

His green eyes flickered. “You do.”

“Say you’ll never hurt me again.”

“I can’t promise that.”

I stiffened. “Blake.”

“I can’t, Beverly,” he said roughly. “I can’t promise I’ll never mess up again. But I can promise that no matter how bad it gets, no matter how much I screw up, I will always love you.”

I swallowed. “Keep going.”

He exhaled sharply. “Beverly. Please .”

I tilted my head, considering. “I don’t know, B ,” I countered. “I kind of like you down there.”

“I’ll stay here all night if that’s what you want.”

“Tempting.”

His fingers flexed against his knees. “Tell me what to do, Beverly. I’ll do anything.”

I almost caved.

Instead, I dragged my fingers through his hair.

Blake sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flickering shut for half a second before he forced them open again.

“Oh, I’m enjoying this,” I mused.

His lips parted, a quiet sound slipping free. “Are you?”

I nodded slowly, tugging just slightly at his hair.

He let out a choked groan. “I-I hate myself for hurting you.”

“Yeah?” I said, brushing my thumb over his bottom lip.

“Beverly,” he exhaled, desperate.

“Shhh,” I whispered, pressing a finger to his mouth as my eyes shifted to the screen. “Cher’s about to have her epiphany.”

Blake let out a helpless breath.

I ignored him and made him wait.

“She’s rocking those plaid skirts like no one else…”

“I love you,” he said, his voice soft. “In ways that don’t feel fair. In ways that terrify me.”

I smirked a little, my attention still on the screen, though my heart was soaring at his admission. “I kind of want that skirt.”

“B, you’re killing me here. Please, look at me.”

I glanced down at my work uniform, unflattering and stiff, and asked, “So, what do you think of my outfit?”

“Better than Cher’s. Way better.”

I met his gaze then. “You sure?”

I watched him nod so vigorously it almost looked ridiculous, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

“And?”

“Cher wishes she could pull off what you’re wearing.”

“And?” I prodded, needing to hear more.

“And if you wore a trash bag, I’d still think you were the most beautiful thing in the room.”

I snorted, hiding a grin. “That’s what they say in rom-coms.”

“No, that’s how I feel. You could wear anything, or nothing at all, and you’d still be the most breathtaking person in the room, B. Always.”

“Always, huh?” I echoed, a little amused.

Blake McHayes, all six-feet-something of him, was kneeling at my feet, looking up at me as if I held the key to his next breath.

I let the silence stretch, making him sit in the agony of waiting.

A ragged breath escaped him. “Can I touch you?”

It was a question wrapped in uncertainty and hesitation.

I studied his face, allowing each expression and subtle detail to register before finally deciding to respond.

“You want to touch me, Blake?”

He swallowed hard and then nodded slowly.

“Hm. What makes you think I’d let you?”

The muscles in his arms tensed, as if he was physically restraining himself from grabbing me. “I need to touch you, B?—”

The confession sent something hot down my spine.

“Get up,” I said, my voice barely working. Blake stayed on his knees. “Get up,” I repeated, my voice a little stronger this time.

“You wanted me to beg,” he said softly. “I’m begging.”

I grabbed him by the collar, my fingers digging into the fabric as I shoved him roughly into the nearest seat. His body sank into the red cushion, but his eyes never left mine. He exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling in ragged movements. His pupils were dilated, desire and restraint warring within them.

I leaned down slowly, bracing my hands on the armrests, caging him in. “You need to touch me, huh?”

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Then sit there,” I told him, “and don’t move.”

I reached for the hem of my work uniform and lifted it over my head in one fluid motion, leaving me in a thin white crop top and Tommy Hilfiger jeans.

Blake’s jaw clenched as he adjusted in his seat.

Without warning, I lifted one leg and straddled his lap. His hands lifted immediately, but I caught them mid-air and pinned them down against the armrests. “No touching.”

He let out a strangled sound. “Pl?—”

“No touching,” I repeated firmly. “But I’ll make you a deal. Give me three reasons why I should let you.”

“Three reasons?”

“Three,” I confirmed. “And make them good.”

“Reason one…” His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Because I’ll worship you the way you deserve.”

I let out a soft hum, running a single finger down the column of his throat, feeling the way he swallowed hard beneath my touch. “Not bad,” I mused. “But you’ll have to do better.”

“Reason two…” His voice wavered, as if it hurt to speak. “Because my hands don’t know what to do with themselves if they’re not on you.”

“You’re getting there,” I said slowly. “One more.”

“Because I’m yours,” he finally said. “Because I’ve been yours since the first time you looked at me like I was something worth holding onto. Because I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You want to touch me that badly, huh?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, baby, I do.”

His words echoed in my bones, in every place I thought had gone numb. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was doing that reckless, fluttering thing it did whenever he got too close.

“Hmm.” I pretended to think about it, watching him struggle, watching the desperation flicker across his face. “I don’t know, Blake. You make a compelling argument, but I still feel like you could try harder.”

A strangled groan escaped his throat. “Because I swear to God, Beverly, if you don’t let me touch you, I might actually die.”

I couldn’t help the slow roll of my hips, just enough to make his breath catch. His fingers gripped the armrest harder, his knuckles paling as he fought against the urge to touch me.

“Beverly,” he choked out, his voice strained and hoarse as his head tilted back against the seat, exposing the curve of his neck.

Leaning down, I let my lips graze the curve of his jaw before trailing lower, teasing the spot beneath his ear with a sharp nip. Blake shuddered in response, and I pulled back slightly to cup his face, smoothing my thumbs over his cheekbones.

“Do you still love me?”

His eyes snapped open. “I’ve never not loved you.”

I ran my fingers through his hair, tugging slightly. “Say it.”

“I love you.”

“Again. But mean it this time.”

“I love you. More than I should. More than is good for me.”

“Now beg a little more.”

“Please—”

I rolled my hips again, just to make him suffer.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

I watched him, noticing the way his chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his lips were slightly parted, and the way he was looking at me like he was in pain.

“Please,” he strangled out. “Please let me touch you. Please.” His body trembled beneath me as he repeated the same words over and over, until they melted into a continuous, pleading whine. “ Please, please, please, please, please… ”

God, he was shaking.

I pulled back slightly, my breath uneven.

Running my fingers along the back of his neck, I whispered, “And if I say no?”

Blake’s fingers flexed again, his body stiff beneath mine. “Then I’ll sit here and suffer.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked. “I’m yours. Do whatever you want with me.”

Something wicked curled inside me.

I pretended to consider for a long, torturous moment.

A soft sound escaped his throat—something that sounded a hell of a lot like a whimper. Squeezing his eyes shut, he muttered, “God help me,” under his breath.

Smiling, I dragged my nails down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath my fingertips. A shiver ran through him when I paused at the waistband of his sweatpants.

“You’re so pretty when you beg,” I said as Blake let out another choked sound. I took his hands, prying his fingers open one by one. Then, slowly, I guided them to my thighs, placing them exactly where I wanted them. “Is this what you wanted?” I asked, tracing slow circles over the back of his hands with my thumbs.

Blake sucked in a shaky breath and spread his fingers against my jeans, his grip featherlight, as if he were afraid I’d change my mind and take the privilege away.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Thank?—”

I cut him off with a kiss, swallowing his words. It was the kind of kiss that felt like falling and landing all at once. The kind of kiss that tasted like every missed chance and every moment that had led us here. His hands found my waist, and mine curled into his shirt.

He kissed me back with the desperation of a man on the brink of death, convinced that the key to immortality was hidden in that single kiss. “Please,” he gasped. “Don’t stop, B?—”

I rolled my hips again, and this time, his breath hitched so violently that I thought he might actually pass out. Another soft whimper left his throat, muffled against my mouth as his body trembled beneath me. One of his hands tangled in my hair, while the other gripped my hip so tightly it would bruise.

I grazed his bottom lip with my teeth, tasting salt.

“You really love me, huh?”

“It’s 9 p.m., and I love you. In five years, I will love you. Ten months ago, I loved you. When I’m 80 years old, sitting on our porch in a big white house by the lake, watching the sunset with you beside me, I will love you. I just hope you’ll be there for all the time I will love you.” He reached for my hand and brought it to his chest, pressing my palm over his racing heart. “You feel that?”

I smiled a little. “Yeah.”

“It’s yours.”

I let out a breathless laugh, half-expecting him to take it back. “You sound like you rehearsed that.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “You just make it easy to mean it.”

And despite everything, I believed him.

I believed every word.

But somehow, I knew that no matter how tightly I held on, I couldn’t hold onto him forever. He would slip through my fingers, just as the light of day slips into the darkness of night.

Because I fell in love with a shadow, believing it could hold me, when in reality, shadows are meant to disappear.