Beverly

Chapter 43

43

BLAKE, 1999

18 years old

Every great mind has tried to define love. Plato called it a ‘grave mental disease,’ Shakespeare portrayed it as both agony and ecstasy, and Einstein admitted that gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love. But if I were to put it into words, I’d say love is the one equation that refuses to be solved, the one force that can’t be measured yet dictates the movement of my entire world.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Beverly said, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right,” she went on, trying—and failing—to hold in a laugh as she looked around. “You made fun of Reese for taking me to a nice dinner on a date, but your grand plan for me is to take me to a tattoo studio?”

She had one hand on her hip, the other tucked into the sleeve of my hoodie—the one I had thrown over her last night after driving her home. The sleeves were too long on her, covering most of her fingers, but she still somehow managed to look obnoxiously pretty. And she was about to mock the hell out of me.

I exhaled through my nose. “Dinner is predictable, B.”

“Right.” She nodded, barely holding in another laugh. “Well, nothing says romance like a needle stabbing ink into your skin.”

I ignored her and pushed open the door. “Get inside.”

She giggled. Actually giggled. “You are such a hypocrite.”

“Yeah?” I caught her hand before she could move past me and pulled her back, my grip lazy. “You wanna go to dinner instead?”

Her mouth opened, then closed.

That’s what I thought.

I tugged her inside, guiding her toward the counter where an artist was flipping through designs.

“You actually planned this,” she murmured, tilting her head at me as if she was seeing me for the first time.

Yeah, I planned this the second she walked away yesterday—the second I realized I couldn’t live in a world where Beverly doubted how much I loved her.

“Okay, then,” she said, looking impressed as she met my gaze. “Tell me what you’re getting.”

One simple letter.

“B.”

Her eyes widened. “For me?”

I gave her a look.

She blinked up at me.

Then, she smirked. “Blake McHayes, you’re getting my initial permanently inked on your skin? God, you’d probably tattoo my face across your chest if I asked, wouldn't you?”

I raised a brow.

Beverly’s smirk deepened, her eyes practically sparkling with mischief. “Wow,” she mused, dragging out the word. “This is some next-level obsession. You realize that, right?”

“You done?” I muttered, already regretting this.

“Do you want to get it in cursive?” she teased. “Maybe add a little heart? Ohhh , what about a crown?”

I ignored her. “Pick a font.”

She blinked. “What?”

I motioned to the book of script samples laid out on the counter. “Go on. Pick a font.”

Beverly’s laughter faded, and something softened in her expression. She reached for my wrist, her fingers gentle as they traced the spot where my pulse throbbed.

She settled on a simple, elegant font—nothing too dramatic, nothing too plain. Just right.

“That one,” she said, tapping her finger against the page just as Dean emerged from the back room, arms crossed. He had done Beverly’s belly button piercing, which was why she greeted him with a smile and a dramatic, “Dean! I brought you a victim.”

Dean sighed. “Shit, this guy?”

“Hey,” I said dryly. “Good to see you too.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he muttered, watching me with a mix of mild annoyance and amusement. “Thought you were too uptight for ink.”

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, “guess I’m full of surprises.”

Dean gave me a long, skeptical look, then shrugged. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” He motioned for me to follow him.

The studio smelled of antiseptic, the low hum of a tattoo gun buzzing somewhere in the background. Beverly walked beside me, her fingers still tucked into the too-long sleeves of my hoodie, her gaze flicking between me and the designs on the walls.

I expected nerves to hit me—the sharp kind that came with needles, blood, and permanent decisions—but I didn’t feel any of that. All I felt was Beverly standing beside me.

“Sit,” Dean ordered, pulling a pair of gloves from a box and snapping them on. “Where’s it going?”

I reached back and tapped the spot just below my hairline. “Back of my neck.”

He paused. “You sure? That spot’s gonna sting like hell.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” I said flatly.

He let out a slow breath as if he was trying real hard not to tell me how stupid that was. Then, he simply said, “Head down.”

I leaned forward so the back of my neck was fully exposed.

He disinfected the area quickly, then pressed the stencil against my skin, holding it in place for a beat before peeling it back.

“Take a look,” he said after a pause, holding up a mirror. “Make sure it’s where you want it.”

I glanced at the reflection. The bold black outline of the letter B rested perfectly at the base of my neck—simple and clean.

Beverly leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying it with an unreadable expression. “That’s gonna be there forever.”

I met her gaze in the reflection. “I know.”

Dean sighed. “Alright, let’s make it official.”

The machine hummed to life, and Beverly, clearly amused, propped her chin in her hands. “Blake McHayes,” she drawled with a sly smile, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Officially signed up for a lifetime of servitude.”

“Just ignore her,” Dean muttered as the buzzing intensified. “And stay still.”

I clenched my hands into fists, preparing for the sting.

“You nervous?”

“No.”

Beverly made a doubtful noise in the back of her throat. “Oh, you should be,” she sing-songed.

I scoffed. “It’s a tiny letter, B. I’m not dying.”

“Uh-huh.” She settled into the chair beside me, tucking her legs beneath her. “You say that now.”

I side-eyed her.

“So,” she mused, chin resting in her palm again. “Tell me, Blake. Does this mean I own you now?”

“Beverly.”

“Because it kinda seems like it.”

I didn’t answer.

“You know what this means, right?” she went on, tapping her fingers against her knee. “Every time some girl asks you what it stands for, you have to say my name. Every. Single. Time.”

I could hear the satisfaction in her voice, the kind of smugness that only came when she knew she had the upper hand.

The artist chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

I laughed. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Or,” Beverly continued, “you could lie. Tell people it stands for brilliant or brooding boy ?—”

“Keep talking, and I’m getting your full name.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Beverly narrowed her eyes.

Then, slowly, she smiled. “Oh my God,” she murmured, as if something had just clicked. “You are obsessed with me.”

The needle met my skin, sharp but bearable.

“Don’t flinch,” Dean said, his tone sharp.

I didn’t. Not when the needle bit into my neck, not when Beverly’s eyes widened with something dangerously close to admiration, and not even when she quietly inched closer, her hand resting just barely against my arm like she couldn’t help herself.

“Does it hurt?” she asked innocently.

“No.”

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean hummed.

“Can I add something?”

My eyes widened immediately. I wanted to turn my head to look at her, but I couldn’t. “What?—?”

Beverly ignored me. “Is that allowed?”

“It’s his tattoo,” Dean said behind me. “Up to him.”

I had no idea what she was up to, but she crouched until she was at eye level with me and held my gaze in that way that always disarmed me.

Her lips curled into a pout. “Just a little addition.” I barely had a second to react before she leaned in closer and cupped my face with both hands. “Do you trust me?” she asked.

“Right now? No.”

She smiled like she’d expected that. “Too bad.”

I should have been concerned.

I should have said no.

But instead, I sighed. “Fine.”

I figured she’d add a heart or something ridiculous—something easy to joke about later.Beverly bit her lip as she grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled something quickly, shielding the paper from my view before sliding it to Dean.

“Don’t let him see it until it’s done,” she said sweetly.

I bit back a laugh.

I should have known better.

Then the needle returned. Time blurred, and before I knew it, Dean pulled back, wiping over my skin. “Alright,” he announced. “All done.”

I blinked my eyes open to find Beverly staring at me with wide eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she had something to say but couldn’t find the words.

“Beverly,” I said slowly. “What did you do?”

“I mean, you can’t get it removed,” she rushed out. “I mean, you can , but it’s expensive and painful, and you’d probably end up with a weird scar, and?—”

“Beverly,” I said firmly.

“What?”

“Show me.”

She and Dean exchanged a glance before he held up a mirror.

Beneath the simple ‘B’ was one delicate word, scrawled in her handwriting. Always.

I stared at the ink now etched permanently into my skin.

Then I stared at her.

“You hate it,” she blurted. “Oh God, you hate it. I knew?—”

“Beverly.”

“What?”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Y-you don’t?”

No. Not even close.

I was so gone for this girl I couldn’t even see straight.

So instead of answering, I grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

“You got my name,” she whispered. “I just added the promise.”

Dean chuckled. “You two are disgustingly cute.”

Beverly smiled softly. “You’re stuck with me now, McHayes.”

“I always was, Price.”

Then I kissed her—right there in the middle of the studio—my fingers tangled in her hair, her palm resting against my chest, feeling her name written into me.

* * *

Later that evening, as the sun began to set and the sky turned a soft gold, Beverly sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead as if she were about to faint.

“I can’t go on, Blake. I can’t. My feet are killing me. If only—” she sighed again, louder this time, “—someone could carry me…”

I stared at her.

Beverly smiled sweetly. “I’m delicate.”

“You?” I scoffed. “You punched Nathan in the face last week.”

“Exactly,” she said. “I’m injured. I need rest. And you literally carried me three days ago,” she reminded me.

“You twisted your ankle.”

“Semantics.” She took a step forward and pressed both palms against my chest, batting her eyelashes. “Please?”

I rolled my eyes but turned around, crouching low. “Get on.”

Grinning, she climbed onto my back, her arms looping around my shoulders.I hooked my arms under her thighs, securing her against me as I started walking toward Mel’s Diner. Its red neon sign buzzed softly, casting a warm glow on the sidewalk.

Beverly rested her chin on my shoulder, her voice softer now. “I can’t believe you let me choose a tattoo for you.”

I huffed out a laugh. “And I can’t believe you picked ‘Always.’”

She was silent for a beat. Then she said quietly, “You know it was always you, don’t you?”

I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the warmth of her, the way her arms tightened ever so slightly. “Yeah, B,” I murmured, my voice just as soft. “I know.”

She let out a slow, contented sigh, and her fingers brushed lightly against my collarbone. I could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “You know, I bet you secretly wanted to carry me. You just like having an excuse to touch me.”

“Yeah?” I squeezed her thigh. “What gave it away?”

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the diner, carrying her on my back. The familiar scent of burgers, french fries, and melted cheese hit me instantly, mingling with the faint sweetness of vanilla milkshakes. Mel’s Diner looked exactly as I remembered it. The black-and-white checkered floor gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and the booths, upholstered in their familiar bubblegum pink and sky-blue patterns, sat neatly along the walls, each one paired with a glossy white table that reflected the neon glow from the jukebox in the corner.

“You’re so dramatic,” I muttered as Beverly tightened her grip around my shoulders, refusing to let go.

“I made it all the way here without complaining too much,” she huffed. “The least you could do is carry me the rest of?—”

“You’re lucky I love you,” I said without thinking.

She let out a soft laugh. “There they are,” she murmured, pointing toward the farthest booth by the window.

Tiffany and Jamal were already settled in, a red plastic basket of fries between them, and four tall milkshakes with whipped cream and a cherry on top sitting untouched.

As expected, they were in the middle of a heated argument. Tiffany was gesturing dramatically with her hands, her nails flashing under the diner lights, while Jamal leaned back against the booth, looking unimpressed.

“—I’m just saying,” she insisted, jabbing a finger toward him. “You’re an idiot for letting Sydney cry all over your hoodie instead of just giving her a tissue.”

Jamal exhaled in exasperation. “What was I supposed to do? Sometimes people need more than a tissue?—”

“Jamal, that was your favorite hoodie. Now it’s drenched in heartbreak, mascara, and drama. That’s a tragedy, not a moment of compassion.”

He shrugged. “I was just being nice.”

“No, you were being dumb.”

“Okay, and?”

“And I’m revoking your rights to fashion,” she replied without missing a beat. “Hand over your sneakers. Now.”

“My sneakers?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You heard me,” she said, arms crossed.

Beverly groaned against my shoulder.

Jamal finally looked in our direction, his brown eyes locking onto us. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, good, the lovebirds are here.”

Beverly sighed. “My chauffeur was taking his sweet time…”

Tiffany narrowed her eyes, tapping her nails against the table. “If he pissed you off, blink twice.”

Jamal took a sip of his strawberry milkshake. “If you want us to jump him, blink three times.”

Rolling my eyes in exasperation, I set Beverly down on her feet beside the table.

She slid into the booth across from Tiffany, immediately stealing a fry from the basket. I took the seat beside her, resting my arm along the back of the booth.

“Finally,” Tiffany muttered. “Someone normal.”

Jamal made a disbelieving noise. “You’re calling Bev normal?”

“I am normal,” Beverly said with a frown.

Jamal leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Beverly, my dear, beloved friend, you once cried over a commercial about a dog finding its way home. A commercial .”

Beverly’s face scrunched up. “It was emotional.”

Jamal shook his head and turned to Tiffany. “You hear this? This is the girl you’re defending.”

Tiffany shot him a glare. “I also cried at that commercial.”

I gave them both a deadpan look. “Are you guys done?”

She and Jamal locked eyes. “No,” they said at the same time.

I dragged a hand down my face. “Fantastic.”

“Tiff, you literally?—”

I grabbed a fry, shoving it into Jamal’s mouth mid-sentence.

“Hmph—” He glared at me, chewing furiously. “Rude.”

“Necessary.”

Tiffany grabbed her chocolate milkshake and sipped it as if she needed the sugar to deal with him. “I swear,” she said with a sigh, “one of these days, I’m going to snap.”

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Beverly pointed out.

“Because I haven’t committed a crime yet.”

“Please,” Jamal scoffed. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

“I’d dance on your grave.”

“I’d haunt you.”

“I’d sage my entire house.”

“Joke’s on you,” Jamal said smugly. “I’d be the kind of ghost that rearranges your shoes by color just to piss you off.”

“You know what?” Tiffany shoved the basket of fries aside. “I’m sick of you.”

Jamal flashed a grin, as if she’d just given him a compliment. “ She’s obsessed with me ,” he whispered to Beverly in a stage whisper.

“I heard that,” Tiffany snapped.

“You were supposed to.”

Tiffany’s eye twitched. “You’re delusional, and I swear, if?—”

“You know,” I cut in, “if you two hate each other so much, you could just stop hanging out . It’s really not that complicated.”

Tiffany turned to me and blinked once. “I… What?”

“Oh, we can’t do that,” Jamal said, his eyes wide with horror.

“And why not?” she asked, her cheeks flushed with irritation.

“We’re, like...stuck together. By circumstances. We’re bonded , you know?”

“Bonded?” she echoed, gripping the edge of the table as if she might flip it over.

Beverly squeezed my thigh to get my attention. She had barely let go of me since we left the tattoo studio—not that I minded. Her fingers were curled around mine, her thumb occasionally brushing the side of my hand as if she were trying to convince herself I was real. “Blake,” she said quietly.

I turned my head to meet her gaze. “What’s up?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Let’s go home.”

I didn’t ask if she was feeling okay, or if she was just tired of Tiffany and Jamal being at each other’s throats ever since we sat down. Standing up, I tossed a few crumpled bills onto the table.

“You guys heading out already?” Jamal asked, watching us slide out of the booth.

I gave a small nod, not wanting to drag it out any longer. My eyes flicked to Tiffany, who was staring at us with wide eyes, as if she couldn’t quite believe we were actually leaving. “Sorry, guys. We’re out,” I said, and Beverly’s hand tightened in mine as I led her toward the door.

“Traitors!” Tiffany called after us, her voice loud enough to make a few heads turn in our direction. “Use protection!”