Beverly

Chapter 45

45

BLAKE, 1999

18 years old

How do you sit across from the man who saved you, raised you, took you in when you were nothing but a half-starved, broken kid, and made you part of his family—and tell him you’re sleeping with his daughter? How do you look him in the eye and tell him that the girl he’s spent her whole life protecting is now yours, that you’ve already had her in ways he never wanted to imagine? There was no right way to do this. But I had to.

I owed it to Beverly, owed it to myself, owed it to the years of waiting and wanting and pushing her away only to come back to her every time. I had to do the right thing by her, even if it meant losing the respect of the only father I had.

Maybe it made me a coward, picking Jamal’s diner as the place to confess. A public setting meant he couldn’t yell too loud—or worse, shoot me in the face. At least, I hoped he wouldn’t.

At the very least, it gave me an escape route if he tried.

Across from me, Dad stirred his coffee, his eyes sharp with awareness. He knew something was off. I hadn’t touched my food. I had been pushing my eggs around my plate with my fork for the last ten minutes, my mind spiraling into numbers and calculations that wouldn’t do shit to help me now.

He finally sighed and set his cup down. “You’re nervous. What’s going on, Blake?”

I couldn’t seem to find the words.

My knee bounced under the table as I stabbed at my eggs, pretending they were suddenly fascinating.

“Is this about school?” he asked. “I know Stanford’s a big step, but?—”

“No,” I cut in. “It’s not about that.”

“Well, whatever it is, son, you can tell me.” He smiled warmly, and for a second, I felt sick.

Because he trusted me.

And I was about to ruin it.

“We’ll be terribly lonely without you,” he added when I didn’t respond. “I don’t know what your sister will do with the house to herself when you leave.”

I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry. My heartbeat pounded in my ears like a slow, deafening drum.

Just say it. Rip the bandaid off. “I-I love her, Dad.”

He chuckled lightly. “I know that. You both grew up together, inseparable. She’ll have no one to torment.”

I sighed, shaking my head. He didn’t get it.

“No, Dad,” I clarified, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. “I’m in love with Beverly.”

The words sat between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. His hand froze mid-air, and the small, easy smile vanished from his face, replaced by something colder.

“I tried not to,” I hurried to explain, my voice a little strained. “But?—”

“You’re in love with Beverly,” he repeated slowly, his tone flat. “Is that what I just heard?”

A cold sweat broke out along the back of my neck, creeping down my spine like ice. The weight in my chest lifted slightly, but it was replaced with something worse. “Yes,” I replied, my voice betraying none of the panic swirling inside me.

“Does she know this?” he asked, his voice rougher now.

“We love each other, Dad,” I said, forcing the words out. “We’re together.”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. His eyes darted away from me, scanning the restaurant, as if grounding himself in his surroundings. Like he needed the reminder that we were in public, that there were witnesses, that he couldn’t just drag me outside and beat the shit out of me in the alley.

“How long?” he finally asked. His eyes burned into me, demanding an answer. “How long has this been going on?”

“A long time,” I admitted.

I had expected anger. Yelling. Maybe even a punch to the jaw. But nothing could have prepared me for this—the sheer disappointment in his expression, the way his body sagged, as if the weight of my words had just crushed him.

He exhaled sharply, his gaze shifting away from me as he stared blankly at the wall. For a long time, he didn’t say anything.

I hated it. I hated that he wasn’t yelling, that he wasn’t giving me something tangible to fight against. This quiet, bitter resignation? It was worse than anything I had imagined.

My mind spiraled; numbers and formulas flickered behind my eyes, desperately trying to help me think straight.

I almost apologized, but I stopped myself.

I wasn’t sorry. Not for loving Beverly.

“You can yell at me,” I told him. “You can hate me and disown me if you feel like it. I get it. But I’m not sorry for loving her.”

He looked back at me, startled. “Hate you?” His voice cracked. “I could never hate you, Blake.”

“Then what is it?” I demanded.

“I’m just trying to figure out if I’m to blame for this,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I always thought you two would grow up like siblings. I never saw this coming. Maybe I should have. I should have seen it. I should have stopped it before it got to this.”

I shook my head, searching for the right words. “It’s no one’s fault,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging in his eyes.

After a long, excruciating silence, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “How is this going to work? You’re leaving, and she’s staying. Have you thought about that?”

“Of course I did?—”

“Then tell me. What are you going to do? How are you going to make this work when you’re hours away?”

I sat up straighter. “I don’t have to go to Stanford.”

“You’re going to stay? Here?”

“Yes,” I said quickly.

“You’re going to throw it all away?”

“There’s a college here?—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Blake.” His voice hardened. “The college here is shit. You have a scholarship because you’re brilliant and destined for greater things. And you want to throw it all away for her? I won’t allow it.”

“If this is about keeping up an image?—”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” he snapped, looking insulted. “If the town hates us tomorrow, we’ll hand them pitchforks and let them have their say. I don’t care. What I care about is you and Beverly. So answer me, Blake. What happens when you’re gone?”

“I’ll take her with me.”

“Take her with you?”

“She can transfer to a school in the city.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ, Blake. Think about what you’re saying. You know how busy you’re going to be. You’re going to be drowning in coursework, in research, in the life you’ve spent years building. Where does she fit in that? How are you going to find the time to be with her?” He shook his head. “No. No, that’s not going to work. Not for her. Not for you. You’re not thinking straight. This is obsession, not logic. And you, Son? You run on logic.”

“I love her,” I said again, louder this time. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t figure out love,” he retorted. “You think you’re prepared for the reality of this? For what it means to juggle college and a relationship and living together at your age?”

“Dad… With or without your approval, we’ll be together.”

“What happens when you break up?”

“We won’t,” I said stubbornly.

“You don’t know that. Beverly’s not as mature as you, Blake. She doesn’t plan ahead. She’s all about fun and drama and living in the moment. She still hasn’t even gotten her driver’s license, for God’s sake. She’s not at your level. She’s too young.”

“We’re a year and a half apart,” I gritted out.

“You are years ahead of her.”

My fingers balled into fists beneath the table. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” he asked solemnly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know I’m right.”

Anger flared in my chest. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Wait for her to grow.”

I stared at him, furious. “You want me to break up with her.”

“I want you to wait ,” he said firmly. “Wait until she’s ready. Until you’re ready. You don’t know how hard this will get.”

Wait ? I wanted her now .

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to scream that we’d be fine.

But deep down, I knew his words made sense.

And that pissed me off even more.

I could drown in my work. I could lose myself in the pursuit of something bigger. And Beverly—Beverly could feel forgotten.

Would she wait for me ? Would she still love me in five years ?

My throat closed up. I felt caged. Trapped.

“Your words are killing me, Dad.”

“Blake, you’re my son,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You always will be. I want you to know that, no matter what. One of the happiest days of my life was when you looked up at me and asked, ‘Can I call you Dad?’” His expression softened at the memory, but his words stayed firm. “But I brought you into this family to give you a future, not to see you throw it away.”

All I could do was swallow hard as rage and heartbreak blended together in my chest.

“I’d never want to deprive you of happiness,” he continued. “But I also won’t stand by and watch you destroy your future. Can’t you see that’s what I’m trying to do?”

“By keeping me away from her?” I choked out, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “You think that’ll make me happy?”

“I think that by waiting, by giving her time to grow, you’ll give yourself the chance to love her the right way.”

I pushed my chair back, standing abruptly. “This is bullshit. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought me into this family at all.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them, and the moment they did, I wished I could take them back.

His face hardened, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “Blake, sit down.”

I shook my head and stormed toward the exit before I could think better of it. My chest was too tight, my vision blurred at the edges, and I knew that if I let this conversation drag out any longer, I would break apart right in front of him.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.

He was supposed to accept us. That was it. The conversation should’ve ended with his blessing, or at the very least, a reluctant nod of approval. Not this. Not rejection wrapped in concern, not careful words that barely concealed what he really meant.

I had told myself that he would accept it.

That was the only outcome I had allowed myself to believe in. Because if I had let myself consider the possibility of rejection, I might not have had the courage to face him at all.

But now, as I shoved the door open and stumbled outside, I felt like a fool. My breath came in uneven gasps as I pressed my forehead against the brick wall, swallowing the frustration that clawed at my throat. Why did love have to be this complicated?

The door swung open behind me. “Blake.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to do this.

I didn’t want to hear whatever speech he had prepared, whatever half-hearted excuse he was about to throw my way.

“You don’t want us together,” I strangled out. “Just admit it.”

“I don’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.” His voice cracked, as if the words hurt him just as much as they hurt me.

I turned to face him, my vision swimming, and for a second I thought I saw regret in his expression. But regret wasn’t enough. “You want us unhappy,” I accused.

“I want you both to avoid pain,” he shot back.

“You don’t think I’m good enough for Beverly,” I whispered, the words tasting like poison as they left my tongue. “Admit it. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You think I’m like my father. You think I’ll hurt her because there’s some monster inside of me too.”

“No,” he retorted fiercely. “You are nothing like him.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I would never lie about that,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You are not him.”

“You pity me every day,” I said, my voice cracking as all the ugly insecurities I had spent years burying clawed their way to the surface. The ones I had desperately tried to hide, pretending they didn’t exist, hoping that if I ignored them long enough, they would simply vanish into the background of my mind. “I see it in your eyes. It’s condescending. You don’t think I notice, but I do. You make me feel inferior when you look at me that way. You won’t move on from that part of my life, even though I’ve spent every damn day trying to.”

His face softened, but it only made my stomach twist harder. “Because it reminds me to be human,” he argued. “To cherish you and your sister?—”

“Don’t call her that anymore.” The words ripped from my throat before I could stop them. “She’s not my sister.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and for a moment, he looked truly lost. “I’m not trying to upset you, Blake.”

I let out a broken, bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Then let me have her.” My voice trembled as I whispered the next words, barely able to get them out. “Please, Dad. Let me love her.”

His eyes were rimmed red. “Blake—” He cut himself off, and somehow, that hurt worse than if he had just said no.

I searched his face, waiting for him to take it back, to tell me he’d been wrong. That he did believe in us. That he did think I was capable of loving Beverly the way she deserved.

But he didn’t.

He honestly didn’t want me with her.

It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. I felt unworthy, rejected, pushed aside. I knew those things weren’t entirely true, but in that moment, I didn’t care about logic. I was raw with pain, and all I could see was every insecurity staring back at me, laughing, proving themselves right.

I shook my head and let my back slide down the wall until I hit the ground, burying my face in my hands.

I couldn’t even look at him anymore. He didn’t understand us.

No , a voice whispered in my head, he understands you perfectly, and he’s right. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the thought away, but it clung to me like a shadow.

I was too angry to speak. Too exhausted to keep fighting.

It felt like an hour had passed in that position.

People came and went through the doors, oblivious to the wreckage inside me. I watched them pass, watched them exist in their simple little lives, and for the first time in my life, I wished I had never left the foster care system.

If I had stayed, if I had never let myself believe in something better, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling this way now. Maybe I would have met Beverly on a different path in life. Maybe, in another life, we could have been easy.

But this wasn’t another life. And my father was still standing beside me, silent, while everything inside me splintered.

I was so focused on my own misery that I almost didn’t hear the shouting over the rush of blood pounding in my ears.

“Get out of my way!” A man’s voice, sharp with fury.

I lifted my head and watched as a bald-headed man stormed toward his car. His wife stood between him and the backseat, shielding a little boy who was sobbing uncontrollably.

“He spilled ketchup in my goddamn car!” he bellowed.

“He’s just a kid, he didn’t mean?—”

The slap was so fast, so violent, that I couldn’t process it in time. The woman’s head snapped sideways. The boy’s wailing reached a fever pitch, his tiny hands clutching at his mother’s leg.

“Get out of the way,” the man spat, his tone a deadly threat. But the woman didn’t move.

The moment he reached under his shirt, my world split into two—the present and the past colliding so violently that I could no longer tell which one I was in. I heard the screams before they even left the woman’s mouth.

Dad’s hand clamped around my arm, tight enough to bruise. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low but carrying an edge of panic I had never heard before. “I’m off duty. I don’t have my gear, Blake. Just let me call the department. I’ll get backup.”

“He’s going to hurt them,” I said through my teeth.

“Call the cops!” someone shouted.

“He won’t,” Dad insisted, already fumbling for his phone.

But I knew that look. The rage. The shaking hands. The way his eyes burned, wild and violent, as if nothing in the world mattered except whatever was inside his head. I knew that look because I’d seen it before. Memories crashed into me without warning. My real father chasing my mother around the house. Her screams. Her pleas. The way my sister sobbed for mercy.

Adrenaline took over. I didn’t think. I just moved.

Not as a foster kid. Not as Blake. I moved as the boy who had stood in the shadows as his mother bled out. The boy who had been too weak, too helpless, to do anything but watch.

Not this time.

“Blake!” Dad shouted behind me, but I was already sprinting across the lot.

The man’s hand was still under his shirt when I grabbed his arm and shoved him against the car with everything I had. The gun clattered to the pavement, skidding beneath the vehicle.

“You son of a?—”

His fist connected with my jaw, sending my head spinning.

But I didn’t let go. I drove my knee into his gut, once, twice, until Dad grabbed me, hauling me off the guy.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared, dragging me away with a grip that was equal parts panic and fury.

I wrenched out of his grip, breathing hard. “You could’ve stopped him,” I shot back. “You could’ve done something!”

Around us, people were watching.

The man I had tackled groaned, rolling onto his side.

“I was handling it,” Dad snapped, his eyes blazing.

“He was going to hurt them?—”

“And I was trying to stop it!” he shouted back, his eyes wide and desperate. “You could’ve been killed.”

I stared at him, my vision still spinning, my face throbbing, but none of it compared to the rage burning inside me.

“You can’t save everyone, Blake.”

“Yeah,” I said bitterly. “But I can try.”

Dad was silent.

Sirens screamed in the distance, growing louder.

And then a deafening sound ripped through the air.

I flinched, my ears ringing, my body tensing—waiting to feel it, waiting for the pain to bloom somewhere deep in my gut.

But it never came.

Instead, Dad’s face twisted as he staggered back, clutching his chest. His mouth opened as if to shout, but no sound came out.

“No.” The word barely made it past my lips. “No, what?—”

A strangled sound escaped his throat as he swayed, his trembling fingers pressing against the spot where blood began to spill through his shirt. For a second, I didn’t understand. And I didn’t realize I was screaming his name until my throat burned.

My legs gave out, and we hit the pavement together.

“Dad—” I was shaking him, gripping his shirt, pressing my hands against the dark stain blooming across his ribs. “No?—”

He blinked up at me, eyes glassy.

I didn’t understand.

One second, he was alive, yelling at me for running in without thinking. And now he was heavy in my arms, the warmth of him fading too fast. Someone was screaming. Maybe it was me.

I pressed my hand over his, trying to stop the blood from leaking through his fingers, but there was too much of it.

“No,” I choked, my hands pressing uselessly against his chest. “Somebody help!” I screamed.“Somebody call an ambulance!”

People were shouting around us. Sirens. Footsteps. Chaos. The man I had tackled coughed, pinned beneath the bystanders.

“Help is coming, alright?” I gasped, my hands trembling and slick with blood. “Please, Dad, just hang on. Stay with me.”

His lips parted again. His eyes locked onto mine, pleading. “Blake.”

My breath came out in ragged, broken gasps. “Just hold on, okay?” I pressed harder against the wound. “Help is coming. You’re gonna be fine, I promise. I got you. Please, just hold on.”

My chest constricted painfully as I tried to say more.

Dad smiled. As if he knew something I didn’t.

It was the kind of smile you give when you’ve already made peace with something that no one else can accept.

“Dad,” I said, but the word came out as nothing more than a breathless plea. “I-I didn’t—” The words tangled in my throat, choked by the panic swelling inside me, lost in the chaos of my mind. My chest heaved as I fought for air. “Dad?—”

His hand, still warm and familiar, gripped mine weakly. “Don’t—” He coughed, his body shuddering. “Not your fault.”

My head shook violently, my throat too tight to breathe. “Please,” I choked. “You… You can’t leave me. I need you, Dad.”

His lips moved again, but his voice was too quiet now.

I had to lean in to hear him.

“Tell your mom I love her.”

I sucked in a breath, shaking my head. “You tell her yourself,” I replied, my voice breaking. “You hear me? You tell her yourself. You tell Mom, and you tell Beverly. You tell them both when you’re standing on your own two feet.”

His eyelids fluttered. His grip on me slackened.

“No,” I choked out. “Don’t do this. Don’t—” I pressed harder against the wound, but the blood just kept coming, hot and sticky, staining my hands, my clothes, everything.

I think I screamed. I think I shook him, yelled his name, begged him to come back. But he didn’t.

His hand slipped from mine, and I crumpled over him, gripping his shirt, my entire body wracked with violent tremors. He still smelled like aftershave and coffee.

I had spent my whole life feeling powerless.

This was worse.

This was helplessness.

A broken sob ripped through me as I buried my face against his shoulder, my body trembling uncontrollably.

I had never believed in God. But in that moment, I prayed.

I prayed for the world to end. I prayed to disappear. I prayed to go back in time, to do something different, to undo this, to fix it, to stop it. But most of all, I prayed for one more second with him. Just one more second.

Because I hadn’t told him I loved him.

Because he hadn’t said it to me.

Because I killed him.

If I hadn’t stormed out of that diner, if I hadn’t started a fight with him, if I had just listened to him?—

This was my fault.

He was dead because of me.

Hands grabbed me, pulling me back.

“Let me go,” I screamed, trashing against them.

But then I saw Jamal.

His face was pale, his eyes wide with horror. He dropped to his knees beside me, hands hovering over Dad’s body.

“No,” he whispered, pressing his fingers against Dad’s neck. Checking for a pulse. His expression shattered. “Oh, fuck?—”

I just sat there, hands stained red, staring at nothing.

Because I was nothing. I was nothing but a mistake.

Because no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted to be good, I was born to ruin things.Born to ruin people.

I kept hearing it. Tell your mom I love her.

Why?

Why didn’t he say it to me?

Why didn’t he say he loved me before he died?

Because maybe he didn’t.

Maybe in those last moments, he finally realized it.

That I was a mistake.

That I wasn’t worth loving.

That I had destroyed everything good in my life.

Just like I always did.

Maybe he regretted saving me.

Maybe he regretted taking me in.

Maybe he wished he had left me in the foster care system.

Maybe then he’d still be alive.

* * *

I don’t remember what happened after.

I just held on. Until someone pried my fingers from his shirt. Until I was left kneeling in a pool of blood. Until the world tilted and nothing made sense anymore. Until the man who had saved me was nothing but a memory. I sat there on the pavement, covered in his blood, watching paramedics zip my father into a black body bag. People were talking to me, asking me questions, touching my shoulder, but I couldn’t hear any of it.

Because the only father I had ever known was gone.

And I was the one who killed him.