Beverly

Chapter 48

48

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

There is death, and then there is the first morning after a breakup.

The sound of movement jolted me awake before the sun had fully risen. At first, I tried to dismiss it. Just another cruel trick of my restless mind , I told myself. But then I heard it again.

Blake’s room, usually so still it could have been abandoned, was alive with noise. Footsteps shifting against the hardwood floor. Drawers opening and shutting.

It was the most noise I’d heard from his room in what felt like forever. The last time had been over a week ago, when I woke to a thud , as if he had crashed to the floor in the middle of the night. I’d rushed to his door, knocking desperately, begging him to let me in, but he never answered.

I threw back the blankets and pressed my ear against the wall. More rummaging, more movement. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper and then something being dragged across the floor.

A bag?

A suitcase?

Dread coiled in my stomach.

No. No, no, no...

I shot out of bed and ran to my door, yanking it open. Blake’s door was wide open. My breath caught in my throat.

His room was bare. His books? Gone. His clothes? Gone.

Panic clawed up my throat. He was leaving.

Blake wasn’t supposed to leave until the end of the summer. He had four weeks left. Four weeks to fix this, to fix us.

Why was he leaving now? Without saying anything ?

I turned sharply, bolting down the stairs just in time to hear the front door slam shut. I didn’t run outside right away. Instead, I hesitated in the kitchen, scanning the counters for something, anything—a note, a sign, a stupid scribbled message that meant he at least thought about me before walking out the door.

But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Heat rushed through my body, rage burning through the panic, lighting me from the inside out.

He was just going to leave? After everything? Just like that?

I didn’t even pause to grab shoes. I ran outside, my bare feet slapping against the pavement as I sprinted across the driveway. Blake was stuffing his suitcase into Jamal’s trunk, his wet hair dripping from the shower.

Jamal sat in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles were white. The window was rolled up, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked nervously between me and Blake, like he wanted no part of this.

I didn’t care. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, my voice trembling with barely contained fury.

Blake barely spared me a glance. “I’m going,” he replied, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

“Oh, you’re going,” I said bitterly, circling the car to face him. “Just like that?”

“I can’t stay here,” he said without even looking at me.

“You can,” I insisted, stepping forward. “You should.”

“No,” he said, his voice cold. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because you think this is your fault?”

“It is my fault.”

“No, it’s not!” I shot back, desperate now.

I didn’t wait for him to answer. I grabbed his suitcase and yanked it back out of the trunk, throwing it onto the driveway.

“You think running away is going to fix anything?” I asked, stepping between him and the suitcase.

He stiffened, but when he turned to look at me, his face was blank. “I’m not running. I’m leaving before I break anything else.”

“No,” I seethed. “You’re not leaving. Not like this.”

I grabbed his suitcase again, gripping the handle tightly.

Blake did the same, and for a long moment, we were locked in a silent battle, both refusing to let go.

He leaned in, his face inches from mine. “It’s done, Beverly. I’m leaving. And you’re not going to stop me.”

I tightened my grip. “Talk to me first,” I insisted, my voice shaking. “Just stay for an hour. Please. I’m not asking for the day. Just an hour?—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he cut in. “I’ve thought long and hard about this. I’m going to college, and you’re staying here. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

My breath left me in a choked sound, something between a sob and a plea. “Blake.”

He couldn’t leave.

Not like this.

Not when everything was broken between us.

I had already lost my dad. I had already lost my mom to her own grief. Blake was all I had left. If he left, he would have control. He could ignore me.

He could move on.

But I wouldn’t.

“What about us, Blake?”

He sighed, tilting his head toward the sky as if he was asking for patience. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You look at me like I’m some damaged thing you can fix, and I’m telling you, Beverly, I am not fixable.”

“No. No, that’s not true?—”

“Isn’t it?” Blake’s voice cracked slightly, but he covered it fast. “I killed him.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.” His chest rose and fell too fast, his breathing uneven. “And every time I look at you, all I can think about is that I’m the reason you don’t have a dad anymore. That I took him from you. That I—” He stopped, clenching his jaw so tight it looked painful.

Tears blurred my vision, and my body trembled with how badly I needed him to believe me. “You didn’t take him from me,” I croaked out. “Blake, you tried to save that woman and her son.”

“And I lost him in the process.”

I stepped forward, grabbing his arm, gripping his sleeves so hard my knuckles ached. “But that’s not all you are,” I told him. “You think you’re broken. You think you’re this horrible person, this—this mistake, but you’re not. Not even close. You’re brilliant. You’re good. You care so much it hurts.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “And you have no idea how much I need you.”

His expression twisted. “You just don’t get it,” he said quietly. “You’re better off without me.”

I shook my head violently, unable to understand what he was saying or why he was saying it.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab his face, shake him, and make him understand that I didn’t care what my dad had said. That I didn’t care what Blake believed about himself.

“I’m not better off without you,” I choked out. “I need you. You are the best person I know.And you don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not because you think it’s what’s best for me.”

Blake shook his head.

“I love you,” I continued. “That should be enough. That?—”

“It’s not,” he cut in, his voice hoarse.

A broken, helpless sound escaped me. “Don’t. Don’t do this, Blake. Just come back inside. We’ll figure it out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out, okay? I already did the math. This is what makes sense.”

“We’re not an equation,” I nearly screamed, feeling utterly helpless. “You can’t logic your way out of this. You can’t just…erase yourself from this family, from my life, and expect me to be okay with it. I need you, Blake. We made promises together. You can’t break them now. You can’t leave me now.”

“Beverly,” he warned.

I shook my head wildly, unwilling to let him go. To let us go. My hands trembled as I reached up to wipe away the tears that had begun to spill over.

Blake released a slow breath before cupping my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “You don’t need me. You never did. You’re going to be fine, Beverly. Just like you were before me.”

I let out a broken sob, shaking my head over and over again, refusing to accept this. “Stop. Stop saying that. Don’t lie to me. You know that’s not true. You know that I’m not okay.”

“But I can’t be here,” he snapped. “I can’t be around you.”

My heart was ripping apart from the inside out.

“You think you’re the only one hurting? I can’t even breathe in this house anymore. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t do any of it, Beverly. I’m drowning . And I can’t watch you drown too.”

“You think I can?” I snapped back. “You think I want to walk through this house every day knowing he’s not coming back?”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t be what you need.”

“You are what I need. You’re all I need, ” I cried out, grabbing his shirt, desperate to keep him here. “You’re all I have left.”

He stood frozen as I sobbed against him.

I kissed him, but his lips wouldn’t move.

He gently pried my fingers from his shirt and stepped back. “You’re going to finish high school,” he said. “You’re going to figure out what makes you happy, whatever that is. If it’s dancing, great. If it’s college, perfect. If it’s something else, something you haven’t even thought of yet, you’ll do that, too. Whatever it is, you’ll do it because you can do anything. You’re strong enough to get through this. You don’t need me. Don’t let anyone, not even me, make you believe otherwise. And whatever you do, do it because you want to. Not because of me. Not for me. I love you. I’ll always love you. But I can’t stay.”

I shook my head again, choking on my own breath.

“Goodbye, Beverly.” With a gentleness that was almost cruel, he kissed my forehead. Soft. Final. Like he was laying our love to rest, burying it with nothing but a whisper and a touch.

Then he turned and walked away.

“No,” I gasped, grabbing the suitcase.

Blake yanked it back. I pulled harder. We struggled—tugging, pulling, fighting as if our lives depended on it. Maybe mine did.

But then my grip slipped. The force of it sent me stumbling, my knees slamming hard against the pavement. Pain shot through my hands and legs, but it was nothing compared to the agony of knowing he was leaving—that no matter how tightly I held on, Blake had already let go.

“Shit—I’m sorry, B.” Blake dropped to his knees beside me, panic flashing across his face. “I didn’t?—”

I shoved him away with shaking hands, rage and despair tangling in my chest until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. “You want to leave?” My breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. “Then go,” I screamed, the sound tearing from me as my vision blurred with tears. “But if you walk away, you are dead to me. Do you hear me, Blake? I will never love you again. I will never want you again. You will never, ever have me again.”

His face crumpled, his entire body going rigid, as if I had just ripped something vital out of him.

Good. Now he knew how it felt.

“I hate you!” The lie burned my throat, but I let it out anyway, spitting the words like venom, as if, maybe, if I said them enough, they’d become true. “We’re done. Just go!”

Blake hesitated.

For one agonizing second, I thought he might change his mind. That he might drop the suitcase, take my face in his hands, and tell me this was all a mistake. That he couldn’t leave me. That he wouldn’t. That he’d stay. That he’d fight for us. But he didn’t.

“Go!” I screamed again, my throat raw, my soul shattering.

And this time, he did.

He climbed into Jamal’s car without hesitation, the door slamming shut behind him. The engine roared to life, and then, without a single glance back, they disappeared down the street.

The silence that followed was the loudest sound I’d ever heard. I sat there on the warm pavement, arms wrapped around myself, knees scraped, my heart lying in pieces at my feet.

I waited for him to come back.

I cried as I waited for him to realize he had made a mistake.

I felt like I was dying.

Why had no one warned me that heartbreak feels like a slow, agonizing death?

No one tells you that it’s not just sadness—it’s destruction. No one tells you that it feels like the earth being ripped out from under you, that it makes every breath feel impossible. No one tells you that it feels like digging a grave within your chest, then crawling into it, burying yourself along with them. No one tells you it’s like watching a piece of yourself being torn away and buried under the weight of everything you can’t fix, can’t control.

I was drowning in it—drowning in the absence of him, in the absence of everything that had made me whole.

And all I could do was watch him drive away, leaving me with nothing but the hollow echo of his words and the broken pieces of my heart. His shadow folded itself around me like a second skin, whispering all the things he couldn’t stay to say.

I covered my face and sobbed, my body shaking with the force of it. The pain was unbearable, clawing at my chest, threatening to consume me whole. This wasn’t just heartbreak; no, heartbreak felt too soft a word for this devastation. This was abandonment in its most brutal form. It was betrayal, poisoning every memory, every whispered promise, every smile I once believed was real. It was the cruel confirmation that everything we had meant nothing to him anymore.

I wanted to lash out, to beg the universe to rewind time, to give me one more chance to change the ending.

But there was nothing left to change. He was gone.

The sobs wracked my body as I tried to hold myself together. But it was useless. Every shaky inhale, every broken exhale, every single second that passed without him felt like another piece of me was being stripped away, shredded, torn apart.

I could feel the weight of the neighborhood’s eyes on me, peeking through curtains, peering from porches, whispering behind their hands. Becky was probably already on the phone. “Debbie, Debbie, Debbie, you would not believe what I just saw!”

I heard the whispers before they even started.

The gossip would spread like wildfire; Did you hear ? Beverly Price was screaming in the street—over Blake McHayes, of all people. Oh, you didn’t know ? Oh, honey. They were together. No, I swear! Secretly. But it all went up in flames right there on the driveway. And you know what’s worse? He didn’t even look back. Now she’s losing it. Poor thing, after what happened to her dad...

The thought made my tears dry instantly, burned away by something hotter, something angrier.

They wanted something to talk about?

I’d give them something to talk about.

I shot up from the pavement, the sting in my knees barely registering as I stormed back inside. The house was silent. It felt emptier than usual, as if it had already adapted to life without Blake. And Mom? Mom wasn’t here. Of course she wasn’t.

Still barefoot, I made a beeline for the garage, throwing open Dad’s toolboxes with shaking hands, searching for something to make this pain external—a way to make it real.

I wanted to destroy every last piece of him still left in this house.

My fingers closed around Dad’s axe. The last time I’d seen him use it, he was splitting logs, wiping sweat from his forehead. He smiled at me like he always did, like he was untouchable, invincible, like nothing could ever take him away from me.

And now he was gone . And so was Blake.

And I had nowhere to put the pain.

So I rushed upstairs, straight into his room.

For a brief second, I froze. He had really done it. The desk was still bare. The bed was made, as if he hadn’t slept there in weeks. As if he had never been here at all.

My throat burned.

He had been planning this.

I had spent days begging him to talk to me, and all the while, he had been packing his bags behind my back.

I swung the axe before I even realized I was moving. The first hit shattered the lamp on his nightstand, sending shards of ceramic flying. The second cracked the edge of the wooden headboard. The third was just because I could.

I didn’t stop. I swung and swung and swung, my breath coming in broken sobs as I ripped him out of this house, out of my life, out of existence. I smashed his dresser, splintering the wood, drawers spilling open like guts on a battlefield. I tore the closet door off its hinges, yanked his last forgotten sweatshirt from the hanger, threw it to the ground and stomped on it like it was his goddamn heart.

I hated him.

I hated him for leaving.

I hated him for not looking back.

I hated him for making me think we had a chance.

I hated him for being the only person I had left, and then deciding that wasn’t enough.

“I hate you!” I screamed bitterly, my voice hoarse.

The window went next.

Glass shattered, fragments catching the sunlight, sparkling like something beautiful as they rained onto the driveway below. Mom’s old textbooks, the ones he kept under his bed, followed. Pages fluttered as they tumbled to the ground, some catching in the branches of the oak tree we used to sit under as kids.

A sharp, unhinged sound clawed its way up my throat. If he was so eager to leave, I’d make sure he had nothing to come back to. I smashed everything I could get my hands on—anything that still carried his fingerprints, his scent, his shadow. I swung again and again and again, until my arms burned, until my breath was a ragged, shallow mess, until my body shook from exhaustion.

I was enjoying the high of watching the destruction unfold before my eyes. It was oddly soothing, almost therapeutic. Next time Tiffany bitched about a boy, I’d be sure to recommend it.

But it was still not enough.

Nothing I did would erase him.

Nothing I did would bring him back.

Nothing I did would make me stop loving him.

I could destroy his room, tear it apart, burn it to the ground, let it rot in pieces around me. But I couldn’t destroy what he left inside me. I couldn’t dig him out of my heart like I dug my hands into his dresser drawers, clawing for something that would make me feel like I had the last word.

I didn’t know how long I lashed out.

Ten minutes? An hour? A lifetime?

It didn’t matter.

I screamed in his room until my voice broke and the sound dissolved into nothing. The quiet that followed was even worse, echoing in my bones.

“Beverly.”

I spun around wildly, breathing hard, the axe still clenched in my hands. Jamal appeared in the doorway, arms raised slightly, palms out, like I was an animal he was trying to calm.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, Bev.”

I blinked. My mind lagged, struggling to place him, struggling to understand how he had gotten here.

Hadn’t he left with Blake ? Hadn’t he driven him away from me ?

“H-how did you get here?”

“I came back to check on you.” Jamal took a slow step forward. “I wanted to make sure you were okay…”

I stared at him like I didn’t recognize him.

Why would he check on me ?

Didn’t he know I was beyond saving?

“How about we put down that axe?” he suggested carefully.

I tightened my grip. “It’s mine now.” It’s all I have left .

“I know. But let’s put it down, okay?”

I shook my head, my breath coming faster. “I don’t want to. I’m remodeling Blake’s room.”

That’s what I was doing, wasn’t it? Tearing everything down, making sure there was nothing left of him in this space.

A total renovation. Destruction before renewal.

“Yeah?” he said, nodding slowly. “And how’s that going?”

“Not done yet,” I replied.

Jamal nodded again “Okay. So…you got more work to do? How about we finish it later?”

I shook my head. “No. No, I can’t?—”

“Put it down,” he coaxed. “Please, Bev. You’re bleeding.”

“My heart is bleeding, yes.”

“No, Beverly… You’re actually bleeding.”

I looked down, blinking at my hands as if they didn’t belong to me. Blood smeared my palms, pooled in the creases of my fingers, and coated the handle of the axe.

I stared at it, horrified, the pain setting in all at once. “Jamal,” I said slowly. “I’m bleeding.” He took another careful step forward. I stared at him, then back at my hands. “I’m… I’m bleeding,” I repeated, dazed, as if I needed him to confirm it.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

I blinked rapidly, willing the pain away, but everything felt wrong. The sound of the axe splitting wood echoed in my ears, blending with my father’s voice telling me he loved me and the sound of Blake’s footsteps as he walked away.

“He left,” I choked out. “I hate him,” I lied. “He just… He—” My breath hitched painfully. “I tried to stop him, Jamal. I tried, but he just… He just left me.” The axe slipped from my fingers.

It hit the floor with a dull thud, and then Jamal was there, pulling me against him before I could collapse.

“Hey,” he murmured, kicking the axe away. “It’s okay.”

“I hate him,” I lied again, forcing the words out as if saying them would make them true. But this time, my voice broke completely, and the words came out like a plea.

“I know, Bev.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong,” he whispered, holding me tighter. “You hear me? Nothing.”

“I wasn’t worth it.” I clutched desperately at his shirt, my injured hand smearing blood across the fabric. “He didn’t care.”

His grip tightened. “That’s not true.”

“Then why did he leave?”

Jamal didn’t have an answer.

“He didn’t even glance back,” I croaked out.

Jamal let out a sharp breath. He said nothing. He just held me, his chin resting against my head.

“I know,” he murmured finally. “I know.”

I let go then—let the last of my strength drain from me. Unashamed, I buried my face in Jamal’s neck, let myself tremble in his arms, and cried so hard I could barely breathe.

I didn’t know how long we stood there. Time blurred between my shaking breaths and the quiet murmur of his reassurances.

Eventually, I heard voices rising from downstairs.

“The police are here,” Jamal said quietly.

I stiffened. “What?”

“They won’t take you away,” he promised. “Alaric’s down there. He’s handling it. It’s going to be okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I gasped against his chest.

Because I was still standing in the wreckage of Blake’s room, bleeding from my palms, shivering in my own skin. And even with Jamal holding me up, even with Alaric covering for me downstairs, Blake was still gone.

“I know,” he said, rubbing my back. “But you’re not alone.”

He kept saying it.

Kept whispering it like a prayer.

It was the perfect lie.

* * *

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and coffee—a sharp, bitter scent that clung to the air. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered faintly, buzzing like a mosquito trapped in my skull. I sat on the small bed, my back pressed against stiff pillows, my hands resting in my lap, torn and trembling.

A nurse dabbed at the wounds with a cloth soaked in antiseptic, the sting so sharp it almost pulled me from my daze.

Almost.

I barely flinched.

Pain, at this point, was just another thing to endure.

She was kind, the nurse. A pretty woman in her forties with tired eyes and a voice so soft it reminded me of my mother’s—before everything changed.

“You’re lucky,” she murmured, carefully wrapping gauze around my palm. “It could’ve been worse. No deep lacerations. No need for stitches.” She glanced up at me, offering a small, knowing smile. “Bet that’ll be a relief to your mom.”

I swallowed, forcing down the bitterness rising in my throat. She didn’t even know I was here. Would she care if she did?

I mustered a small smile. “Yeah. Lucky.”

Her hands paused for just a second as she glanced up at me. She saw right through me but didn’t press. Instead, she kept working, methodically cleaning the gashes along my fingers.

Around me, the hospital buzzed with the kind of restless energy that only existed in places like this. The waiting room was loud, full of murmured conversations, phones ringing, the occasional groan of someone in pain. Down the hall, a man was arguing with a nurse about his pain meds, his voice edged with frustration.

I hated it here. I hated hospitals. They felt like places where people either left in pieces or didn’t leave at all.

The nurse finished her work and patted my shoulder gently. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to get some rest.”

She walked away, and I stared down at my hands. The gauze was clean and white now, but I knew it wouldn’t stay that way. Blood had a way of soaking through, just like grief, just like loss, just like everything I couldn’t fix.

I let my head fall back against the pillows, exhaling slowly.

“I’ve been waiting two hours,” a man grumbled from somewhere down the hall. “You’d think they’d be faster.”

“Do you think they’re back there painting their nails?” a woman said in response. “I swear, these nurses are lazy.”

“Lazy?” another voice barked. “Those nurses work their asses off while you sit there whining.”

I didn’t know who that last voice belonged to, but they were right. The nurse who had bandaged my hand hadn’t been lazy. She had been patient. Gentle. Nurses were saints.

But I was too drained to be angry, too exhausted to care about the bickering outside my room.

I sighed, my gaze drifting up to the ceiling. A single tile in the corner was stained a dull yellow, as if something had once seeped through. My mind latched onto that tiny imperfection, holding on like it was the only thing keeping me from coming undone.

Then the door creaked open.

I barely turned my head, expecting another nurse or maybe some doctor to remind me that I couldn’t just sit here all night.

Instead, Jamal stepped inside. His gaze flicked from me to my bandaged hands, and something flickered across his face—relief, maybe—before he moved further into the room.

He wasn’t alone.

Tiffany was right behind him. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face blotchy in a way that told me she’d been crying for a while. She hadn’t even tried to fix her mascara, and her hair was twisted into a messy bun, strands curling loose around her face.

The moment she saw me, her breath hitched, and she dropped into the chair beside my bed, shoulders shaking.

And then she cried.

I exhaled sharply, already feeling the exhaustion creep deeper into my bones. “Tiffany,” I mumbled. My throat felt dry and sore. “Don’t start.”

Her head snapped up so fast it startled me. “Don’t start?” she snapped, wiping at her face. “You scared the shit out of me, Beverly. This isn’t me overreacting. This is me sitting here, crying, because my best friend is lying in a hospital bed, hurting.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and something twisted in my chest. I swallowed hard, looking away.“I’m fine,” I said stiffly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” she scoffed. “You’re in the hospital, Beverly. Look at your hands!”

I shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point,” she shot back. “You can’t just…go off the rails like that. What were you even thinking?”

“I was thinking I wanted to destroy something,” I fired back. “And I did.”

“Yeah,” she muttered bitterly. “You sure as hell did.”

“I’m fine,” I repeated, my jaw clenched.

Her hands fumbled for mine before she remembered they were wrapped up like some tragic Halloween costume. Instead, she grabbed my arm. “You’re a mess, Bev. And I know that because I know you . You think I don’t see what’s happening? I just... I don’t understand why you didn’t call me.”

“What would you have done?”

“I don’t know! Anything!” Her voice cracked again as she shook her head. “I could’ve been there. I could’ve… I don’t know, just been with you. I should’ve been there.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice flat. “So you could make some big scene about how tragic my life is? So you could?—”

“Stop it,” she cut in. Her eyes widened, hurt flashing in them. “Stop acting like I don’t care, Bev. I know you’re mad,” she said, her voice softer now. “I know you’re hurting. But you don’t get to push me away just because you think you can do this alone.” Her fingers tightened around my arm again. “I love you, Beverly. Okay? I’m here because I love you. Not because I want to make a scene. Not because I want to turn this into some big dramatic thing. I’m here because you’re my best friend, and I’m scared. And I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard you try to make me.”

I swallowed hard, my chest too tight and heavy.

She wasn’t supposed to say that.

She wasn’t supposed to call it what it was.

My vision blurred as tears welled up again, stinging my already exhausted eyes. “I’m just so tired,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Tiffany stood abruptly, leaned over, and wrapped her arms around me. I couldn’t even lift my hands to hug her back, but I buried my face in her shoulder and let myself break.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “You don’t have to know how, Bev. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“Tiffany’s right,” Jamal chimed in. “You don’t have to figure it all out today.”

Tiffany nodded. “Yeah,” she said, sniffling. “You just have to… I don’t know, keep breathing, I guess.”

“Breathing feels like shit.”

She let out a small, choked laugh. “I know.”

Jamal glanced at my bandaged hand. “You gonna do it again?”

I frowned. “Do what?”

He gestured vaguely in my direction. “Break more shit. Destroy more rooms.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

Tiffany pulled back to look at me. “Okay, well…if you do, can you maybe not use your hand next time?” She tried to smile. “Maybe like…a pillow? A punching bag? Or scream into a blanket? Hell, I’ll buy you a baseball bat and an old TV if you need something to smash.”

I let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if I had any left in me. “A bat and a TV?”

She nodded, throwing a glance at Jamal. “Back me up here.”

Jamal blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uncle Reggie has a bat. It’s yours if you want it.” His gaze flickered to my hands. “But only if you promise not to do any more damage to yourself.”

I stared at them both, trying to decipher the look in their eyes. It wasn’t pity, but something close. Care? Concern? Maybe just a desperate attempt to keep me from unraveling any further.

Tiffany nudged my knee with hers. “So, deal?”

I looked down at my bandaged knuckles, flexing my fingers just enough to feel the dull throb underneath. The anger still simmered under my skin, but now it felt a little less sharp, a little less unbearable. “Fine,” I mumbled. “Deal.”

Her lips curved into a small, relieved smile. “Good.”

Jamal clapped his hands together. “Uncle Reggie’s bat it is.”

A long pause stretched between us, thick but not suffocating. Tiffany wiped at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “So, uh…do you wanna go get pancakes or something?”

I blinked at her. “Pancakes?”

“Yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “You know. Something to put in your stomach. Syrupy, fluffy, carb-loaded goodness. Might not fix everything, but it won’t make anything worse.”

Jamal nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I could definitely eat. Honestly, I’m starving.”

I hesitated. My chest still felt heavy. But pancakes felt…doable. Manageable. Like something I could say yes to without feeling like I was toppling over the edge. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Pancakes.”

Her smile softened. “Good.” She squeezed my arm lightly. “We’ll make a whole thing out of it. A sleepover. We’ll eat, watch bad movies, and figure out what you’re gonna do next.”

“Yeah, nothing like bad carbs and bad TV to fix everything,” Jamal said, giving me a small, teasing smirk. “You’ll feel better once we stuff you full of pancakes. It’s science.”

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “Science, huh?”

He grinned. “Trust me. It’s foolproof.”

For a moment, I almost believed him.

But then the ache hit again, sharp and unforgiving.

I wished, so desperately, that Blake was here. He’d launch into one of his signature, long-winded explanations about how food affects neurotransmitters, how carbs spike insulin, and how serotonin and dopamine play into mood regulation. He’d have thrown in a couple of studies, citing researchers I’d never heard of but that he swore by.

But Blake wasn’t here.

And for the first time since everything happened, I let myself acknowledge that simple, gut-wrenching fact. He wasn’t here to argue, to lecture, to act like he had all the answers.

The only two men I’d ever needed in my life were gone. And I couldn’t seem to escape that thought, no matter how hard I tried.

I closed my eyes, just long enough to let the wave of sorrow wash over me again.

Grief is a quiet, shapeless thing.

It loops and dips, showing up on birthdays, in grocery store aisles, in the middle of songs you didn’t ask to hear. It lingers in the pauses—in the laughter that comes too late, in the quiet moments where you realize, again and again, that they’re still gone. But I guess, at the end of the day, it’s just proof that your heart has loved.