Beverly

Chapter 49

49

BLAKE, 1999

18 years old

My mind barely registered the rough grip on my arms, dragging me up from the couch. The world was tilting, shifting in and out of focus, the pounding in my skull dull but insistent. “Get the fuck up,” Jamal’s voice bit through the haze, low and sharp.

I grunted, trying to shrug him off, but my body felt sluggish.

A glass bottle slipped from my fingers and hit the floor, but the sound of it shattering never reached me. Maybe it didn’t break. Maybe I was too far gone to notice.

“Goddamn it, Blake,” he muttered, his grip tightening around my arms. “I said get up.”

I tried to push him off me again. I didn’t know where I was, not at first. Didn’t care. I just wanted to sink back down, back into the numbing dark where none of this was real.

But Jamal wasn’t having it.

Before I could even blink my eyes open, I was hauled upright, dragged across the room, and shoved through a doorway.

My body hit the cold tile of the bathroom floor, my head snapping forward as the world tilted violently.

The shock of ice-cold water hit me next.

I gasped, lurching forward as the freezing shock ripped through my senses, snapping me back to reality so fast it hurt. “Jesus Christ—” My voice faltered, and I instinctively tried to push Jamal away, but he wasn’t budging.

“Yeah, wake the fuck up,” he snapped, standing over me as the shower drenched us both. “You wanna shut me out for days? Fine. You wanna ignore me forever? Fine. But this…this shit? You wanna drink yourself into the grave? Do it somewhere else, Blake. Not here. Not in this house.”

“Jamal.” His name tumbled out in a strangled, breathless gasp as I struggled against him. “Get the hell off me?—”

“Not in my house, Blake,” he snapped, each word like a whip. “Not where my sister sleeps. Not where my parents live.” His chest rose and fell with barely restrained fury. “You hear me?”

I blinked hard, struggling to breathe through the freezing water and the weight of his words.

“You’re lucky my mom and dad are at work,” he seethed. “Because if they saw you like this, they’d tell your ass to get the hell out before I even had the chance.”

I let out a sharp breath, my vision still hazy, but I could feel the disgust radiating off him. The disappointment. “Sorry,” I said, slumping back against the wall, my wet clothes clinging to my skin. “I’m sorry?—”

“You’re better than this, Blake. You’re my best friend, but—” He exhaled sharply, his voice laced with frustration. “But if you think I’m going to sit here and watch you drown yourself in a bottle, you got the wrong one.”

I let my head tilt back, my pulse roaring in my ears.

The cold water made everything too real.

I wanted to disappear again.

Jamal stared at me for a long moment, his breathing hard. Then, suddenly, he reached over and shut off the water.

The silence that followed was deafening.

My heart seemed to drop as I realized where this was going. “Jamal, I?—”

“You’re done here. If you have any sense left in that thick skull of yours, you’ll get up and walk out that door before I make you.”

I blinked at him, my body shivering from the cold. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said flatly.

I stared at him.

He exhaled roughly, shaking his head. “I got my little sister in this house. And you’re gonna bring your self-destruction into it? Nah.” He took a step back. “You’re not crashing here anymore. Pack your shit and get the hell out.”

I should’ve been angry, but I wasn’t. What I felt wasn’t anger—it was something far worse, something far more suffocating.

Guilt.

Because he was right.

I had no defense. No excuses.

So I nodded once, forcing myself up, my body swaying slightly as I took a step toward the door. Jamal didn’t stop me.

I moved on autopilot, barely feeling my own actions as I grabbed my things and slung them over my shoulder. My soaked clothes left a trail of droplets on the floor as I made my way out.

The night air hit me like a slap.

The sky was dark, the streets quiet.

And for the first time in a long time, I had nowhere to go.

* * *

I barely remembered the walk. One minute, I was stepping off Jamal’s porch. The next, I was at the cinema, my clothes damp, my bag digging into my shoulder as I stood outside the glass doors.

I fumbled in my pocket for the key, shoved it into the lock, and twisted it open before stepping into the dark, empty theater. The air smelled of popcorn and cleaning supplies. The neon exit signs cast a faint glow across the lobby, illuminating the concession stand and theater rooms.

I sighed, the sound hollow in the stillness.

I dropped my bag by the counter and made my way toward one of the back rows, collapsing into the seat. My head throbbed, my body ached, and the weight in my chest was so fucking unbearable that I felt like I was suffocating under it.

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against my fists.

I had nothing.

No one.

And maybe that was exactly what I deserved.

* * *

The days blurred together.

I spent my afternoons wandering aimlessly, hands in my pockets, hood pulled up. I barely ate—just enough to keep my body moving. I drifted through parks, sat on empty benches, and let the sun burn my skin to remind me I was still alive.

At night, I slipped into the cinema, locking the doors behind me, making sure no one saw. I stayed in the back rows, curled up in the dark, staring at the empty screen. The seats had become my bed, the flickering glow of the exit signs my nightlight.

Sleep came in waves, restless and fragmented. My dreams were haunted by blood, flashing sirens, and my father slipping through my fingers. Some nights, I thought I heard knocking on the doors, but when I sat up, there was nothing but silence.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Beverly’s face—her tear-streaked cheeks, her shaking hands gripping my shirt, her voice breaking as she begged me not to leave.

I told myself I’d done the right thing.

I told myself she’d move on.

But I didn’t believe it.

Then the knocking came again. It was real this time, loud and unrelenting. At first, I ignored it, squeezing my eyes shut.

But it didn’t stop. Bang. Bang. Bang.

The sound kept coming—louder, faster, more desperate.

I hesitated for only a second before staggering toward the lobby, my legs stiff from days of sleeping curled in the seats.

Tiffany.

I could see her through the glass doors, her hair a frizzy mess, her hoodie slipping off her shoulder, her eyes furious.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

My head pounded with exhaustion as I unlocked the door. “God help me.”

She shoved it open so fast I barely had time to step back before she was in my face. “You think you can just disappear? Jamal’s worried sick . Jesus,” she added. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I rasped, my voice hoarse from disuse.

“Are you serious?” She let out a sharp, frustrated breath, shoving me hard. “You’ve been missing for days! And Beverly?—”

I flinched at her name.

“Yeah, I figured that’d get your attention, you asshole. Jamal’s been worried,” she repeated, poking my chest with her finger. “He’s been looking everywhere for you.”

“Yeah? Tell him he doesn’t have to anymore. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Tiffany echoed. “You’re living in a movie theater—” She paused, her gaze flicking over me, taking in my clothes, the mess of my hair, the eyes that hadn’t seen a decent night’s sleep in God knows how long. “This is what you call fine? It’s not.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh and crossed her arms. “Well, congratulations, Blake. You finally gave me a reason to hate you.”

“Well,” I said after a long pause, my voice colder than I meant it to be, “glad I could make your life easier.”

I took a step back, but she moved before I could turn away, grabbing the front of my shirt with a fierce grip that stopped me dead in my tracks.

“No,” she said, her voice low and tight with frustration. “You’re not getting off that easy. I don’t know what the hell went wrong, Blake, but this?” She shook her head. “This is not the way to fix it. You don’t shut people out. You don’t run away. You face your problems. You talk to your friends. You talk to Jamal.”

“You don’t get it,” I muttered, trying to shake her off, but she held on tighter, her fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt like she wouldn’t let me go until I stopped running.

“Try me,” she challenged, her voice steady, a touch of empathy lacing through it. “I’m not going anywhere, Blake.”

I ran a hand down my face, too drained to even process her words properly. But Tiffany didn’t back off.

“Oh, you don’t care? You don’t care that Jamal’s been losing his mind, wondering where the hell you’ve gone off to? You think you don’t matter to him because he kicked you out?” Her fingers twitched, as if she was debating whether to shake me or hold on tighter. “He cares about you. Even if you don’t want to believe it.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t,” I said, my voice hollow.

“Blake,” she seethed, “he’s out there, tearing up the city for you, trying to find you!”

I didn’t know how to respond.

I didn’t know if I could.

There was too much shame in me, too much regret.

She stepped closer, her voice lowering with an intensity that shook me. “You also don’t care that Beverly was in the hospital?”

I blinked, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

Beverly—hospital? What the hell was she talking about ?

“What?” I rasped, panic creeping into my chest.

“Oh,” she said bitterly. “Now you want to talk, huh?” Her grip loosened slightly, but she was still holding on. “You didn’t know, did you? Jamal didn’t tell you, did he? To protect you, maybe.”

I shook my head, not understanding how I could’ve missed something like that. “No. No—I didn’t know. What happened?” My voice barely worked. “Is she okay?”

I couldn’t breathe past the pressure building in my chest. Couldn’t think past the image forming in my mind.

Tiffany didn’t answer.

“Tell me,” I demanded, my voice harder now.

“I’ll tell you on the way?—”

“No,” I snapped. “You’ll tell me now.”

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed as she watched me, something in her expression almost satisfied. “She broke down,” she finally said. “She trashed your…well, everything. She hurt herself.”

I stared at her, unblinking.

“What do you mean she hurt herself?”

“She cut up her hand pretty bad,” she went on. “She’s okay,” she rushed to add as she noticed the horror spread across my face. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

The words didn’t do much to ease the sick feeling that was already crawling its way up my throat. “I need to see her.”

“Blake, she’s not?—”

I didn’t want to hear the rest. I was already pushing past her, shoving the door open. My pulse was hammering in my ears, drowning out whatever else Tiffany was saying.

I barely registered her calling my name, trying to catch up.

I ran the whole way home.

* * *

The streets blurred. My legs ached. My lungs burned.

My heart lurched when the house came into view.

I barely slowed as I reached the porch steps, taking them in a single, desperate leap and shoving the door open with more force than necessary. “Beverly?” My voice cracked. “Beverly!”

The hallway light flickered faintly, barely illuminating the framed photos on the wall. One of them—a picture of the four of us at Big Bear Lake—caught my eye. Dad’s arm was slung around my shoulder, a proud smile on his face. Beverly was on his other side, laughing at something I couldn’t remember.

I turned toward the living room, the lump in my throat growing. I found Mom sitting on the couch, staring at the television. The screen was black, the reflection of the dim lamp the only thing staring back at her.

She didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. She just sat there, gripping the armrest like it was the only thing holding her together.

I opened my mouth to say something, but she beat me to it.

“Beverly’s not here.”

“Not here?” I took a step forward. “Where is she?”

Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to respond but had forgotten how. Her gaze never left the black void of the TV.

“Mom,” I tried again, softer this time. “Where’s Beverly?”

She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t meet my eyes. She exhaled, her fingers tightening around the couch fabric.

For a second, I thought she hadn’t heard me.

Then, in a voice so flat it barely sounded like hers, she said, “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” I stared at her, waiting for something—clarification, reassurance, anything that made sense. “Gone where?”

She finally turned to face me, and the emptiness in her eyes made my chest cave in. “She ran off.”

A sharp ringing filled my ears.

No. No , this didn’t make sense.

“She wouldn’t just leave,” I argued, shaking my head as I tried to make sense of something that wasn’t supposed to be real.

“She’s gone,” Mom repeated. Her hand lifted slightly, as if gesturing toward something, then dropped limply back into her lap. “She left a note. Said she’s not coming back.”

“No.” My voice was nothing but air.

The floor felt like it had been ripped out from under me. Mom looked at me then, really looked at me, and the weight of her stare crushed me. She blamed me. It was written in every exhausted line on her face, in the way her lips were pressed into a thin, unforgiving line, in the way her eyes—red-rimmed and sunken—seared into me with the weight of all the things she wasn’t saying.

She didn’t have to say it; I felt it.

This was my fault.

I had made Beverly feel like she had nothing left.

I had let her believe she was alone.

I had walked away first.

“My husband is gone,” she said, her voice shaking. “And now, my daughter, too.”

A cold sweat broke out along the back of my neck.

Beverly is gone. The words repeated over and over in my head, but they didn’t make sense. My knees nearly gave out.

“What was in the note?” I choked out. “Did she leave an address? A phone number? Anything?”

She turned back to the damn blank TV, her expression closing off completely.

I took another step forward. “Mom.”

Nothing.

“Jenna.” My voice was louder now, edged with something desperate, something bordering on a plea. “Tell me where she is.”

Still nothing.

Seething, I turned away from her, my body running on pure panic, my hands shaking as I tore through the house.

I yanked open drawers, my fingers fumbling through the clutter—papers, pens, receipts, mail— nothing.

I bolted upstairs and searched Beverly’s desk, her nightstand—anywhere she might have left the note. Where the hell was it ?

The more I searched, the tighter the knot in my chest grew.

When I finally found the note, it was tucked neatly on Mom’s nightstand, folded in a way that made my stomach twist.

I picked it up with trembling fingers, nearly ripping it in half as I unfolded it. My throat closed up as I read the words written in her familiar handwriting.

Mom,

You’ve always done your best for me, and I love you for it. But I can’t stay here anymore. Every room and corner of this house feels like it’s suffocating me.

I’m going to stay with Aunt Mary in San Francisco.

I don’t know for how long…

Please don’t try to come after me.

I just need time.

— Beverly

I stared at the words until they blurred.

San Francisco. Aunt Mary.

But no address. No phone number. No details.

I stumbled back against the wall, my chest tight with panic.

I knew her Aunt lived somewhere in the city, but I had no idea where. I didn’t know what part of San Francisco. I didn’t know what her house looked like. I didn’t know anything .

I forced myself to move, to stumble back downstairs, where Mom was still sitting on the couch. Her fingers had drifted back to her lap, fidgeting mindlessly with her wedding ring.

“Where in San Francisco?” I demanded. She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me. “Mom! Tell me where she is.”

Nothing. No reaction.

I ran a hand through my hair, barely keeping myself together. My mind raced, unraveling too fast for me to stop it. “Mom, please,” I begged. “I need to know where she is.”

Her head lifted, and the fire in her eyes burned through me. “If my daughter wanted you to find her,” she said, her voice thick with resentment, “she would have left a note for you as well.”

The words knocked the air from my lungs. I stood there, stunned, the note clutched in my trembling hand, crushed from my grip. A part of me broke right then—shattered from the inside out. But the other part snapped entirely.

“If you cared about your daughter,” I retorted, “you would’ve been there for her. You would’ve seen how bad she was hurting. You would’ve helped her instead of letting her pack a bag and disappear in the middle of the night!”

Her face twisted with something between disbelief and fury. “And who the hell was there for me ?” she shouted, her eyes wild. “My husband died, Blake! He died in the middle of a street,” she hissed, rising to her feet. “And now I have no one to care for me. No one asking if I’m okay. All you two ever do is destroy each other and expect me to glue the pieces back together.”

I flinched but stood my ground, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “You’re her mother . You’re supposed to be the glue, for God’s sake. You don’t get to fall apart before she does?—”

“I’m a human being,” she screamed back, her voice breaking. “I am a mother, yes , but I’m also a person with my own feelings, my own heartbreak, my own grief. And right now, Blake, I am drowning too. And I’m so tired of pretending I’m not. I am not a superhuman or a saint. I am just me , a woman who lost the love of her life. Do you think I don’t wake up every day with this ache in my chest that won’t go away?”

Her chest heaved, her fingers gripping that stupid wedding ring like it could bring him back. “And where were you ? You think you get to stand there and judge me? You think you were some savior while she was falling apart? Were you there when she screamed into her pillow at night? When she came home crying, shaking, begging me to make it all stop?”

I was shaking now.

Her words hit like punches, one after the other.

“I tried?—”

“You left!” she yelled, cutting me off. “You walked out, Blake. And now you want to act like you’re the only one who cares?” She pointed at me, her voice hoarse. “She needed you, too. You think I don’t know what’s been going on between you and her?” she continued, eyes narrowing. “You think I’m blind? You think I haven’t seen the way you look at her? The way she looks at you?”

I choked on my own breath, my heart caving in, my hands shaking like they no longer belonged to me. “It’s not like that?—”

“ Don’t insult me,” she cut in. “Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t love her. I may be a wreck, but I’m not stupid, Blake. I’ve known. I’ve known for a long time.”

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t speak.

The guilt clawed up my throat like bile.

“Just tell me where she is,” I choked out. “Please.”

She shook her head slowly. “No.”

“Please,” I rasped, my throat tight and dry. “Just tell me where she is so I can make this right.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, trembling. “You want to make it right?Then leave her alone. Let her heal. Let her breathe. You’ve done enough.”

“No,” I said through clenched teeth. “I need to see her. I need to look her in the eyes and tell her I’m sorry. So please, Jenna—just tell me where she is.”

Grief, fury, and exhaustion battled in her expression until she finally sat back down, her hands covering her mouth.

For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged rhythm of our breathing. Then, slowly, she shook her head again.

And that was my answer.

She wasn’t going to tell me. Not now. Maybe not ever.

She was going to let me suffer.

A bitter laugh scraped its way up my throat, but it came out sounding more like a strangled breath. I staggered back, gripping the doorframe, the edges of my vision blurring.

I had never felt so powerless in my life—not even during my years in the foster care system.

What had I done?

I thought leaving would protect Beverly.

I thought pushing her away would make things easier.

But I had been wrong.

I had been so, so fucking wrong.

I stormed toward the door, every breath coming in ragged, uneven pulls.

If she wouldn’t tell me, I’d find out on my own.

I’d go to San Francisco.

I’d knock on every goddamn door if I had to.