Beverly

Chapter 50

50

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

Four months had passed since I packed my bag in the middle of the night, left a note on Mom’s nightstand, and took the first train out of town before the sun had even bothered to rise.

I spent everything I had saved on that ticket. I didn’t even have enough left for a cab, so I dragged my suitcase across the city in the fading light until my arms ached and my feet bled.

Aunt Mary had been waiting at the door with a blanket, a tea, and no questions. I think she saw the look on my face and knew everything she needed to know.

Her house smelled like cinnamon and roasted coffee beans. It always had. The scent clung to the air like a comfort blanket, softening the sharp edges of my grief.

Some days, I convinced myself I was getting better. Other days, I cried so hard into my pillow that I woke up with a sore throat and damp sheets.

Most mornings, I opened her little café with her—half-asleep, apron strings tangled behind my back. It was tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, the kind of place with chalkboard menus and mismatched mugs. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm—soft lighting, good music, walls painted in deep, calming colors.

I worked the register. I poured espresso shots. I wiped down tables and forced smiles at strangers who never looked long enough to see the cracks. It was quiet work, and I liked it that way.

I hadn’t seen Blake since I left. The first time Blake texted me, I threw my phone into the garbage. Aunt Mary fished it out later, wiped it off, and left it charging on my nightstand without a word. I didn’t touch it for twenty-six days.

Some nights, I typed out responses in my head—angry ones, heartbroken ones, ones filled with questions he’d never answered and memories I didn’t know how to forget.

Eventually, I started calling Tiffany—at least once a day, sometimes twice. She knew about my plan to leave Los Angeles and had promised not to tell Blake where I was. She’d kept her word, even when Blake showed up at her place every day, demanding answers and refusing to leave. She told me that he had threatened to make her life miserable if she didn’t talk. One afternoon, Jamal had had enough and grabbed him by the collar, shoving him off the porch.

That had been the last time she saw him.

Now, I assumed he was at Stanford. It was only an hour away, which was too close and too far all at once.

I tried not to think about it. About him.

I didn’t know what I would say if I ever saw him again.

I didn’t know if I would scream or cry or throw my arms around him.

So I told myself he was gone. I told myself he had moved on. It was easier that way.

Some days, I even found myself laughing. Some days, I looked in the mirror and didn’t hate what I saw.

Scarlett, my cousin, said I had a resting bitch face that scared off the college boys trying to flirt over scones and espresso. She meant it as a compliment. I took it as one.

I called Mom once a week. She had finally gotten out of that house. She traveled to Boston to see her parents for a few weeks. Said it helped to be somewhere else. To feel like someone’s daughter, instead of just someone’s widow.

She told me she missed me. That she’d cleaned out Dad’s closet. That she’d lit a candle for him in church and sat there for an hour, just…breathing. She donated most of his clothes, but kept a few things for herself: his favorite old sweater, his watch. She told me she cried while she was doing it. She even talked about visiting Las Vegas, where she and Dad had their honeymoon.

“I’m proud of you,” she said the last time we spoke.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t feel like I had done anything to be proud of. I dropped out of high school. I didn’t follow any clear path. The best thing I had going was my ability to pretend like everything was fine. So I just said, “Thank you.”

She had asked me if I’d heard from Blake. I told her no.

That was only half a lie.

“Thank you, darling,” Aunt Mary would say every time I stayed late to wipe down the tables or restock the sugar caddies. “You’ve got a real rhythm now.”

I didn’t tell her it was because the café kept my hands busy, kept my mind focused on foam patterns and receipts and order tickets instead of the ache that still curled up next to me at night. Instead, I just smiled. “I don’t mind.”

I was thankful for her hospitality, for the way she took me in without question, without hesitation. She welcomed me with open arms and an open heart. How many people would do that for you? Without asking anything in return? Without ever making you feel like you owed them something? People rarely show up for you without some sense of self-interest, even if it’s subconscious. We all expect something, even if it’s just to feel good about being the one who helps.

But her? She didn’t even want to be acknowledged for it.

She never pried. She never pushed. She gave me space—something I didn’t realize I needed. And she never asked why I left home or why I woke up some mornings with swollen eyes.

I used to hate crying. It felt like a weakness, something I had to hide, like I was failing in some way. I’d shove those feelings deep down, bury them under layers of pride and stoicism, pretending they didn’t exist. But now? I let the tears fall.

There was something liberating in the vulnerability. It felt like washing the dirt off my soul, like clearing the fog from a window I didn’t even know I was looking through.

Sometimes, you just have to put Iris by Goo Goo Dolls on loop, bury your face in the pillow, cry yourself to sleep, and remind yourself that tomorrow is a new day.

I wondered if I haunted Blake the way he haunted me.

Did he see me in the corner of his eye, flickering there like a dream too stubborn to fade? Did he ever feel my presence the way I felt his absence? Did he ever turn his head, just for a moment, convinced I was still there?

I learned to love the shadow he had left behind. When the sun set, it was all I had left to cling to, and I held onto it with a desperation only love could understand.

Aunt Mary never asked about boys. She never brought up the way my smile faltered when I heard certain songs on the radio. But she always made sure there was a mug of hot tea waiting for me after my shift. A quiet place at the counter. A gentle touch to my shoulder when I sat too long staring out the window like I was waiting for something—someone—I knew wouldn’t come.

Except I wasn’t so sure anymore. Because yesterday, I saw a number I didn’t recognize on the café’s caller ID. And tonight, at 3:17 a.m., my phone buzzed with a new text from Blake.

Just two words.

I’m close.

* * *

I was in the storage room of the café, crouched low, refilling the sugar containers and trying to decide if I hated my life more before or after cinnamon became part of my daily scent.

The radio hummed softly behind me, some Backstreet Boys song blending into the clink of ceramic mugs and the dull rush of milk steaming behind the counter. I was singing along, half-heartedly and off-key, when I heard it.

His voice.

Muffled. Frantic. Breathless. Familiar in the way that made my skin prickle and my heart collapse in on itself.

My whole body stilled, every nerve in my body on high alert. Mid-scoop, I blinked down at the half-filled glass dispenser in front of me, not sure if I was imagining things.

No. No, that wasn’t possible.

It was low at first—just a murmur through the wall, indistinct and impossible to confirm.

But then I heard it again. Louder.

“Beverly. I’m looking for Beverly.”

I stayed frozen, kneeling in the middle of the storage room, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and my lungs.

I hadn’t heard his voice in four months.

Four whole months.

Aunt Mary’s voice followed—calm, composed.

“I think you’ve got the wrong café.”

There was a pause.

Then Blake’s voice, clearer now, sharper. “No, I don’t think so. You think I don’t recognize her handwriting on your menu? She’s here . I know she’s here. I can feel her?—”

I pressed my back against the shelf, sugar still clutched in my hand, every cell in my body humming.

“I’m telling you,” Aunt Mary’s voice floated in, calm but firm, “there’s no Beverly here. You must be mistaken.”

“You’re lying,” he said. “I can literally smell her. Tommy Girl. I’d know that scent anywhere.” He sounded unhinged. Panicked. The kind of desperation that cuts through bone.

“I’m asking you to leave,” she replied. “You’re disturbing my customers,” she added, more firmly this time.

“No,” Blake snapped. “Not until I see her.”

The walls between the back and front felt thinner than paper.

“I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no Beverly here?—”

I heard the clatter of something fall.

Someone gasped in the café.

“I’m not leaving. I’ll sit right here on this floor for as long as it takes. Until she comes out, until someone makes her talk to me. Or I’ll wait for you to finish your shift and follow you home. Either way, you’re not getting rid of me.”

“You’re not doing this,” Aunt Mary said, more forcefully now. “I’m calling the police.”

“Oh, God,” I whispered, one hand flying to my chest.

“Go ahead,” Blake said. “Call them. What are they going to do? Arrest me for looking for someone I love?”

I covered my mouth with both hands.

My body shook as I pressed myself deeper into the corner, trying to disappear. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel the weight of his presence pulling at the frayed ends of everything I’d tried so hard to hold together these past few months.

“Sit down,” I heard Aunt Mary say tightly. “And wait for the cops if you want. You’re not getting anything out of me.”

“Please.” His voice softened, pleading now. “Tell her I’m here. Just tell her I’m here. That’s all I’m asking.”

A beat of silence followed.

I imagined Aunt Mary standing tall at the counter, arms folded over her apron, chin lifted.

But I also imagined Blake—soaked from the rain, maybe, unshaven, wild-eyed, trembling with months of longing.

I could see it without seeing it. The picture painted itself in perfect detail inside my mind. Him standing there, dripping on the tile, heart in his hands.

Everything in me screamed to move—to run, to escape, or to throw myself into his waiting arms. But I stayed rooted to the spot, my hands still pressed against my mouth.

“Please,” he said again, and I could hear the frustration bleeding into his words. “I just need to see her.”

My chest felt like it was splitting open. A few minutes passed in this unbearable purgatory—me holding my breath in the back, him pacing in the front, her guarding the space between.

I didn’t know what I wanted to do.

Run to the front. Scream at him to leave. Beg him to stay. Collapse in a heap of raw emotions.

I wanted to do it all, but my body wouldn’t listen.

Not until I heard Aunt Mary again. “Yes. I need someone removed. He’s refusing to leave the premises.”

Slowly, I pushed myself up, using the shelf in front of me as support, my legs trembling as if they were made of jelly.

“Four months,” Blake said, his voice rough. “Four months of knocking on every house in San Francisco listed under the name Mary. You know how many Marys are in those address books? I’ll tell you. 3,604, that’s how many. Each one was a dead end. Each door, a rejection. Every single Mary was a possibility, a hope that flickered and died before I even made it to the next damn house. And now I’m here. I can’t just leave now. Not without seeing her. Not when I’m this close.”

I bit down on a whimper. My knees buckled, and I slid down again, my fingers barely clinging to the shelf. The air felt too thick, my chest too tight.

“You can save it for the police,” she said, her voice clipped.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my forehead against the door, my breath uneven.

And then I waited.

For what, I didn’t know.

The café was filled with a tense silence. The kind that crept in after someone dropped a glass and everyone is still waiting for the next thing to break. Five minutes passed. Maybe ten.

Then came the sound of boots and muffled voices.

Aunt Mary telling someone, “She’s not here. He’s trespassing.”

“I know she’s here,” Blake said. “I know?—”

“Sir, we’ve had a report of harassment. I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

“I didn’t do anything! I just need five minutes, I just want to see her face. I know she’s—don’t touch me!”

My blood turned cold.

“Step outside, please.”

The voices collided, overlapping—Blake yelling, Aunt Mary trying to explain, the cops talking over them both. Then the sound of resistance. Shoes scuffing against the tile. A grunt. Cuffs ?

I couldn’t be sure.

I was shaking from head to toe.

“Beverly!”

I moved before I realized it, pulling open the door just a few inches—just enough to peer through the crack, past the pastry display and espresso machine, to the front window.

And there he was.

Soaked from the December rain, hair sticking to his forehead, wrists locked behind his back as two officers led him toward the squad car. His mouth was still moving, his face flushed with fury. He looked thinner than I remembered, exhausted and frantic.

He twisted in their grip, shouting toward the café. “Beverly!”

My name ripped out of him like it hurt to say.

I flinched, tears welling up so fast I couldn’t blink them away. He scanned the café with wild, desperate eyes—searching for me.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I just watched from behind the door, heart crumbling, lungs begging for air. I watched as the boy I loved shouted my name as if it was the only word left in him.

“I know you’re there!” Blake cried. “Beverly! Please. Please , B. Just let me see you!”

A sob caught in my throat. He shouted my name over and over again, fighting against the restraints like a man possessed.

He tried to look over his shoulder one last time before they opened the back door and ducked his head inside.

He was still yelling. Still hoping I’d appear.

I pressed my lips together to keep from making a sound, biting down so hard I tasted blood.

The car door slammed shut.

The engine rumbled to life.

And then he was gone.

I stumbled back, my legs betraying me as I sank to the floor, my breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. I stayed there, gasping for air like I’d been underwater the whole time.

My ribs ached. My throat burned. The floor beneath me felt like it might swallow me whole.

I should’ve run to him.

I should’ve done something.

But all I did was cry.

I felt empty and full at the same time—as if every part of me had been both carved out and stuffed with the weight of him.

The memories. The maybes.

Grief, love, and guilt bloomed like bruises across my ribs. And for the first time, I let myself say it: my dad had been right.

We wouldn’t work. Not then. Not like that.

Blake was at one of the top colleges in the world. I was—this. A runaway hiding in a café storeroom with cinnamon in my hair and no idea who I was anymore.

I loved Blake like one would love the warmth of the sun on their face after a long winter. I loved him like one would love staring at their favorite book on a shelf. But love, as all-consuming as it can be, wasn’t always enough. Not when I was still bleeding. Not when we were broken in ways that didn’t match. Not when everything between us was sharp and jagged and desperate. Sometimes, you couldn’t drag the past into the future and expect it to survive. We were two broken halves trying to make a whole, and all we ever did was hurt each other.

If Blake was meant for me, if this thing between us was more than just timing and tragedy, we would find each other again. In another version of our lives. One where I was whole, and he was healed. Where we wouldn’t have to claw our way through the wreckage just to hold each other. So I stayed there, alone on the cold floor, my tears soaking the sleeves of Blake’s old sweatshirt, listening to the hum of the fridge and the whisper of the rain against the back window, and tried to believe in someday.