Beverly

Chapter 52

52

BEVERLY, 2001

19 years old

“I got it!” I shrieked into my new phone, nearly tripping over a pothole in my excitement. “Tiff, I freaking got it!”

Tiffany’s voice crackled through the tiny flip phone speakers, followed by her own shriek. “Shut up! Your license?!”

“My license,” I confirmed proudly, spinning in a full circle in the middle of the sidewalk, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. “They gave it to me. Like, legally. I have it in my hand right now,” I said, breathless, holding up the laminated rectangle as if she could see it through the line. “My picture’s hideous and my signature looks like I sneezed while writing, but yes. I passed, Tiff. No more buses. No more begging Scarlett for rides.”

There was a beat of silence—then a scream so high-pitched and dramatic I had to yank the phone away from my ear. “Bitch, you better drive your ass down here and visit me immediately, do you hear me?” she demanded, over the sound of what I could only assume was Jamal in the background yelling, “Ask her if she knows how to parallel park?—”

“I will,” I laughed. “I swear. As soon as I get the car situation figured out. And I need Aunt Mary to come back first.”

“You better,” Tiffany said. “I want to see your face, not just hear your voice on the phone. No more excuses, Beverly Price. None of them are valid anymore.”

I sighed, even though a smile tugged at my lips. “I hear you. No more excuses.”

“Jamal and I miss you like crazy?—”

“I miss your face so bad it’s disgusting!” Jamal chimed in, and I laughed as a loud smack echoed through the phone, followed by Tiffany’s outraged yell. “Give me back my phone, you menace!”

“Damn, Tiff, that hurt! I was just expressing my emotions,” Jamal protested, his voice muffled. “Violence isn’t the answer?—”

“It is when you snatch my phone out of my hand mid-sentence,” she snapped. “Boy, if you don’t—” There was a scuffle, some rustling, and then her voice came back, breathless but victorious. “Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted?—”

“Abused,” Jamal muttered in the background.

“—we miss you,” Tiffany finished pointedly, ignoring him.

“I miss you guys too,” I murmured, heart swelling. “As soon as Aunt Mary gets back, I’ll make a trip. I swear.”

“Text me as soon as you have the dates, okay, Bev?” she said, softer this time.

“Promise,” I said. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” she replied, and then hung up with one last celebratory shriek.

Still smiling, I headed into the café, tucking the phone in my back pocket and tying my apron behind me with a little more spring in my step. Aiden was already at the counter, perched lazily on a stool with a newspaper spread out in front of him like he was eighty-five years old instead of twenty. His glasses were slipping down his nose, and his ridiculous green scarf was draped over one shoulder, practically begging for attention. It wasn’t even cold.

“Someone’s glowing,” he called without looking up.

Aiden was my best friend. And yes, he flirted constantly—called me beautiful, winked when he handed me receipts, offered himself up like a sacrificial husband whenever I complained about cramps—but it was harmless. He didn’t have a chance. He knew it. I knew it. We just didn’t say it out loud.

He had been my favorite coworker since I started working at the café full-time. We moved in tandem behind the counter, restocking napkins, cleaning the espresso machine, our rhythm so natural we barely had to speak.

“I passed my driving test,” I said smugly as I dropped my purse onto the counter and waved my license at him.

“Finally,” he drawled, his voice teasing but with a hint of admiration. “You only failed like…three times before this, right?”

“Jealousy is an ugly look, Aiden.” I shot him a playful glare, then added, “Four, actually. But who’s counting?”

“Jealousy?” He almost choked on his laugh, setting the newspaper down. “I’m just concerned for the general public, Bev. The city’s doomed,” he said, reaching across the counter to hand me a steaming chai latte already made just the way I liked it. “Guess I’ll have to live fast before you run me over.”

“You’re concerned because now I can flee the scene when you inevitably say something dumb in public.”

“Uncalled for,” he muttered. “Truly.”

I smirked, blowing gently on my chai before taking a sip.

“Did you call your mom yet?” he asked.

“Not yet. She’s still at work. I’ll call her tonight.”

He nodded. “Well, I’m proud of you, girl. Look at you. Driver’s license. Running this place like a pro. Mary told me the other day that you’re running the café better than she ever did.”

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “She didn’t say that.”

“She did,” he insisted. “Swear on my life.”

I smiled faintly. “Well, speaking of that…”

Aiden cocked a brow.

“I think I want to do something else once she’s back from her road trip. I’ve been thinking about finding my own apartment. Getting my own space…”

“Like… quit ? You wanna leave this caffeine kingdom behind?” he asked with a dramatic gasp.

“Don’t make it harder,” I said, laughing. “I just… I’ve been here for almost two years. I love this place, but I don’t want it to be my forever . I want to find something new. Something just mine.”

Aiden studied me for a moment. Then he nodded. “I get that. And I think she’ll understand. Well then,” he mused, reaching for the SF Weekly , “let’s see what fate has in store for Beverly Price.”

I leaned against the counter and chuckled as he flipped it open dramatically, scanning the classifieds.

“Hmm… Let’s see. Gym looking for part-time janitor, nope. Waitressing in Fisherman’s Wharf, pass. Dog walker, hmm, cute , but also nope. Wait.” He stopped, suddenly sitting up straighter. “What the hell is that?”

His brow furrowed as he tilted the paper closer to his face.

“What?” I leaned over to look.

He turned the paper so I could see it and pointed to an ad in big, bold font near the bottom.

ChimeIn Inc.

WOMEN-ONLY WORK ENVIRONMENT

Positions Available:

·

Customer Support

·

Creative Development

No prior experience necessary.

No resumes required.

Starting Salary: $5,000

Additional benefits include free lunch, mental health coverage, and paid menstrual leave.

Yes, you read that correctly.

SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY

We both blinked at it.

Then Aiden said, “Okay, what in the tech-startup-Twilight-Zone did we just read?”

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “That’s not real, Aiden.”

“It’s in the paper, Bev.”

“I don’t care if it’s carved into the side of the moon,” I scoffed. “That’s too good to be true. Five grand ? Are they printing money back there? And what even is period leave? ‘Ugh, sorry, boss, my uterus is killing me again—see you Monday’? I didn’t even know we were allowed to say the word menstrual in a newspaper.” Narrowing my eyes, I took the paper from him, scanning the font again. “No resume? No experience? What even is ‘ChimeIn’? This is utopia. Or a scam. Or both.”

“Or,” he said, voice dropping like he was narrating a trailer, “the beginning of a very strange, very empowering new chapter of your life.”

I rolled my eyes but ripped the ad out anyway. Just in case.

Aiden grinned. “Says it’s based in the city. No office address, just a P.O. Box and a number to call.” He nudged my shoulder. “You gonna call?”

Exhaling a heavy sigh, I traced the edge of the paper as if that might give me some sort of answer. “I might.”

“You should. At the very least, we’ll get a good story out of it.”

The number stared back at me, impossible to ignore. $5,000.

There was something about five grand printed in bold, promising letters that made my stomach twist.

Not just in a bad way, but in a what if way.

In a maybe the universe is finally winking at me kind of way.

“Let’s just hope this doesn’t end in a hostage situation.”

* * *

Weeks passed.

Aunt Mary was finally back from her cross-country road trip, her face a little more sun-kissed than before, her arms full of dusty postcards and weird magnets from every state she crossed. She brought me a Nevada snow globe and a bag of maple candies from Vermont. I said thank you and smiled, but I didn’t really mean it. Not because I wasn’t grateful. I just wasn’t really here .

I woke up this morning with my heart already beating too fast and a mood I couldn’t shake. The kind that clings to your skin like humidity. The kind of fast that makes your whole body feel wrong before you’ve even opened your eyes.

I dreamed about Blake last night. Again. I couldn’t remember all of it—just flashes. His eyes, his hands, his voice.

He was asking if I’d ever forgive him. He was crying. I was too.

And then he was gone.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time after waking up, my hands clenched around the sleeves of his old sweatshirt as if I could physically hold all the panic in.

The panic didn’t hit right away—it crept in slowly. First my chest tightening, then the knot in my stomach, then the sudden, unbearable need to know he was okay. I stared at my phone for ten full minutes, thumb hovering over Tiffany’s contact. All I wanted to ask was: Has Jamal heard anything? Just tell me he’s alright.

I almost called her. I even typed out a text.

But I deleted it.

Just like I always did. Just like I always would.

What would be the point?

If he was okay, it’d only make me feel worse. And if he wasn’t—well. I don’t know what I’d do with that.

So I didn’t call. I didn’t text. Because asking meant caring.

And caring meant falling all over again.

I tossed the phone back onto the bed with a frustrated sigh and grabbed the ripped newspaper ad from the nightstand. ChimeIn Inc . The words looked just as weird as they had the first time I read them. My stomach churned, but I got dressed anyway.

The woman who answered the phone—Maxine, I think—sounded nice enough. A little too cheerful, maybe, as if she was trying to convince me this wasn’t a scam with enthusiasm alone. She asked me one question: “Can you be here Thursday at ten?” and ended the call with, “See you soon, lovely!”

And that was it. No questions. No information beyond a street name I had to ask Aiden to MapQuest for me. I probably should’ve done some research, but the idea of trekking to the library just to type “Is ChimeIn a scam?” into Ask Jeeves felt like too much effort.

So I pulled on my favorite Levi’s jeans, the only button-up I owned that didn’t scream hire me, I’m desperate , and twisted my hair up with a clip. Lip gloss. Minimal mascara just enough to look awake. A half-hearted pep talk in the mirror that I didn’t believe, all while tying up my Converse.

Mary peeked her head into my room, keys jingling in her hand. “You want me to drop you off, darling?”

“I’m good,” I told her, double-checking the address written in my notebook. “It’s just off Market Street. I can walk.”

She handed me a granola bar, kissed my temple, and left me standing alone in front of the mirror, chewing the inside of my cheek and trying not to think about green eyes or the last time I’d heard my name spoken like a prayer.

I squared my shoulders and walked out the door. By 9:55 a.m., I was walking down the street where ChimeIn was located, gripping a cup of lukewarm tea and drowning in nerves that made me question everything, including my ability to speak in full sentences. I had no idea what I was walking into.

The building didn’t look like much from the outside. Gray, concrete, square—wedged between a record store and a comic book shop with sun-faded posters taped to the windows. But when I stepped inside, it felt like crossing an invisible line into the future.

The floors gleamed. The lighting was soft but expensive-looking. Everything smelled faintly of citrus and printer paper. Behind the reception desk was a wall-sized screen with the ChimeIn logo animated in glossy mint green—two overlapping speech bubbles with a faint pulse, like a heartbeat. Sleek. Subtle. Intimidating.

I almost turned around right there. But then a woman stepped into the lobby, wearing a bright smile as if she’d been waiting for me all her life. She was tall—late twenties, maybe—with soft eyes, glasses, and curly black hair twisted into a high bun.

“You must be Beverly,” she said as she approached, extending her hand with the grace of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. “I’m Maxine.”

I gave her a polite smile. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said, shaking her hand with more confidence than I actually had.

“Of course.” She grinned, already leading me past the lobby into a wide hallway that smelled like fresh paint and ambition. “We’re always looking for fresh faces.”

We stepped into an open workspace, all clean white desks and glass offices with sliding doors. A few women milled around, stylish and focused, most of them with coffee in hand and headphones looped around their necks.

“This is our creative development wing,” Maxine explained, her heels clicking softly on the floor. “Right now, we’re building new features—expanding video messaging, customizing feeds, that sort of thing. Stuff our users have been asking for.”

“And this is…for a website?”

She nodded. “ChimeIn is a social networking service. We’re growing like crazy. Most of our users are teens and college kids,” she added, opening a browser on a massive, humming computer. “They upload photos, fill out these fun profile questions—favorite band, movie, embarrassing crush—and start connecting. The idea is community. Like an online diary that talks back. Some people use it to connect with friends and document their wild Friday night, while others use it for dating. Some people just like reading what strangers are thinking about. It’s a space where people feel like they can be themselves.” The screen flashed with updates and new posts. “And, of course, we’ve got ads. That’s how we keep it free for users. It’s been a great model so far. The more engagement we get, the more advertisers want to be a part of it.”

I blinked at the screen, watching posts ripple down the feed.

need a new band to obsess over. recs??

got my heart broken again. someone tell me why i still care.

debating whether to cut my own bangs....

CRUSH UPDATE: she smiled at me!!!!!

who else is guilty of stalking their ex on here?

random but does anyone actually have their life figured out or are we all faking it?

A reply popped up instantly.

we’re all faking it, but at least we’re in it together 3

I stared, transfixed. It was weirdly hypnotic—as if I was eavesdropping on thousands of private thoughts all tumbling through the same electric hallway. And yet it didn’t feel invasive.

It felt…intimate. Like everyone was writing into the void, hoping someone might answer back.

It did sound like something that would be viral immediately. Like something everyone at school would talk about before first period even started. Did you see what Jennifer posted last night ?

I could already imagine Tiffany scrolling through it obsessively. Jamal would absolutely be in the comments, debating strangers about who deserved the ‘90s rap crown—2Pac or Nas—refusing to back down. There was the adrenaline of it—of being seen, even if just for a second. The rush of getting a reaction. A like, a comment, a message that said you’re right . Maybe it was silly. Maybe it was everything.

“It’s addictive,” Maxine said, as if she was reading my mind. “People want to feel seen. They are hungry for connection. And we’re giving them a new way to find it.”

I let out a breath. “Yeah, it sounds big.”

“It is,” she said with a small, proud smile. “And it’s making a lot of money. We’re expanding faster than we expected.”

I looked around again, nodding slowly.

She led me into a smaller office with a view of the street and gestured for me to sit. “We’d start you on the engagement team,” she said. “Moderation, creative support, community outreach. It’s a little of everything. You’d be helping moderate content, create sample profiles, maybe even write some internal copy if you’re good with words.”

“I am,” I said without thinking.

Her smile widened. “I had a feeling. I’ll show you everything. You’d work with a small group of women. The schedule is flexible, and we pay well because we want people to stay.”

I cleared my throat. “About that. No offense, but…”

She tilted her head.

“I just...five thousand dollars a month? Paid menstrual leave? Free lunch? That’s not exactly standard. Why so generous?”

Maxine let out a light laugh, not offended in the slightest. “Fair question. Well, I’m not the CEO,” she said, adjusting a ring on her finger. “I manage the team, not the top floor. But he told me when we launched that he wanted this to be the kind of place where women are respected. Paid properly. Not just tolerated. Wanted. Like they always say, ‘If you want to build something worth keeping, you have to pay for people to give a damn.’”

I blinked at her. “That’s...actually kind of amazing.”

She shrugged, smiling as if it wasn’t a big deal. “We think so. C’mon, let me show you the break room.”

I followed her down the hallway. We passed a half-dozen desks, whiteboards covered in scribbled ideas, and at least two lava lamps.

The break room had two espresso machines and a snack wall. A literal wall of snacks. Granola bars, Doritos, white chocolate, dried fruit—neatly arranged like an art installation.

“And this is real?” I asked before I could stop myself. “It’s not a weird startup with a catch?”

Maxine chuckled. “If there’s a catch, I haven’t found it yet.” She moved toward the snack wall, plucking a protein bar off the middle row. “And technically, it’s not even a startup. The site’s been online for almost a year. ChimeIn launched quietly, but the response was insane. We’ve gotten so successful we can afford to hire more people.”

It sounded like a dream—too good to be true, really. But the more I looked around, the more it felt like it was exactly what I’d been looking for. No rigid 9-to-5 structure. No draining office politics. No unnecessary hierarchy or boring meetings.

Maxine’s tour ended at a desk that was perfectly positioned by a large window. There was a stapler and a pack of Post-Its that said “you got this” in bubbly handwriting.

“This could be yours,” she said, her gaze fixed on me with an air of expectation. “No degree required. Just heart and hustle. What do you say?”

I hesitated.

She noticed. “If you’re not sure, that’s okay. We’re not trying to trap anyone here. Just offering space.”

I stared out the window. My thoughts scattered in all directions, but none of them formed anything that felt like a clear path. At nineteen, I didn’t feel old enough to know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t have a plan. Hell, I could barely decide what I wanted for lunch, let alone map out the next few years.

I didn’t know if love was ever coming back…

But I was tired of waiting for something to happen. So I said, “When do I start?”

She beamed. “Right now, if you want.”

And just like that, I was no longer a runaway girl hiding behind an espresso machine. If the universe wanted to gift me five thousand dollars and an office job wrapped in rose-gold office chairs and encrypted passwords, I wasn’t going to argue.

“Okay,” I said, with a smile, my voice quiet but sure. “I’m in.”

Maxine grinned and reached out to shake my hand again. “Welcome to ChimeIn.”