Chapter 54
54
BEVERLY, 2001
19 years old
By day thirteen at ChimeIn, I had mostly figured out how to keep up without looking like a lost duckling.
The swipe card for the elevator finally worked on the first try, and I only accidentally sent one typo-filled memo before Maxine politely suggested that I triple-check things before hitting send.
Progress.
The office itself was quiet—no phones ringing off the hook, no shouting over cubicles. Just the gentle hum of computers, the occasional burst of laughter, and the constant click-clack of keys.
At break, I found myself in the kitchenette with three other girls—Hollis, Clara, and Mona. They were gathered around the small bar-height table, peeling oranges and gossiping like they'd been doing this for years.
I was still the new girl, but they waved me over like I belonged.
Break time at ChimeIn wasn’t really a “break” so much as it was everyone huddling in the corner pretending we were legally required to stand near the espresso machine.
Hollis, who always wore red lipstick and spoke like every sentence was a punchline, leaned in. “So, get this. Someone said the CEO’s actually in town this week.”
Mona raised an eyebrow, mid-sip of her coffee. “He exists?”
Hollis scoffed, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Of course he exists. And I hope I actually get to meet him this time.”
I blinked. “Wait. You’ve never met him?”
“Nope,” she replied. “Been here since the first version of the site went live, and I’ve only ever spoken to him through email.” She shrugged. “He doesn’t do face-to-face. Likes distance. But he pays me on time, so I don’t ask questions.”
Something about that made the back of my neck prickle.
“I’ve met him,” Clara piped up, licking a bit of yogurt off her spoon. “He does do face-to-face. He’s just super introverted. Doesn’t make eye contact. Speaks in short sentences. Shame, though. He’s hot.”
“ You have met him?” Mona looked personally offended.
Maxine slid into the seat next to Clara, setting down her latte with a thunk . She didn’t glance up from her phone as she said, “He’s gay.”
Clara choked on her yogurt. “He’s what?”
“He’s gay,” Maxine repeated. “Pretty sure.”
“Oh my God,” Hollis laughed. “How would you know?”
“I asked him.”
“You what ?” Mona froze mid-sip. “You just asked him?”
“Sure did,” Maxine drawled. “You gotta know your odds.”
“You can’t just ask someone if they’re gay!” Clara gasped, scandalized.
“Why not?” Maxine shrugged. “It’s not like I asked for his Social Security number. I just asked if he liked men. It’s 2001. We’re all enlightened now. Anyway,” she added, brushing muffin crumbs off her shirt, “he said no. Not gay. Actually said he had a wife . Told me no one in the office should flirt with him.”
Clara narrowed her eyes. “A wife? He doesn’t wear a ring.”
“Exactly,” Maxine replied, pointing like she’d won the game. “That screams cover story.”
Mona snorted. “Jesus, Max. Not everything’s a conspiracy.”
“I’m just saying,” Maxine continued, undeterred. “A man who doesn’t wear a ring, and makes it very clear no one should flirt with him? That’s suspicious. Maybe he’s not out yet. Or maybe,” she added, smirking at Clara, “he just wanted to shut down the possibility of you trying to seduce him.”
“Oh, come on.” Clara scoffed, rolling her eyes.
“Maybe he is married and just doesn’t wear a ring,” Mona said. “Why do straight women always assume every good-looking, unavailable man must be gay?”
“I’m not assuming. I’m theorizing . Big difference.”
“Well,” Hollis cackled, tossing her orange peel into the trash like a mic drop, “gay or not, married or not; if he wants to pay me five grand a month for the rest of my life, he can identify as a dolphin, and I’d still say thank you.”
The rest of the girls laughed. I forced a small chuckle, but something about the conversation twisted low in my stomach.
I didn’t know what. I didn’t even know why.
“Anyway,” Mona mused, biting into an apple, “if he ever decides to show his face again, someone please take a photo, okay? I need proof he’s real.”
I gave another tight laugh, trying to shake off the weird feeling creeping into my spine.
* * *
I was supposed to drop off the monthly content calendar in Maxine’s office. Nothing dramatic. Just a folder of neatly labeled printouts and a color-coded spreadsheet that had taken me far too long to format.
Her office was tucked behind a sliding door that didn’t quite close all the way. But when I stepped inside, Maxine wasn’t there. I glanced around. Empty desk. Half-finished coffee. Post-its layered like feathers across her monitor. It smelled faintly of peppermint gum. One minute passed, then two, and still no sign of her. As the seconds ticked on, I figured maybe she’d gone to that second-floor conference room. I grabbed the folder tighter and made my way to the elevator at the end of the hall. Something pulled me toward it. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe curiosity.
The elevator made its smooth ascent.
I’d been at ChimeIn for two weeks now, and I’d stuck to the floors and rooms I was assigned. Never wandered. Never explored. There was one room down the hall with a frosted glass door I hadn’t gone into yet. The only one without a nameplate.
The only one that seemed off-limits.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I walked slowly, my footsteps muffled by the thick black carpet, and pushed open the door without really thinking about it.
My heart hitched painfully in my chest, faltering for a split second before it slammed back into rhythm—harder, faster. My body wasn’t mine anymore. It was heat and static and memory.
“Blake,” I whispered, the name escaping before I could stop it.
Behind a desk. Wearing a navy button-down rolled up to his elbows. Hair longer than I remembered. Head bent over a file, eyes flicking across the page with that same laser focus I’d seen a thousand times before.
First came the shock. Like stepping into a memory you swore you’d buried. Like someone had reached into my chest and yanked my ribs wide open. Then came the heat. That awful, electric heat that starts in the gut and climbs its way up like a fever. Anger, maybe. Or worse—longing. Followed immediately by the bone-deep, impossible need to touch him.
Two years. Two years of silence, distance, aching.
Of all the things I thought I might find behind that door, he wasn’t one of them. He looked older now. Fuller in the shoulders. More put-together. But still Blake. Still the boy who once made me grilled cheese at 3 a.m. because I had cramps. Still the boy who used to read Arabic under our oak tree with the kind of reverence that broke my heart. Still the boy who carried me out of the cafeteria when I bled through my jeans. Still the boy who kept a Polaroid of me tucked inside his book. The boy who kissed my forehead before he disappeared. The boy who left a hole so deep in my chest I wasn’t sure it would ever close.
The boy who broke my heart with his silence.
The man who shattered it with his absence.
I didn’t realize I was gripping the folder so tightly until it bent in my hand. Blake was reading something—until he wasn’t. Until his eyes lifted and locked onto mine, probably expecting Maxine.
My breath hitched. My pulse roared in my ears.
Blake’s mouth parted slightly. His fingers stopped moving.
We stared at each other for what felt like lifetimes.
Something in me wanted to turn and run. Something else—something louder—ached to cross the room and press my hand against his chest just to make sure he was real.
His fingers curled around the edge of the desk.
He stood slowly—deliberately, as if he was afraid I’d vanish if he moved too fast. And then something broke across his face.
A smile.
A genuine one.
Unapologetic. Crooked. Brilliant . Undeniably him.
My heart slammed against my ribs, beating too fast, too loud, and there wasn’t enough air to breathe.
“Beverly Price,” he said, his voice cracking slightly at the edges. “You’ve got exactly three seconds to get over here and into my arms before I come over there and drag you into them myself.”
I didn’t move.
Not for one. Not for two.
My knees shook. I felt seventeen again—furious, shattered, aching. But I also felt everything else. The way he used to carry my dance bag when I was too tired to argue. The way he never looked at anyone the way he looked at me.
My vision blurred.
I didn’t cry. Not really. Just got something in my eye.
At three, I dropped the folder.
And then I ran to him. I didn’t care how stupid it looked or if anyone saw. I crossed the room in a blur, ready to crash into him. His arms wrapped around me before I could finish closing the distance. They were stronger now, but still familiar. Still home. He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t say anything. He just held me. Tighter than I expected. Longer than I thought I deserved. And I let him. Because for the first time in two years, I felt like I could finally breathe. I let out a half-laugh, half-sob, buried my face in his shoulder, and gripped the back of his button-down shirt.
His arms tightened around me with a force that felt both desperate and loving. Then he pulled back, brushing a tear from my cheek. “You’re real.” His gaze swept over me, drinking me in. “And you cut your hair,” he murmured. “It looks good.”
I touched his face, my fingers grazing the scruff along his jaw and the new lines etched near his eyes. “You… How…” I started, barely recognizing my own voice. “ChimeIn is your company?” I said, the words tumbling from my lips in a rush. My mind was spinning, trying desperately to wrap itself around the idea, but it felt like I was stuck in a fog. “You should be at Stanford.”
He nodded once, still smiling. “Stanford was boring,” he said. “I built ChimeIn while I was sitting in lecture halls. Launched the beta in between midterms. Figured if I was gonna be miserable, I might as well multitask.”
I laughed; a breathless sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me. The absurdity of it all hit me like a wave.
“How much did you think about me while you were building all of this?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately regretted asking.
He let out a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You—” he started, then paused. Something flickered across his face. Regret? Surprise? Both? I couldn’t tell. He swallowed hard, then shifted, sidestepping the question entirely. “You’re working here?”
Nodding, I looked up at him. “Uh-huh.”
Then it hit me. My gaze dropped to his left hand, which was gently tugging at my hair. No ring . “Do you…” I couldn’t even finish the question; it felt heavy on my tongue, impossible to ask. “You have a wife?” I finally managed to choke out.
His smile faltered.
For a long moment, Blake just stared at me. Quiet. Watching. Then, voice low and a little cracked, he said, “Come on.”
“What?” I blinked at him.
He exhaled and stepped back, as if the room had become too small for all the things left unsaid. “Let’s get out of here.”
“But… What?”
“Let’s leave. Just for an hour.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve said we’re at work , or I’m still mad at you , or you have no right to be standing there like no time has passed.
But the words didn’t come.
Blake waited, watching me carefully. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t rushing me. Still, every instinct told me to run. To protect whatever fragile foundation I’d built. But another part—quieter, older, bone-deep—whispered go . So I nodded.
He grabbed his wallet, slid past me, and held the door open. Nervous, my heart stumbling over itself, I followed him, each step equal parts defiance and surrender.
And for the first time in two years, we left a room together.
Still no kiss. Just history, and the sound of two hearts trying to find the same rhythm again.