Chapter 57
57
BLAKE, 2001
20 years old
We pulled into the driveway just as the sky started bleeding orange across the rooftops. The house looked smaller than I remembered, as if time had decided to creep in and peel at the edges while nobody was paying attention.
Beverly stepped out first, stretching like a cat who knew exactly how good she looked doing it. Her hair was pulled back in a loose twist, sunglasses perched on top of her head even though the sun was halfway done for the day. I followed her, keys in hand, heartbeat thudding somewhere in my ears.
Inside, the air smelled like nostalgia and something vaguely floral—probably Mom’s candle collection lingering in the corner. Everything felt off in the way only familiar things can feel off. Like the furniture had shifted a few inches to the left.
But the floors creaked in the exact same spots.
The light hit the picture frames at the same crooked angle.
Beverly slipped past me, her eyes sweeping over everything as if checking to see what had stayed the same.
I followed her like I always did, the way I always would.
She headed straight for the living room, kicking off her shoes.
I didn’t stop there. I made a beeline for my old room, something tugging at the edge of my gut. And yeah. There it was. Carnage .
My room looked like someone had held a minor exorcism, followed by a very personal act of vengeance.
The walls were exactly how I left them, but the rest?
My bed was stripped. The bedside lamp I’d had since middle school lay shattered across the floor, shards of ceramic scattered like tiny broken promises. Every drawer was open. One of them hung open at a crooked angle, a deep crack splitting the wood as if she had slammed it too hard, too many times. My desk chair was missing entirely. And my favorite poster—the one of Albert Einstein with his tongue out, the one that had reminded me every day that “Imagination is more important than knowledge”? Ripped right down the middle.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath. It didn’t look like anyone had tried to clean up, as if Mom had just shut the door and left it frozen in time, preserved in destruction.
I took a step back, my heel hitting a splinter of wood.
Beverly’s voice came from behind me, soft but firm. “So…about this. This was my therapy.”
I turned slowly to face her. “You really ripped apart my room?”
“I’d call it reorganizing,” she said sweetly, leaning against the doorframe.
“Reorganized? Beverly, this looks like a crime scene.”
“It was very cathartic,” she drawled, inspecting her nails.
“Oh,” I said, nodding slowly. “You’re dead, Beverly Price.”
Her smile cracked. “Wait?—”
She shrieked and took off just as I lunged.
“You’re gonna pay for that,” I shouted, chasing her down the hallway like we were thirteen again.
“You left me for two years, you deserve worse!” she called back. Her laugh echoed off the walls, messy and breathless, like it was trying to outrun me too, desperate to escape the weight of her words. She darted into the living room, and I caught a glimpse of her hair whipping over her shoulder. “Catch me, Posh ?—”
“Dead. So dead.”
I was faster, but she was sneakier. She dove over the couch, laughing so hard she nearly tripped. I grabbed a pillow and hurled it at her. It caught her in the side and sent her stumbling into the cushions, laughing even harder.
“You fight dirty,” she gasped.
“You destroyed my room,” I reminded her, stepping closer and crossing my arms. “I was mourning that poster.”
“Oh, please. That thing was already hanging on by a thread.” She skidded into the dining room and ducked behind the table like it would protect her.
I came up the other side, grinning like a man possessed.
“No,” she gasped, laughing as I lunged again. “I’ll scream!”
“Go ahead, B. See who comes running.”
She ran for the stairs, but I caught her around the waist and spun her toward me. We collided against the wall, breathing hard, faces inches apart. Her fingers gripped my shirt tightly. Mine were locked around her hips.
And just like that, we weren’t laughing anymore.
Beverly’s throat worked, her eyes flicking to my mouth.
I stared at her, my heart pounding in my chest, the rhythm deafening in my ears. God, she was right there. If I leaned in?—
With a sudden burst of energy, she pulled away, her hands pushing against my chest as she took off again.
I muttered a curse under my breath, but I was already after her, not willing to let her get away this time.
She ducked behind the couch, crouching like a child playing hide-and-seek. I slowed my steps, creeping up behind her.
“You better not,” she warned, peeking around the side.
“Too late.” In one quick move, I lunged over the couch and tackled her into the cushions. She shrieked, flailing, but I held her down with a smirk on my face, pinning her wrists lightly above her head. “You surrender?” I asked, face inches from hers.
“Never,” she huffed, but her breath caught.
Her chest was rising and falling against mine. My fingers were still wrapped around her wrists, and she wasn’t pulling away. She was staring at my mouth. And I was staring at hers.
Her lips parted slightly.
“If you don’t want me to kiss you,” I said, my breath shaky, “you should probably say something.”
She didn’t say anything. Not a damn word.
I leaned in slowly, every inch of me on fire, until I could feel her breath, taste the bubblegum flavor she always chewed, and smell the stupid Tommy Girl perfume that still made my knees weak. Our noses brushed. I could feel her pulse beating against my palm. One more second, and I was done for.
We both jolted apart as a familiar voice shouted, “We couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow, so don’t be naked!”
Tiffany’s voice.
I cursed under my breath and ran a hand through my hair as Beverly sucked in a sharp gasp, eyes wide.
She quickly smoothed down her shirt, her movements stiff and flustered, while I exhaled sharply, trying to steady myself.
“Hello?” Jamal’s voice joined in, sending a wave of irritation crashing over me. “Ah, shit, this better not be foreplay?—”
I ran a hand over my face, letting out an exasperated sigh.
The last thing I needed was Jamal barging in.
Beverly stood just as they both rounded the corner, looking far too smug for people who barged in uninvited.
I shot Jamal a scowl that only made him and Tiffany laugh.
Crossing my arms, I waited for the inevitable teasing.
Tiffany took one look at us, her eyebrows shooting so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. “Ugh,” she huffed, tossing her bag on the table. “Y’all didn’t even make it to the kitchen. Weak.”
Beverly let out a mortified laugh, her cheeks burning red as she gave my chest a shove—maybe to shake off some of her embarrassment, or maybe just to do something with her hands. “Hi, guys.”
What she was embarrassed about, I had no clue.
It wasn’t like we had done anything. Hell, we hadn’t even kissed. And yet, here she was, flustered and fidgety, reacting like we’d been caught in something scandalous.
Tiffany bolted across the living room before I could blink, launching herself at Beverly with zero hesitation and maximum squeal. “You look like a grown-up version of yourself and I hate it,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying as she crushed her best friend in a hug. “Tell me y’all made out. Tell me someone cried. Or both.”
Before I could say anything , arms were thrown around me too—from behind , in classic dramatic fashion.
Blake ‘Mystery CEO’ McHayes,” Jamal said, squeezing the air out of my lungs. “My boy out here building empires and still too humble to tell me he?—”
“Let go,” I wheezed. “Jesus, your traps got bigger.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
We broke apart, grinning. I felt something in my chest loosen. We all drifted into the kitchen, where Tiffany hopped onto the counter like she owned the place, already elbow-deep in that giant leather bag that had been her trademark since she was fourteen.
“I brought something,” she said, voice light but eyes serious.
Beverly looked confused. “You always bring something.”
“This is different.” She reached deeper into her bag and pulled out a stack of crumpled envelopes, tied together with a red ribbon. “These,” she said, laying them down, “are yours.”
My heart stopped for a full second, then dropped somewhere between my spine and the floor.
“I thought you might want to read them,” Tiffany said gently, nudging the letters forward. “I should’ve told you sooner. I just… I didn’t know if you were ready.”
Beverly blinked, staring at the stack like it might explode.
Before she could touch them, Jamal snatched the bundle. “Ooh, are these the infamous Blake love letters?”
I panicked. “No?—”
“Yes,” Tiffany said at the same time.
Jamal grinned like he’d just hit the jackpot. “Gimme.”
“Don’t—” I lunged, but he was already across the room, clutching the letters to his chest.
“Nuh-uh,” he said, backing away toward the living room. “Let’s see what the sad genius wrote back in the day.”
“Jamal,” I warned. “I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious, bro,” he called from the hallway. “That’s why I love you.”
I took a step forward, but Tiffany grabbed my arm. “Let him,” she said quietly. “You’ll never get them back anyway.”
I shot her a glare, but she just shrugged.
“You should’ve written in invisible ink, my dude!”
Beverly was torn between laughing and being horrified.
Jamal plopped onto the couch, kicking his feet up on the table. “I’ve waited years for leverage like this.” He grinned, already ripping open the first envelope.
“If you read those, I swear to God?—”
He cleared his throat obnoxiously. “ Dear Beverly ,” he began, affecting a terrible British accent. “Today I saw a pigeon and thought of you. Why, you ask? It pooped on someone’s head. And you once told me you wanted to do that to your geometry teacher. It made me miss you. Also, the pigeon had your eyes.”
Tiffany laughed so hard she nearly fell off the counter.
“That’s not even close to what I wrote,” I snapped, my frustration rising as I glared at him. “That’s not what it says?—”
“Shhhhh,” he said. “Let me have this. You gave up your right to dignity the moment you rhymed ‘miss’ with ‘kiss’ in paragraph three! Wait, wait, here’s another?—”
“Give me that,” I growled, stepping toward him.
“Chill,” he laughed, holding it out of reach. “Okay, okay, fine, that one was fake,” he admitted. “Geez. But let’s see what this one says.” Jamal unfolded another envelope. “September 22nd, 1999,” he read, his voice sobering slightly. “Today I made it until 10:42 a.m. before thinking about you. That’s a new record. It was during econ. I was trying to take notes, but then the girl next to me smelled like the lotion you used to wear when you were fifteen, and suddenly, I was back under the oak tree with you. You were reading Vogue magazine and telling me why Jonathan Taylor Thomas was hotter than Leonardo DiCaprio. You were wrong. But I didn’t say anything. Because I liked listening to you talk. God, I miss hearing you speak. I miss you.”
I cleared my throat, unsure what to do with my hands, or my heart, or the air that suddenly felt too heavy.
Jamal glanced up at me. “Well…” he started, his teasing gone.
“Shh,” Tiffany said, climbing onto the couch like she was settling in for a show. “We’re listening.”
“Don’t you dare encourage him?—”
Beverly looked like she couldn’t breathe.
“Stop him,” I said weakly.
“No,” she said quietly. “I think I need to hear it.”
I dropped onto the arm of the couch, dragging both hands down my face in a futile attempt to ground myself.
Beverly reached forward, her fingers shaking slightly as she grabbed the stack of envelopes from Jamal’s hands.
“Actually, I want to read them.”