Chapter 58
58
BEVERLY, 2001
19 years old
I stared down at the stack of letters resting in my lap, my fingers trembling slightly as I brushed over the edges.
Some were thick with pages.
Some were thin.
Jamal was eyeing them like he wanted to keep reading.
Tiffany elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“We’ll be in the kitchen,” she said gently. “Yell if you need me. Or throw something,” she added with an awkward chuckle, as if that could cut through the silence that enveloped the room.
Jamal didn’t protest, but I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes before he quickly looked away. Her hand rested on his shoulder before they both turned and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the overwhelming weight of those letters.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the top envelope, acutely aware of Blake’s presence behind me.
October 19th, 1999
I saw a girl today with your hair. I almost ran after her. My brain knows better, but my heart’s still an idiot.
— Blake
November 14th, 1999
Dear B,
You probably hate me if you read this.
Or worse, you don’t feel anything at all.
I think that scares me the most. That I’ve become forgettable. That I’ve faded from you like the sunburns we used to get on the porch.
January 1st, 2000
Happy New Year, B.
The first one without you.
I watched the fireworks from the roof of my dorm and imagined your fingers laced with mine. I imagined saying sorry in a thousand ways, and none of them felt like enough. Maybe that’s what regret is… Knowing the words exist but not knowing how to make them reach the person you broke.
I hope you danced somewhere tonight. I hope someone looked at you like I used to. I hope you smiled. But I hope it wasn’t because of someone else. I hope it was just you, choosing to live.
Even without me.
January 2nd, 2000
I’ve been listening to Always Be My Sunshine on repeat. Every night. Like a masochist. Thought you should know.
January 3rd, 2000
I wrote your name in Arabic today.
It looked beautiful.
January 17th, 2000
Dear Beverly,
I miss our stupid fights. I miss taking polaroids of you.
I’d give anything for you to roll your eyes at me again.
Or call me a know-it-all. Or throw a pillow at my face.
February 10th, 2000
Happy birthday, B.
I hope someone brings you cake.
I hope you’re laughing.
And if you’re crying, I hope someone’s holding you.
Please be okay.
— Blake
February 22nd, 2000
I got a therapist. She has a plant named Diane.
I thought you’d laugh at that. I do. Sometimes.
March 3th, 2000
Do you hate me? It’s okay if you do.
I just need to know.
Because I don’t hate you.
I couldn’t if I tried.
You’re my heart walking around.
March 19th, 2000
I thought about calling you today. I even dialed the first six numbers. But then I remembered that you probably wouldn’t pick up. Or worse… you would, and you wouldn’t sound happy to hear my voice. So I hung up. I’m sorry.
April 5th, 2000
Dear Beverly,
You once said I was your hobby.
I didn’t understand then. Now I do.
I miss being your favorite thing to pay attention to.
Please write back. Just once.
June 2nd, 2000
I made your favorite pasta tonight. Burned the garlic.
Nearly set off the smoke alarm.
The kitchen still smells like regret.
I wish you were here to tease me for it.
July 10th, 2000
I started building something. A website.
A version of me that might deserve you.
August 8th, 2000
Dear B,
I miss you. I don’t know where you are or if you want to hear from me. But I keep writing these like you do. Because pretending you’ll read them is better than pretending you’re gone. I love you, and I hope you’re safe.
I hope you’re warm. I hope you don’t hate me.
August 15th, 2000
I saw another girl with hair like yours at the mall today. She smiled at someone, and I almost smiled back before I realized it wasn’t you. It ruined my whole day.
How can someone still ruin your day when they haven’t spoken to you in a year? I’d give anything to ruin yours. Just so I knew I still existed in it.
August 23th, 2000
I bought a building today. A dance studio.
I don’t know why I did it.
That’s a lie. I do. I did it for you.
It’s waiting. Just like me.
— Always, Blake
August 27th, 2000
I dreamt of you again. You were dancing in the rain.
When I tried to join you, you disappeared.
I woke up crying.
Please write back, B.
Please.
September 3rd, 2000
I made a mixtape I’ll never send you.
Each track brings me back to the sound of your laugh, the one you made when you forgot to care who was watching. I can still hear it sometimes. I think I made it up. I hope I didn’t.
My eyes were stinging so badly I could barely see.
The letters slipped from my hands one by one.
My cheeks were stained now. Silent tears, carefully ignored. The weight of it all was unbearable.
Not just the pages or the ink or the memories—but the realization that I had asked the universe for signs that he still cared, and they’d been sitting in a box this whole time.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, but it did little to muffle the sob that tore from my throat. My shoulders shook. My fingers clenched uselessly in the fabric of my jeans as I bent forward over my knees, my whole body curling in as if I could fold myself away from the weight of it all. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried like this. Maybe not since I left home.
The ache was too big for my body. Guilt. Regret. Love. Grief. All of it—all at once. He’d written every day. Every damn day. While I cried myself to sleep in a twin bed on the second floor of Aunt Mary’s house, convinced he didn’t care, he was writing. While I told myself I didn’t matter to him anymore, he was pouring out pages of his heart—quiet, constant hope tucked into crumpled envelopes I never knew existed.
Behind me, I heard Blake shift. “Hey… Hey, B—” His voice was so soft it nearly didn’t reach me. There was hesitation in it, a tremble, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak my name. “Beverly,” he said again, a little steadier this time, but still gentle. “Please don’t cry.”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “I didn’t know,” I gasped. “I’m sorry,” I whispered into my hands. “Oh my God. Blake… I’m so sorry.”
A rustle of movement, and then his arms were around me.
Not tentative. Not cautious. He lifted me off the floor like he’d been waiting two years for the right to carry me again.
I didn’t resist. I couldn’t. I buried my face in his neck and sobbed harder. “I didn’t know,” I choked out over and over again. “I didn’t know about the letters, I would have?—”
“I know,” Blake murmured, his voice low and wrecked. “Shhh. It’s okay. B, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, clinging to him. “I thought you didn’t care. I left and got mad because you didn’t chase me harder, but all this time, you were writing me letters, thinking I hated you.”
My breath came out in uneven bursts. I buried my face in his shoulder, needing to be closer, needing to feel every second he hadn’t given up on me. “I should’ve called,” I said, breath hitching. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve?—”
“You were grieving,” he said gently. “So was I.”
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, my fingers trembling as I reached up to touch his face. “I hurt you,” I strangled out, the weight of my guilt crushing me. “I never meant to hurt you…”
His eyes glistened, a sheen of unshed tears threatening to spill over. We stayed like that for a while. Holding on to each other. Surrounded by ink and paper and all the time we’d lost.
Eventually, Tiffany’s voice called carefully, “Are we allowed back in, or are we still mid-meltdown?”
Blake didn’t let go of me. “You can come in,” he called back, brushing his fingers through my hair.
Jamal appeared first, peeking around the corner with exaggerated caution. “No one’s bleeding, right? Because I really don’t want to deal with any hospital runs today.”
Blake let out a shaky laugh and set me gently on the couch, keeping an arm around me. I wiped my face on the sleeve of his shirt, avoiding everyone’s eyes for a second.
“Shut up,” Tiffany said, smacking Jamal’s arm before her gaze landed on me. Her expression softened instantly. “Oh, Bev…”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the letters?” I demanded.
Her face was a mix of regret and sadness.
She crossed the room and plopped down on my other side. “I… I don’t know. I was just trying to protect you,” she finally said. “But I think I got it wrong. I’m sorry.”
I sniffled, wiping my nose on Blake’s sleeve again.
Tiffany looked like she wanted to cry too. Her hand found mine, squeezing it lightly. “I shouldn’t have kept them from you. You can hit me later if you want. I’ll even stand still.”
My lips twitched. “You say that like you think I won’t.”
Blake chuckled softly beside me, his arm tightening around my shoulders, pulling me a little closer.
Tiffany’s lips curved into a small, guilty smile. “Fair enough.” She leaned over to Blake, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. “She’s going to stay up all night reading every single one of them, you know.”
Blake huffed out a quiet laugh. “She absolutely is.”
Before I could argue—not that they were wrong—Jamal cleared his throat and unfolded a letter. Then, in an exaggerated, overly dramatic voice, he read, “P.S.,”—another throat clear—“I miss how you used to mock my fashion choices, yet somehow always ended up wearing my clothes. I still wear that hoodie you couldn’t stand just to feel your judgment from a distance.”
A surprised laugh slipped past my lips before I could stop it.
He glanced up with a smirk, enjoying himself way too much.
Tiffany hummed thoughtfully, leaning back on her hands. “Speaking of questionable fashion choices,” she said, turning to Blake, “you’ve never quite mastered the art of matching colors.”
Blake exhaled sharply, letting his head fall back. “Oh my God. I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” she said smugly.
“Debatable.”
“You do! Just admit it.”
Blake sighed, defeated.
Jamal shook his head, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “ Dear Beverly. It’s been months, and I’m still trying to figure out how to function without you. I mean, sure, I can technically feed myself, but I wouldn’t call it cooking. Last night I microwaved an entire pizza and somehow managed to burn it. In the microwave… I didn’t even know that was possible. I’m starting to wonder if I’m cursed. I’ve got all this knowledge floating around in my head, this supposed ‘genius’ that I used to rely on, but without you here to help me put it to use?—”
Blake snatched the letter out of Jamal’s hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Okay, okay, we get it,” he muttered, his voice dripping with annoyance as he crumpled the paper in his fist.
Jamal laughed. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“I swear, you’re all going to be the death of me,” Blake said, running a hand through his hair.
But even as he said it, a small smile tugged at his lips.
Jamal snorted quietly, tossing a blanket at us from god-knows-where. “Alright. We’re doing a sleepover.”
I blinked, catching the blanket awkwardly against my chest. “Sleepover?”
“I brought matching pajamas,” Tiffany announced with a grin, practically bouncing with excitement. “And a face mask that smells like cake. Oh, I also brought these cozy socks that are ridiculously soft and nail polish in every color under the sun.”
Blake raised an eyebrow but couldn’t hide his amusement. “You really came prepared, huh?”
“You bet I did.” Jamal pointed to the duffel bag by the door. “Got basketball shorts and a portable speaker. I say we take turns roasting Blake’s love letters until he cries.”
“Already cried,” Blake muttered under his breath.
“Round two, then.”
Tiffany stood up and stretched. “I’m raiding the kitchen. Beverly, you’re in charge of not sobbing for the next ten minutes. That’s my boundary.”
I huffed a laugh, wiping my damp cheeks. “No promises.”
Blake returned to the couch, slowly lowering himself next to me. Without any warning, he shifted, gently but firmly pinning me down with his arm, his head resting on my shoulder as if he couldn’t bear to be apart. He nuzzled into my side, his breath warm against my neck, and let out a soft, contented sigh.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low, the question simple but loaded with so much more.
I nodded, my heart doing a little flip in my chest as I leaned into him without meaning to. “Yeah,” I murmured, even though I wasn’t sure what “good” even meant anymore. But being here, with him, in this moment, it felt like I could breathe again.
Tiffany reappeared with a box of cereal, a pack of cookies, and three different types of chips. Jamal snagged the biggest pillow and flopped dramatically onto the floor.
We stayed up too late. Tiffany painted everyone’s nails—yes, even Blake’s—and I changed into an old hoodie that Blake used to sleep in, pretending not to notice how his eyes lingered when I pulled it over my head. We were sprawled out in the living room, surrounded by snacks, blankets, and couch cushions, full of sugar, exhaustion, and the soft hum of forgiveness.
At some point in the night, Blake took my hand and held it as if he was promising something without words. I squeezed back and stared at him like I didn’t know how to stop.
I’d read the rest of the letters tomorrow.
Tonight, I just needed this. And for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep without a single ache in my chest.
* * *
I woke to the feeling of weightlessness.
Groggily, I blinked up and realized I was moving—floating, kind of. No, not floating. Being carried.
Blake’s arms were wrapped under me, one hooked around my back, the other beneath my knees. His face hovered above mine, attentive and soft, his mouth curved into a lazy smile. “Hey, B.”
I squinted up at him, still fuzzy with sleep. My head lolled slightly against his chest as he carried me through the hallway. “What are you doing?” I mumbled.
“Kidnapping you,” he whispered. “But gently.”
I made a weak sound of protest. “You’re such a weirdo.”
“You say that like it’s new information.”
I blinked a few times. “What are you doing…?”
“Carrying you to your royal chambers,” he said as if it was obvious. “You passed out with a Fruit Loop stuck to your cheek.”
“Rude,” I muttered, trying to sit up, but he tightened his hold.
“Don’t struggle. You’ll ruin the moment.”
“There’s no moment. You smell like nail polish remover.”
“Ouch,” he said, feigning hurt as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. “You dozed off during Tiff’s seventeen-step skincare sermon. I waited until she started arguing with Jamal about whether toothpaste counts as food before I made my escape.”
I frowned. “They’re still arguing?”
“Oh, they were,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “But then Tiffany grabbed her bag and left in a fury. Something about ‘ungrateful men’ and ‘gendered expectations’. Jamal stormed after her like his life depended on it.”
I tried to chuckle but it came out as a groggy huff instead. “God, I missed them.”
“Same,” he admitted softly. “Missed you more, though.”
I didn’t reply.
I was too busy not falling apart again.
He nudged the door fully open and carried me into my old bedroom, lit only by the pale blue glow of the moon through the blinds. The bed was freshly made—thanks to Tiffany, probably, who had a habit of nesting even in houses that didn’t belong to her.
Blake set me down on the bed like I was the most fragile thing he’d ever held, the kind of careful that felt like reverence.
I shifted beneath the blanket as he straightened, brushing my hair gently off my forehead. Then, before I could say a word, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. Slow. Soft. Crushing.
Without another word, he turned, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his feet the only sound that filled the room.
“Wait,” I said, grabbing his shirt. “Where are you going?”
He paused, glancing down at my hand. “Back downstairs.”
“Why?”
His mouth curved in that way it did when he was trying not to say something obvious. “Because my room’s a disaster, B.”
I grimaced, sitting up slightly. “Oh. Right. My bad.”
He hummed in response, more amused than irritated.
“Sorry about that. Really, I am sorry,” I muttered, pulling the blanket over my face in mock shame.
“Mm, I bet you are.”
I peeked out from under the blanket. “You don’t have to go.” My voice came out more vulnerable than I meant it to. “You...can stay? Here. With me. If you want?”
Blake blinked. Just once.
“Just to sleep,” I added quickly, stumbling over the words. “Not like… sleep sleep. Just sleep. The bed’s big enough, right?”
He chuckled softly. “You’re cute when you’re awkward.”
I swatted at his chest. “I will rescind the invitation.”
“No, no. I’m staying.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender, his grin softening into something quieter before he dropped onto the edge of the bed, looking at me. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I don’t want to fall asleep without you again.”
“Okay,” he murmured, reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. He tossed it onto the floor before turning back to me, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “But just so you know, I snore.”
I snorted, rolling my eyes as I shifted to make room for him. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he replied, pulling the blanket up and sliding in beside me like he’d been doing it forever—like he would do it a million times more. His arm immediately curved around my waist, like it belonged there. Like I belonged there.
I let out a slow breath, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he settled in. “Well,” I murmured, unable to hide my smile, “if you do snore, I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.”
He traced lazy circles against my back, the soothing rhythm making it hard to focus on anything else. The warmth of his touch seemed to melt into my skin, and the soft pressure sent little shivers down my spine. “You willing to suffer through that for me?”
I closed my eyes, pressing just a little closer. “For you? Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, his words a whisper against my skin. “I don’t deserve you.”
We didn’t say much after that—just lay there with our legs tangled under the sheets, the house quiet in that sacred, middle-of-the-night way.
“Blake?” I whispered after a few minutes.
He shifted slightly, then tightened his hold on me just a little, as if reassuring himself that I was still there, still in his arms. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I broke your room,” I murmured.
“I’m sorry I broke your heart.”