Beverly

Chapter 14 #2

Tiffany’s cravings became the most urgent matter in the world. She declared she needed a Diet Coke as if it were a life-or-death situation. I tried to convince her that water was probably the best idea, but she wasn’t hearing it.

So we made our way downstairs, laughing at nothing and everything. Tiffany was whispering something about Coke being the nectar of the Gods when she misjudged a step and grabbed onto me, which made me stumble, which made her stumble, and before we knew it, we were clutching onto each other.

“Why do stairs feel so weird?” I whispered as I gripped the banister like it was my only tether to reality.

Tiffany huffed out, “Because they are weird. We’re all just trusting planks of wood not to betray us.”

That was such a profound thought that I had to sit down on the step and process it for a moment. “Oh my God.”

But the mission was clear. We had to keep going.

We wandered into the kitchen, and the first thing I saw was Jamal, mid-groan, eyes closed like he was having a religious experience. He chewed slowly, savoring whatever he just ate.

“Man,” he moaned, barely able to speak through his bliss, eyes rolling in pure pleasure. “I don’t even like brownies that much, but these?” he said, licking his thumb. “These brownies are unreal.”

Blake leaned against the counter beside him, watching with mild amusement. “Yeah,” he agreed, finishing his own piece, “they’re amazing.”

That was when everything hit me all at once.

First, the weight of the air. Had it always been this heavy? Second, the overwhelming realization that we were absolutely, without-a-doubt high out of our minds, standing in the kitchen with two perceptive people who would know immediately. Third, and possibly most horrifying, the fact that Blake and Jamal had just eaten a brownie.

“Oh, no,” I whispered-hissed.

I sucked in a breath and held it, as if that would somehow keep me from bursting into hysterical laughter or full-blown panic. My brain was splitting between two equally dominant reactions: absolute terror at being discovered and the desperate, primal need to laugh at everything happening at once.

“What?” Tiffany blinked at me, then followed my gaze. “Oh. Oh .”

I grabbed her arm, and she squeezed mine back in a death grip as our brains connected at the same time.

“Bev,” Tiffany whispered. “They. Ate. All . The. Brownies.”

The brownies that were absolutely, one-hundred percent, beyond a shadow of a doubt, filled with weed.

I wanted to laugh so badly that my whole body shook with the effort to keep it in. I slapped a hand over my mouth to contain the cackle trying to break free. This was either going to be a disaster or the funniest thing I had ever witnessed.

I think Tiffany said something, but I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t feel my legs and I was still too busy having a full-blown panic attack while also trying not to burst out laughing. It was the worst combination of emotions imaginable.

Tiffany squeezed my arm harder, shaking me. “Shut up, Bev, shut up! You’re gonna make it obvious!”

Too late. Blake and Jamal both turned to us at the same time, and immediately, something in their faces shifted.

Blake narrowed his eyes at both of us, his gaze flicking between my frozen posture and Tiffany’s unhinged expression.

“Are you guys okay?” Jamal asked, mildly suspicious.

“Yes,” I blurted out, way too fast, way too loud. “Why wouldn’t we be okay? We’re just thirsty.”

“Why do you two look like that?” Blake asked slowly.

I could feel his brain kicking into gear. No, no, no…

Tiffany put on her most exaggerated expression of confusion. “Like what?”

“Like two people who just forgot how to use their legs.”

Blake studied me like I was a glitch in the matrix. I could feel the sweat forming at my temples. Could he hear my heartbeat? Was I breathing too loud? Was I even blinking?

I was about to open my mouth, maybe to lie, maybe to confess—I had no idea—but then Tiffany shot forward and pointed an accusatory finger at Jamal. “Why are you here?!” she demanded, as if she’d just caught him sneaking through her bedroom window.

Jamal raised an eyebrow. “I was invited.”

Tiffany scoffed. “Who invited you?”

“I did,” Blake said, watching us more closely now. “And what is wrong with you two?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Tiffany countered, which was possibly the least effective comeback in the history of comebacks. “And you,” she said, still pointing a finger at Jamal like he was the sole cause of all her problems. “You ate all the brownies!”

Jamal looked at the empty plate in front of him, then back at Tiffany. “Yeah,” he replied slowly. “And?”

“And those were ours,” she huffed.

“They were on the counter. Free game,” Jamal said, shrugging as he glanced over at me. A moment later, he paused, narrowing his eyes and pointing a lazy finger at us. “Wait a minute. Why do you two look—” His eyes widened. “Are you high ?”

Tiffany gasped, clutching her chest. “How dare you accuse us?”

I nodded vigorously. “Yeah, how dare you?”

Jamal looked at Blake, then back at us. “Oh, they’re so high.”

Blake was focused on me, oblivious to the chaos brewing. Tiffany and I exchanged another horrified glance.

A frown crept across Blake’s face. “ Why are you guys high?”

I saw the exact moment the realization hit him.

His gaze snapped to the empty plate.

The color drained from his face. “No...”

Tiffany covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“No,” Blake said again, louder this time. He looked at me, then at Jamal. “These aren’t—” He trailed off, waiting for someone to tell him he was wrong.

I couldn’t speak.

“Beverly.” Blake’s voice was eerily calm. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is. You two better have made these with love and not anything else.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Tiffany clapped her hands together. “Funny story!”

His nostrils flared. “It better be a really funny story.”

I swallowed hard. “They’re just, um…special brownies?”

His fingers twitched. “Special.”

I nodded weakly.

There was a long pause as Jamal processed. “I’m gonna die.”

“No, you’re not.” Tiffany rolled her eyes. “You’re just gonna be extremely high.”

“I can’t be high right now,” he groaned. “I have things to do. I have responsibilities. I have—” He stopped mid-sentence, eyes suddenly glazed over. “Wait. What was I saying? Shit. This is it. I’m dying. I can feel my heartbeat in my teeth. Tell my parents I love them.”

Tiffany sighed, rubbing her temples. “You’re not dying. You’re just stoned. Drink some water and sit down before you embarrass yourself further.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I hate you both.”

“Okay, but hear me out,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “This could be a bonding experience.”

Jamal made a face. “Or a traumatic one.”

“Whatever,” Tiffany staggered to the fridge and yanked it open, “I need my Diet Coke.”

Jamal muttered something in Arabic under his breath.

“What was that?” She shot him a glare, hand on her hips.

Meanwhile, Blake was pacing. Pacing and panicking. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, muttering numbers under his breath. Then he spun toward the sink, frantically rinsing his mouth out like that would somehow reverse it. “I can’t—I can’t be high, B.”

Jamal let out a slow, breathy laugh as he collapsed onto a barstool. “Oh, no, buddy, you’re in for a ride.”

“A ride?” Blake’s voice rose. He turned to me, his expression filled with sheer horror. “Beverly, I—” He suddenly stopped mid-sentence, blinking rapidly, as though trying to shake off some invisible fog that had settled over him.

His usually sharp, analytical gaze went unfocused.

My heart dropped into my feet.

Blake didn’t do drugs. He didn’t drink. He didn’t even like taking NyQuil. The one time we had talked about it, he’d said the idea of losing control made him physically sick, that he couldn’t handle the thought of his own brain betraying him.

And now, he’d just unknowingly eaten weed brownies.

A wave of panic crashed over me as I watched his wide eyes dart around the kitchen. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast. A mix of confusion and fear spilled from his lips as he realized what was happening.

“I’m losing control,” he kept repeating, the words coming out in broken fragments, laced with a kind of desperation I had never heard from him before.

I couldn’t let him spiral into the darkness he feared so much. Without a second thought, I snapped into action and dragged Blake out of the kitchen.

“Come on,” I urged. “Just breathe.”

Blake barely responded, his feet shuffling slowly as if the simple act of moving was becoming too much for him to handle. His words were still coming in fragments, muttering under his breath about how he was losing it.

“Blake,” I said, shaking him lightly, trying to bring him back from whatever haze was pulling him under. “You’re not losing control, okay? You’re fine. I’m here.”

Behind us, the sound of Tiffany and Jamal bickering started to rise. “Why are you acting like you’re better than me?” Tiffany snapped. “You literally eat gas station sushi.”

“And it’s delicious,” Jamal shot back. “But at least I don’t befriend people out of desperation.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you?”

I yanked Blake into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, cutting off whatever drama was brewing out there.

He began to pace the small space, running his hands through his hair. “I’m losing control, B,” he repeated over and over, his voice growing more frantic with each passing second, as if the very idea were suffocating him.

“You’re not losing control, Blake,” I assured him, trying to be the voice of reason despite being high myself. “You’re?—”

“How do you know that?” he demanded, turning to face me with eyes wild enough to feel like daggers piercing my skin. It was such a fierce look, one that made me feel as if I’d crossed some invisible line and betrayed him in a way I never intended.

I fell silent, my mouth clamping shut.

Blake gripped the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I need to make myself throw up?—”

“No, you don’t.” I grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to meet my gaze. “It’s too late for that anyway.”

There was a loud crash outside, followed by Tiffany’s voice yelling, “I swear to God, Jamal?—”

Blake looked like he was going to be sick. “I can’t believe you let this happen.”

I gaped at him. “Me? I didn’t force-feed you a brownie, Blake.”

“Shit.” His breathing picked up. “I’m sorry, B. I am, okay? I-I can handle this. I just need to—” He stopped, blinking hard.

“Hey,” I whispered, unsure if he’d even heard me. It felt like time had stopped, like the world outside the bathroom had disappeared entirely. The sound of my heartbeat in my ears was louder than anything else. “Listen to me. It’s just weed, okay? You’re not dying.”

“I don’t like this, Beverly. I don’t like feeling like this .” He exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Which was objectively untrue, considering his life, but I decided not to argue. Instead, I guided him to the toilet and made him sit on the closed lid. He looked miserable, his head in his hands, mumbling something about how he was too smart for this.

“Blake,” I said softly. “Hey, look at me.”

He shook his head, eyes still squeezed shut. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

But Blake didn’t hear me. He was far beyond hearing anything but the loud rush of panic in his head.

His breath became more rapid, uneven. I could hear the quick inhale, followed by the strangled exhale as he fought for control.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped, his voice cracking with fear.

I knew what this was—he was having a panic attack.

My chest tightened in response to his distress.

I could feel the panic rising in my own throat, choking me.

I didn’t know what to do other than to get him to focus on me.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

Slowly, I slid into his lap.

His eyes flew open, locking onto mine in complete shock. His hands instinctively went to my waist to steady me. My thighs rested on either side of him, and I could feel his heartbeat pounding, could feel his chest rising and falling against me.

“Breathe,” I said softly. “Just breathe, okay? Focus on me.”

He swallowed hard. “Bev?—”

“Shhh. Breathe.” I placed my hands on either side of his face, making sure he had nowhere else to look but at me. He tried to say something else, but I shook my head. “Just focus on me. Breathe with me.” I ran my fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. “I’m right here. Just hold onto me, okay?”

The heat from his body seemed to seep into mine, and I tried to push all my own fears and worries aside to be present for him.

Slowly, I inhaled, making it exaggerated so he could follow. His eyes flickered down to my lips. He hesitated, then shakily mirrored me, his grip on my waist tightening slightly.

His face was pale, but I could tell he was trying to focus.

I reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He was rigid beneath me, but his breathing slowed just a fraction. I reached for his hand and laced our fingers together.

“What’s the square root of 81?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard by the simplicity of the question. “Nine,” he whispered, but his voice was still shaky, his words coming out like they were coated in a fog.

“How many continents are there?”

He exhaled. “Seven.”

“Who’s the president of the United States?”

“Bill Clinton.”

I nodded. “What’s the capital of France?”

“Paris,” he said, a little more confident now.

“That’s right,” I said, my voice calm. “What color is my shirt?”

His eyes flickered down. “White.”

There was another loud crash from the kitchen, followed by Jamal shouting, “You can’t hate me! Everybody loves me!” and Tiffany yelling, “Not when you eat the last brownie, asshole!”

Blake’s hand moved up, gripping the fabric of my shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. His breathing was still uneven, but it wasn’t as frantic as before.

“What’s your favorite book?” I asked.

I could see him thinking. “ The Catcher in the Rye. ”

“Now, what’s your favorite color?”

His grip on my hand tightened slightly.

Time seemed to stretch as he stared at me.

“Blue,” he said finally, quieter this time.

“And how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“See? You’re still here. Still Blake.” I smiled, even though I was still terrified. “You’re doing great. Keep breathing.”

For a second, he didn’t move.Then, slowly, he relaxed, resting his forehead against my shoulder.

His voice came out quiet, strained. “Beverly.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m high now.”

I patted his head. “Yeah,” I laughed softly, “I think you are.”

He let out a long breath and buried his face in my neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice soft and laced with guilt.

“Blake, you have nothing to be sorry for,” I said, my voice low and steady, though I felt like I might fall apart at any second. “You didn’t choose this. It’s okay. Just keep breathing.”

My heart hammered against my ribs as I shifted in Blake’s lap, trying to balance between giving him space and holding onto him. His grip on my waist tightened, his fingers pressing into me just enough to make my skin burn beneath the fabric of my shirt.

Suddenly, a whole different kind of panic set in—the kind that had nothing to do with weed and everything to do with him.

From the kitchen, Tiffany and Jamal were still going at it.

“Tiffany, I don’t get what your problem is!” Jamal’s voice was exasperated, almost pleading.

“You breathe too loud!”

Blake let out a low chuckle against my neck, his warm breath sending goosebumps along my skin.

I exhaled shakily, my fingers threading into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “How are you feeling?”

He hummed lazily, his voice a soft whisper against my skin. “You always smelled this good?”

My heart pounded so hard I swore he could hear it. He was slurring from the high, his words half-lost against my skin, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I had heard him right or if my mind was simply playing tricks on me.

“No,” I said, my voice barely a breath. “You’re just high.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a sigh. His hands slowly slid to the small of my back, his fingers pressing into my skin with an intensity that made me breathe harder. And then, without warning, his lips brushed against the curve of my neck.

I couldn’t think straight; the weed had me buzzing, and he was an intoxicating force all on his own. “Blake,” I breathed, the sound of his name escaping my lips like a plea.

It was barely a kiss, just the faintest touch of his mouth against my skin. But it was enough to make my heart race, to make me freeze, to make everything inside me feel like it was shifting into something I didn’t know how to handle. My hands started shaking as I felt his lips linger there, soft and almost apologetic, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

I didn’t know.

“If we weren’t Blake and Beverly,” he muttered, his voice thick with something I couldn’t place, “what would it be like…?”

Before I could answer, his lips brush against my skin again, soft and slow, just above my collarbone.

My breath hitched. My heart nearly stopped. “Blake?—”

“Shhh,” Blake murmured. “If we weren’t Blake and Beverly, would you want this?”

I swallowed hard, my mind clouded. I felt the question settle deep in my chest, curling around something I had spent years trying to ignore. “Blake…” I hesitated, unsure of what he was really asking. This wasn’t fair. Not here, not now.“What… What are you saying?”

“If we were different people. If nothing was messy. If we weren’t tangled up in things that couldn’t be undone. If it was just us. Would you?”

I was trapped between everything I knew and everything I didn’t. Between the boy I’d known for years and the man he was becoming—or maybe the man he always had been.

“You’re high,” I reminded him. He didn’t mean this…

“Would you?” he pressed, his nose nudging the edge of my jaw.

I could feel him trembling beneath me, his hands gripping my hips in a way that wasn’t quite possessive but still desperate.

My fingers dug into his shoulders, and I wanted to tell him that there was no world where we weren’t us.

Instead, I told him, “We are Blake and Beverly.”

“But if we weren’t.”

My skin was on fire, but my thoughts were too jumbled to make sense of any of it. What was he saying? What was he trying to tell me? What was he feeling ? It was so confusing.

Blake pulled back just enough so I could see his face. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze flickering between my eyes and my lips like he couldn’t decide where to settle. “Would you?” he asked again, his voice almost pleading.

I blinked, trying to find the words to respond, but nothing came out. I wasn’t even sure I could trust my own thoughts, let alone answer that question.

I studied his face, but his expression was unreadable—lips parted, eyes locked onto mine, searching. He was waiting for an answer, his breathing heavy, but I couldn’t give him one.

“I-I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling, “I don’t know. Blake, you’re high, and?—”

“So?”

“So, you don’t mean it.”

“What if I do?”

“Then you’ll have to ask me when you’re sober.”

Blake swallowed, his jaw tensing, as if he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Then, he shook his head, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. His arms went slack, like I’d drained the fight right out of him. He exhaled sharply, then shook his head again like he was trying to clear it. “Forget I said anything.”

Before I could even process that, he suddenly burst into laughter—loud, unrestrained, the kind of laughter that shakes your whole body.

I pulled back, blinking at him in confusion. “What’s so funny?” I asked, half-worried, half-amused.

His arms gripped my waist, and in one swift motion, he stood up, lifting me with him. “Blake!” I gasped, clutching his shoulders as he bolted out of the bathroom, his laughter still spilling from his mouth as if he’d just remembered the funniest joke in the world. “Blake, put me down?—”

“Never,” he said, still laughing, still running, his arms locked around my waist as if I weighed nothing. “You’re my anchor. My human seatbelt. My Emotional Support Beverly.”

“You’re so high,” I groaned.

“And you’re so beautiful.”

He crashed into the hallway, nearly knocking over a side table.

I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in my own throat. The house felt like it was spinning, but in a way that was exhilarating rather than terrifying.

I smacked Blake’s shoulder, but he just laughed harder, his grip unwavering. “Where are we going?” I asked, clinging to him.

“No idea,” he admitted, spinning us in a wild, unsteady circle. “I just—I can’t sit still. I feel like I need to run. Or jump off the roof. Or?—”

“Please don’t jump off the roof.”

The unmistakable sound of raised voices drifted through the air, growing louder as we approached the kitchen.

“Are they still fighting?” I groaned, already dreading what we might find.

Blake snorted, adjusting his grip on me as he carefully made his way toward the kitchen. “Do they ever stop?”

We peeked in, and sure enough, there they were: Tiffany and Jamal, animatedly arguing over something that seemed completely ridiculous. “Do you even know who the Spice Girls are?” Tiffany demanded, arms crossed so tightly over her chest that it looked like she was holding herself back from physically shaking some sense into Jamal.

Jamal scoffed, his hands planted firmly on his hips as he shot her a look of pure exasperation. “Why do you always have to take things so seriously?”

“Because someone has to be the adult here,” she retorted. Then, as if the real offense had only just hit her, she threw her hands up. “I can’t believe you don’t know who the Spice Girls are.”

Jamal rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might actually get stuck. “Oh, please. They’re just a bunch of girls singing about zigazig-ah.”

Blake and I exchanged a glance.

“Should we intervene?” I whispered.

He shook his head. “Only if they start throwing things.”

With a dramatic huff, Tiffany spun on her heel and declared, “You know what, Jamal? If I wanted to deal with disappointment, I’d just start dating again.”

Jamal made an offended noise, throwing his hands in the air. “She doesn’t know who 2Pac is, and she’s calling me the disappointment?”

Blake snorted, his grip on my waist loosening just enough for me to slide down to my feet. His hand lingered at the small of my back, warm and steady, like he was keeping me tethered to him.

He watched Jamal with an expression that was far too amused, then said something rapidly in Arabic that made Jamal’s ears flush a bright red.

His entire posture stiffened, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He blinked, then cleared his throat, shaking his head like he was physically trying to rid himself of whatever Blake had just said to him.

“What did you say to him?” I asked, trying to suppress a laugh at Jamal’s flustered expression.

Blake turned to me with a lazy smile, leaning in slightly. “Nothing you need to know.”

That only made me more curious.

I nudged him with my elbow, my gaze flicking between him and the still-flustered Jamal. “Come on, you can’t just leave me hanging like that. Tell me.”

He shook his head, all innocent amusement. “Nope.”

“But—”

Blake cut me off with a look—one that was both teasing and completely unreadable. “Trust me,” he murmured. “Some things are better left untranslated.”