Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Bea stretched her arms overhead, exhaling as the last cooldown pose settled over the class. The Pilates studio was quiet, save for the hum of the ceiling fans and the occasional rustle of towels being tossed into hampers.
Manny was already eyeing her from the back of the room, arms crossed. “Alright, scholarship, what’s the deal?”
Bea reached for her water bottle. “What deal?”
Manny snorted. “You booked two weeks of sessions like a good little overachiever—then canceled them all?”
Bea winced. Busted. “I’m…putting my membership on hold.”
Manny issued a suffering sigh. “You’re abandoning us.”
Bea laughed. “It’s just two months, and a half.”
He tossed a towel over his shoulder. “Two and a half months is enough time to undo all your progress,” Manny said, voice dripping with mock disapproval. “You think you can just roll back in like nothing happened?”
“You’ll still be here,” she shot back.
He waggled a finger. “If you get out of shape while you’re gone, I’m doubling your sessions when you come back.”
Bea huffed a laugh. “That’s not how threats work, Manny.”
He grinned. “Where are you off to, anyway?”
“Canada. Going home.”
The word hung there for a breath. Home. She said it easily enough, but it felt like half a lie. Because this felt like home, too.
The fro-yo place was barely a block away from Havoc.
Bea glanced around as she waited, amused at the neon-lit absurdity of it.
The place was all retro tile, hanging globe lights, and overpriced frozen yogurt with way too many topping options.
It was exactly the kind of spot teenagers thought was cool, which meant it was exactly the kind of spot Nico would pick.
She was still in her workout gear, her hair damp at the edges from sweat, but it didn’t matter here. It was just after eight o’clock at night so it was mostly full of teenagers who thought sweat shorts and socks pulled halfway up their calves was the height of fashion.
Nico arrived soon after. He slid into the seat across from her, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He was in his workout clothes—breathable black t-shirt, compression sleeves, that air of someone about to go do something athletic and expensive.
Bea raised a brow. “Are you allowed to be out this late?”
Nico stole a spoonful of her yogurt before she could stop him, rolling his eyes like she’d asked a stupid question. “Relax. I’m not a kid.” Then, smirking, “And anyway, I have plans. Meeting El Jefe after this.”
“Ah, the godfather,” Bea remembered. “How’d you do on your exams?”
“Pretty well,” he said, trying not to look proud. “Didn’t fail a single subject.”
A warmth spread through her chest. “Told you you weren’t hopeless.”
He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but the way he fidgeted with his spoon said otherwise. “My mom wanted to say thank you,” he said, reaching into his bag and pulling out a fancy gift bag in green and gold.
Bea took it, opening it. Inside, nestled in soft tissue paper, was a delicate Hermes silk scarf—deep navy with gold accents, the pattern intricate and refined. And a note.
You’ve done wonders with my son. I can’t thank you enough. Merry Christmas.
“She didn’t have to do this,” she said softly.
“She wanted to.” He shrugged.
Bea carefully folded the scarf back into the bag. She already knew she’d wear it.
Nico cleared his throat and pulled something else out. “This one’s from me.”
“What? Nico…” Smiling sheepishly, she pulled the package onto her lap, tearing at the tissue paper. Then she saw the shirt.
Black. Expensive fabric.
And printed in bold, capital letters across the front—
I’M NOT A MILLIONAIRE YET.
Bea cracked up. Full, unrestrained, head-thrown-back laughter.
Nico tossed a grin. “See? I knew you’d love it.”
She held it up, staring at the lettering before collapsing into another round of giggles. “Get out. Nico!”
“You’re always reminding me,” he said, smug. “If you wear it, I won’t forget.”
“This is the best t-shirt anyone has ever given me.”
“Duh,” he said, as if that had been obvious. “I only buy the best.”
Bea smoothed the fabric between her fingers, something warm settling in her chest. There was at least one person in the UR that she’d done something good for.
That mattered. That rooted her here in a way that wasn’t tied to scholarships or borrowed space. It made her feel like she belonged. It was hers.
“Thanks, Nico. Really.”
He shrugged, pretending not to care, but obviously pleased with her response. “Yeah, yeah.”
Bea slid a small, wrapped package across the table.
Nico eyed it warily. “You got me something too?”
“Duh.”
He picked it up like it might explode. “Is this a real present or—”
Bea tilted her head. “Do you deserve a real present?”
“That feels like a trick question.”
“Just open it.”
Nico peeled back the wrapping, revealing a sleek, well-worn book. The Art of Charm: How to Talk to Women Without Embarrassing Yourself.
Silence.
Bea pressed down a smile, chin in her palm. “You’re welcome.”
Nico let out a slow, suffering breath. “You bought me a self-help book?”
He flipped through it, pausing at a highlighted section. There was a note in the margins, in Bea’s handwriting: If you’re learning from El Jefe, you need a second opinion.
He groaned. “And you annotated it?”
Bea grinned. “Obviously.”
Nico rubbed his temple like he had a headache. “I hate that you’re funny.”
“Wait. One more thing.” She reached into her bag and pulled out another item—a Magic 8-Ball, except someone (her) had taped over the words. Now it read:
THE FUTURE OF YOUR LOVE LIFE.
Nico stared.
Bea nodded solemnly. “Go ahead. Ask.”
He let out a breath. “Does she like me?” He shook the ball. Turned it over.
OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.
Bea choked on a laugh as Nico slammed it down on the table. “This thing’s broken,” he pouted.
Bea wiped her eye, shaking with laughter. “Try again.”
Nico grabbed it with more force than necessary. “Will she ever like me?”
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME.
Bea actually wheezed.
“I’m throwing this in the ocean,” Nico announced, pushing it away.
Bea clutched it to her chest, dead serious. “My magnum opus.”
Nico exhaled sharply, shaking his head. But he was amused. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Merry Christmas, Nico.”
He huffed, but placed the book into his bag carefully. Then, lazily swirling his spoon through his yogurt: “Bet your boyfriend’s pissed, huh?”
Bea blinked. “What?”
“You’re leaving for the whole summer.” He popped a piece of mango into his mouth. “If I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t let her.”
Bea scoffed. “That’s not how relationships work.”
Nico raised a brow. “That’s how men work.”
She rolled her eyes, but the words landed somewhere deep, sticking in a way she didn’t want to examine. Sixteen years old, and somehow already saying the thing.
They finished their yogurt, with Nico roasting Bea for her boring flavor choices and Bea judging his chaotic toppings as a mountain of crushed Oreos spilled all over the table.
When they finally got up to leave, Bea hesitated before holding out her arms. An awkward hug. But a real one.
“See you next year?” she said.
Nico nodded, hands shoved into his pockets. “You better not come back dumb or I’ll have no further use for you.”
Bea laughed. “Don’t get any taller.”
Nico smirked. “Impossible.”
She waved and walked out, still holding onto the warmth of the moment.
Bea stepped out of the car, inhaling the thick scent of pine, cinnamon, and something sweet roasting in the distance. She’d showered and changed after meeting Nico. It was strange to be at a Christmas market this late, and in a dress.
“This is weird,” she quipped as they passed a stall selling miniature wooden reindeer. “It’s way too warm for December.”
Gage hummed, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other grazing the small of her back as he steered her through the crowd. “You get used to it.”
The market stretched along a wide path, canopies in red and white lining the way. Handwoven ornaments, dainty ceramics, and embroidered linens filled the stalls, artisans quietly arranging their displays. Lights draped from the trees overhead, flickering gold against the deep green leaves.
A choir was singing somewhere, the soft melody threading through the occasional bursts of laughter and the warm hum of conversation.
Bea slowed in front of a booth displaying handcrafted clay pots. Deep browns, iridescent glazes, swirling patterns pressed into the surface. She traced a finger over one, admiring the fine details.
“These would be perfect for kimchi,” she mused.
Gage glanced over, eyes flicking over the collection before landing on the one in her hands. “For your mother?”
Bea nodded. “She’s always looking for good storage containers. These are beautiful.”
She picked two: one deep brown with an engraved floral pattern, the other with an ephemeral, iridescent sheen. The vendor wrapped them gingerly, securing the package with twine before handing it over.
Bea reached for her wallet, but Gage shifted, about to step in.
She shot him a look. “Don’t even think about it.”
He exhaled through his nose, but didn’t argue as she handed over her card.
When the vendor passed her the bag, she felt Gage’s gaze on her. Amused. A little exasperated.
Bea smiled up at him. “You can get me dessert.”
They wandered through the market, the air thick with the scent of roasted nuts and candied fruit. Gage stopped at a stall stacked with delicate pastries—glossy, sugar-dusted, filled with custards and jams.
Without a word, he picked one up and handed it to her.
Bea took it eagerly, the warmth of it sinking into her fingers.
The pastry was flaky, sweet, the filling rich and warm. She let out a quiet hum of approval.
Gage glanced at her, then at the pastry.
Bea offered it up to him. He took a bite.
“Good?”
Gage smirked, wiped a crumb from his thumb. “It’s fine.”
“Fine,” she echoed, amused.
“I don’t have a sweet tooth.”
“More for me.” She took another bite, warm and content, licking sugar from her lips.
Gage reached out, brushing his thumb against the corner of her mouth, wiping away the sugar with gentle strokes. His touch was brief, but the moment stretched, warmth pressing between them, lingering in the quiet space only they occupied.
Bea swallowed, gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”
Blue eyes held hers. And then, effortlessly, as if he were commenting on the weather, he said—
“I love you.”
Bea stilled.
Inside, her heart bloomed.
She hadn’t expected him to say it. Not in this perfectly ordinary moment. While she was halfway through a pastry and had sugar on her face.
And yet, she realized, she had already known. She felt it in everything he did. But hearing the words mattered.
Her chest tightened. “Why now?”
Gage studied her. Then said, like the answer was obvious, “So you know. And so you don’t forget.”
She heard the words he didn’t say. Because you’re leaving. He wanted her to carry the words with her.
Bea swallowed the pastry she’d been chewing. She leaned up, pressing a kiss to his lips. Let it linger. Memorized him.
Gage let her.
And when she pulled away, he took her hand in his. No pressure. No demand. Just a truth he had given her.
Bea laced her fingers through his, their hands fitting together as easily as their steps.
And they walked.
She stared at the half-zipped suitcase on her bed.
The ultra-fine merino crewneck he’d once lent her to sleep in was folded on top, smelling faintly like his cologne. As if she could bottle him up and keep him close.
As if that would make a difference.
Her passport was already in her carry-on. Her flight was confirmed. Her umma had made a list of what she wanted to cook. Claire had sent her twenty messages about New Year’s plans.
She could still cancel. Just…stay. Unpack. Walk into his penthouse in the morning. Crawl into his lap, brace her hands on his shoulders, tell him she wasn’t going anywhere.
She knew what would happen if she did. He’d hold her jaw, tilt her chin up the way he always did when he was pleased with her. And then proceed to ensure she didn’t regret it.
She almost did.
Ten weeks. That’s what she’d promised them in Toronto. That’s what everyone expected. A summer at home after an entire year away.
But now…
Now, she had a man who’d said ‘I love you’ in the middle of a Christmas market while she had sugar on her mouth and jam on her fingers. Who touched her like he owned her, yet didn’t force her to stay.
But then she pictured her parents. Her umma’s hands in flour. Her papa’s late-night stories. Who she’d been in Toronto, before all this.
She wasn’t ready to give that up. And she didn’t want to let them down. She didn’t want to believe she was a different girl than the one who’d left.
So she zipped the suitcase closed. And sighed.