Chapter 5Beck. Late August, Five years ago #2
Her slender shoulder bumped into his chest as she tried to shove past him –unsuccessfully. He didn’t move an inch. If anything, he enjoyed the moment far too much. She smelled like something expensive and delicate, like vanilla and the barest hint of something floral.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, as if just existing near him was a personal offense. Which, honestly? Fair. He was kind of making it a mission to be one.
"What’s your game here, you weirdo?" she snapped, her eyes flashing. "Here to sabotage my audition? I’ll just add it to your growing list of criminal charges."
Beck almost laughed. He really, really shouldn’t enjoy this as much as he did.
"If you’re stalking me, I won’t hesitate to report your ass to the NYPD, Beck Gershaw. "
Hearing his name on her tongue shouldn’t have made his blood heat the way it did. It definitely shouldn’t have made him want to hear it again, maybe gasped, preferably in a much different context.
Eden must've dropped his name, and hell, he owed her more than a high five next time he saw her. Maybe a full-on thank-you card. Because hearing Ingrid say it in that sweet, angry voice? That was a goddamn drug.
When he didn’t answer, she shot him a glare and brushed past, chin tilted high with that same ballerina-perfect grace she had onstage. Except now, she wasn’t ethereal.
Now she looked like she was seriously considering whether stabbing him would be worth the paperwork. And Jesus, if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen.
He lingered, watching her stomp off, all righteous fury and perfect posture.
For a split second, he thought about explaining. He could lay out the whole amplifier situation, maybe even the reason he spent more nights cleaning up Rodney’s disasters than dealing with his own life.
But that would mean explaining everything. She wasn’t the type to get it. The kind of person who had a plan, a direction, a life that wasn’t held together by duct tape and a dream. What the hell would she want with his mess? No. This was better.
This little back-and-forth, the way she got so annoyed at him. Like he was the most infuriating thing in her perfectly controlled world. It was the most fun he’d had in weeks. Maybe months.
It was safer behind the smirks and sarcasm, behind the version of him everyone liked. Letting people in? That was messy. Risky. Usually not worth it.
Nobody wanted the Beck who lay awake counting overdue bills or dragging his brother home from another screw-up. They wanted the Beck who laughed too loud, drank too much, and never took anything seriously.
"You wish. I’m actually here to audition. Think I’ll get the lead role? I wonder if they have a tutu in my size," he quipped, smirking as Ingrid rolled her eyes.
And then, before he could stop himself, the truth slipped out.
"But I think that’s reserved for you. You are amazingly talented."
She froze for half a second, her eyes widening ever so slightly as she looked up at him.
"I’m serious," he continued. "That was incredible. What’s wrong with those judges? They looked like they were watching paint dry."
Something flickered across her face, a crack in that polished exterior. It was gone as fast as it appeared, but he still saw it. That brief moment of uncertainty. And he knew that look. He lived that look.
He’d mastered tucking emotions away in some corner of himself where they couldn’t touch the raw places inside. It was strange seeing it reflected back at him in someone like her, someone who seemed so poised, so untouchable. But maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she hid too. Just like him.
"That's just how ballet is. Nothing is perfect. Good is never good enough." Ingrid shrugged, her movements controlled, like she was still dancing. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, she was fascinating. She kept walking, and he followed without thinking, like a lapdog.
Something about her made him want to speak, to reassure her. His opinion probably didn’t matter, but it felt important she knew – how talented she was, how beautiful that raw emotion was, how she seemed to pour every ounce of herself into every movement.
"I think you were perfect," he said, surprised by how much he meant it. "And I’ve watched Swan Lake like ten times with my grandma."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He rarely mentioned his grandma, those memories were sacred, untouched by the messiness of everything else.
She had been the only person who truly got him, who didn’t try to fix or judge him.
After she passed, there was no one left who made him feel that kind of safe.
He cleared his throat. "So, yeah... I know what I’m talking about," he added with a weak smirk.
Ingrid stopped in front of a classroom, her eyes narrowing slightly as they swept over his face, like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
"Well, thank you. Your grandma has good taste," she said, her tone softening. Has . The word hit him like a bruise, but he didn’t correct her.
Crossing her arms, she gave him a skeptical look.
"But seriously," she said. "What are you doing here?"
"Class," he said with a shrug, his tone casual as he stepped into the classroom on his left.
Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she hurried after him. "You’re in this class?" she hissed.
He stopped and turned, raising an eyebrow as if to say, What else would I be doing here?
A small groan escaped her lips as she pressed her hand to her forehead, visibly frazzled. "You have got to be kidding me," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him.
As Ingrid begrudgingly entered the room, Beck couldn't help but revel in the unexpected turn of events. Fate clearly had a twisted sense of humor, and he was more than happy to laugh right along with it.
"Don't be so excited. You want to partner up or what?" Beck drawled, smirk firmly in place.
He was baiting her, and he really hoped she’d bite.
Partner selection was a battlefield–pure, unfiltered mayhem. The second the professor gave the word, dancers would pounce, desperate to lock down the best musicians. String players were already being circled like prime cuts at a steakhouse.
These partnerships weren’t just about a grade. They were about status, clout, and securing the least painful collaboration possible. Beck didn’t care about bragging rights, but he did care about keeping his GPA afloat. Scholarships had this pesky little rule about not failing.
And Ingrid? Well, he’d seen her dance–sharp, precise, and mesmerizing. Plus, he had a decent read on her by now like a kitten pretending to be a tiger. All hiss, no real bite.
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering behind them. "Why do I feel like you’re trying to trick me?"
"Trick you?" He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. "I’m just looking out for your grade, princess."
She crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one side. "You’re joking."
"Dead serious."
As if on cue, the professor stepped in, clipboard in hand, signaling the official start of the madness.
Students immediately stiffened, eyes darting around the room like predators on the hunt.
Everyone knew the drill. There’d be a brief speech, some obligatory words about collaboration and artistic integrity but really, everyone was already strategizing.
No one wanted to be left scrambling at the end, stuck with the musician no one else wanted.
Ingrid’s gaze flicked toward the barely controlled madness, dancers already swooping in, musicians scrambling behind.
"You better decide fast," Beck murmured, nodding toward the frenzy. "Clock’s ticking."
"Sure, when pigs fly. Keep dreaming, sweetie," she shot back, arms crossing tighter in defiance.
"Worth a shot," he said. Then, tilting his head toward the corner of the room, he added, "Have fun trying to dance to that ."
She followed his gaze, to the poor tuba player struggling to keep his oversized instrument from toppling over.
Beck didn’t wait for her reaction. He strolled toward the windows, hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending to be deeply invested in the view.
Below, the streets of New York buzzed, horns blaring and people rushing past, life moving on as if some great ballet-musician showdown wasn’t happening behind him.
Then, silence. A pause just long enough to make his smirk widen. Soft, reluctant footsteps approached.
"Fine," Ingrid huffed, each syllable heavy with reluctance. "We can be partners."
"But I still don’t trust you," she added, shooting a final, suspicious glance at the tuba player, like he might ambush her with a rogue polka solo.
"Good instincts," Beck said, not even bothering to turn from the window.
Irritated, Ingrid leaned closer. "What are you even looking at?"
"Flying pigs, sweetie."