Chapter 8Beck. Mid September, Five years ago #2
The idea that Ingrid, who always seemed like she had everything figured out, who was effortlessly captivating without even trying, could feel lonely? It didn’t add up. But then again, he didn’t really know her. Not the real her. Not yet.
"The holidays are depressing," Ingrid admitted. "My mom will stay in France with whatever new flame she’s seeing, and my dad will be wrapped up with my stepmom or buried in work. Usually, it's just Eden and me hanging out."
Beck stilled, her words hitting harder than he expected.
Guilt twisted in his chest as he thought back to every careless jab he’d made about her "perfect" life. He’d let her appearance and designer purse tell a story that wasn’t real.
It was ironic, considering he only recognized the bag because his mom had once stolen the same one and pawned it for booze.
He remembered being the kid with holey sneakers and hand-me-downs, hating how people judged him. And now here he was, doing the same thing to her. It stung more than he wanted to admit.
"I'm sorry about all those rich girl comments," Beck said. He wasn’t big on apologies, but this one came easy. "I shouldn’t have said that."
Ingrid tilted her head, then gave a small, wry smile. "Well, they’re not totally wrong," she said. "But just because my family has money doesn’t mean they’re perfect. Far from it."
Beck wasn’t sure what surprised him more– that Ingrid understood that feeling, or that she trusted him enough to say it out loud.
Complicated families... yeah, he knew that terrain like the back of his hand.
The way it could hollow you out, leave you smiling through gritted teeth while pretending everything was fine.
He considered telling her everything: the dad who bailed, the mom in prison, the years spent couch-hopping when home wasn’t safe.
The way survival mode had been his default setting for as long as he could remember.
But instead, he chose something simpler.
Enough to say: I get it without unloading everything at once.
"The holidays aren’t exactly magical for me either," Beck admitted. "I usually spend them cleaning up my older brother Rodney’s mess. He tends to binge alcohol, drugs, whatever he can get his hands on. It’s a cycle, and the holidays always seem to set him off."
He paused, his fingers tapping against the side of his cup, debating how much to share. "Rodney’s in the band with me. He’s… troubled, to say the least. Bar fights, public intoxication, broken gear. You name it, he’s done it. And I’m usually the one trying to fix things afterward."
Beck hesitated, the memory of that night at the Battle of the Bands surfacing like a bad taste in his mouth.
"That night during the Battle of the Bands? I’m pretty sure Rodney cut Eden’s guitar cable. I don’t have proof, but I’d bet on it. I think he might’ve sabotaged her the year before, too."
Ingrid’s eyes widened, her fingers toying with the lid of her drink as she absorbed the confession.
"When I found the cut cable, I swapped it out with a spare I had in my gear pack," Beck continued, his voice quieter now. "I confronted Rodney afterward, but he denied everything. Still, I know him too well to believe it wasn’t him."
His jaw tightened as the memory played out in his head. The way Rodney had laughed it off, called Eden a ‘privileged little princess’ who ‘had it coming.’ The anger that had simmered in Beck’s veins. Not just with Rodney, but with himself for not stepping up sooner.
"I’d never sabotage someone, especially not Eden. She’s got more talent in her pinky than most of us could ever hope for, and she’s one of the kindest people I've met. She deserved that win, and the one before it."
The memory of Juilliard freshman orientation flashed through his mind.
He had met Eden that summer, both of them standing awkwardly in a sea of strangers, feeling like imposters in a school filled with prodigies.
Finding out they were both there on scholarships had made him feel less alone.
There was an understanding of the hustle it took to be where they were.
Over the years, their paths had crossed naturally, late nights in bars filled with musicians, Battles of the Bands, run-ins at gigs.
They weren’t exactly friends, but Beck couldn’t help but admire her.
Eden wasn’t just insanely talented. She was tough, carving out her own spot in the music world while still being one of the nicest people he’d met in the music scene.
He respected the hell out of her for that.
Ingrid nodded slowly, pressing her lips together, her gaze drifting like she was mulling over everything he’d just said.
"I’m sorry about Rodney," Beck added, rubbing the back of his neck. "If I’d known what he was planning, I would’ve stopped him. But I swear, I won’t let it happen again."
Silence settled between them, stretching a little too long. Beck wasn’t sure what he expected–maybe judgment, maybe anger. But Ingrid just gave a small nod, like she got it. Like she understood.
"Your brother’s the lead singer, right?" she asked, curiosity flickering in her voice.
"Yeah. He’s got the voice, no doubt. But he’s got a temper too. Kind of a walking disaster when he wants to be."
"He seems like a hothead," Ingrid said, her brows lifting. "I saw him nearly beat the crap out of your guitarist on stage after tripping over a cable."
Beck let out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah… that night sucked. He flies off the handle over the dumbest stuff, especially if he’s been drinking or using."
Ingrid nodded, her expression softening. "That has to be a lot, trying to keep him together on top of everything else."
"It is," Beck admitted, letting out a slow breath. "It’s complicated. I feel like I have to look out for him, but he makes it impossible. He’s the only family I have… around." His voice dipped on the last word, heavy with everything he didn’t say.
With his grandma gone and his mom locked up, things were messy.
Rodney always felt like his responsibility, and some days, it weighed on him more than others.
He hadn’t talked about all of this with anyone outside his inner circle before.
His bandmates and best friends, Finn and Reef, knew everything.
They’d been there for it all and had seen the worst of it firsthand.
But telling Ingrid felt different. Like finally letting air into a room that had been sealed off for too long. It didn’t make the weight disappear, but it loosened it, just a little.
"That’s really tough," Ingrid said softly. "I’m sorry you have to carry that." Then, before he could react, her fingers brushed against his hand, settling lightly against his wrist. Her painted soft pink nails barely grazed his skin, but the warmth of her touch sent a shiver up his arm.
Beck stiffened, caught off guard. He wasn’t used to comfort or softness.
People touched him, sure, but it was always casual, fleeting, wrapped in something else.
A punch to the arm. A slap on the back. A girl’s fingers curling around his wrist, holding on just long enough to pull him closer, to make sure he understood exactly what she wanted.
Contact that never lingered, never meant anything.
That kind of touch, he knew how to handle. It came with a script, an expectation. It was easy. Her touch didn’t feel like that.
It wasn’t hesitant, but it wasn’t demanding either. It was just… there. Steady. Certain. And somehow, that made it worse. Because light as it was, it did something to him.
And maybe that was the strangest part. That with her, none of it felt strange at all. Talking to her was easy in a way it shouldn’t have been, like they’d skipped a few steps. Like he’d known her longer than he actually had.
And just like that, something shifted. Not a landslide, not a collapse, just a crack. A hairline fracture in the walls he’d spent years reinforcing. But it was there, and it was real.
His heart, long welded shut out of habit more than hope, gave a reluctant twitch like a fist unclenching after too long. Small. Barely there. But enough.