Chapter 13Ingrid. Halloween, Present
INGRID. HALLOWEEN, PRESENT
“I miss you in the smallest ways. Like when I catch myself smiling at something you would’ve rolled your eyes at, or when I find myself reaching for my phone just to tell you something that made me laugh. You're not here, but you’re everywhere.”
From her fifth-floor fire escape, Ingrid watched the bustling street below. Kids in costumes tore down the sidewalk like candy-fueled gremlins, their tiny plastic pumpkins smacking against their knees as they screamed at full volume.
Her gaze drifted to a trio of girls tottering past in sky-high heels and barely-there outfits, laughing like they didn’t have a single regret.
Ingrid snorted. She’d been that girl once, teetering on five-inch stilettos, armed with false confidence, questionable choices, and vodka that definitely came from a plastic bottle.
Now, she was wrapped in a blanket burrito with a glass of wine, judging everyone from her perch like a seasoned hermit who’d seen some things.
Freddie stretched languidly beside her, green eyes locked on a toddler twirling below in a fluffy black cat costume, complete with pointed ears and whiskers painted on her face. Freddie’s tail swished lazily, her interest clear.
Ingrid sighed, addressing her cat with the kind of exasperation only a cat owner could understand. "Freddie, she’s not a real cat. It’s Halloween, you fool."
Freddie ignored her, as usual.
"On Halloween, anyone can be anything, Freddie," a deep, teasing voice murmured to Ingrid’s left.
Her stomach took a nosedive. Her mind briefly entertained the idea of flinging herself off the fire escape to avoid this conversation entirely. She could probably survive the fall. Worst case scenario, she’d haunt this building just to make his life miserable.
Slowly, as if steeling herself for impact, she turned her head.
And there he was.
Those denim-blue eyes locked onto hers, flooding her brain like a dam breaking loose.
That shade of blue was his and his alone.
They were the color of well-worn jeans, faded and softened by time, familiar in a way nothing else ever could be.
He used to feel like that too, like something that smoothed her over and made her softer without her even noticing. Until one day, he didn’t anymore.
Time had been kind to Beck. Five years ago, he was attractive enough to ruin her life; now, he was downright catastrophic. Life hadn’t worn him down; it had refined him. The jaw was sharper, the brows more defined, and that smirk? Still lethal, just more practiced.
Why couldn’t he have aged terribly? Developed an unfortunate, irreversible case of goblin posture? Maybe a receding hairline? But no. Of course not. Beck had to reappear looking like that .
Ingrid tightened her grip on her wine glass, willing it to tether her to whatever remained of her sanity. "If that’s the case, you should be a ghost and just disappear."
The words came out a little harsher than she meant, but honestly? Him showing up out of nowhere and casually invading her personal space was just one step away from trespassing.
Freddie, seemingly pulling out of her trance, yowled in response. The cat padded over to Beck, balanced on the fire escape’s metal grate before rubbing against his hands.
"Well, you're the expert," Beck replied softly. The gentleness in his tone made her heart clench involuntarily. She had disappeared five years ago, and she’d made it look easy. Just pack up, catch a flight, and never look back. Easier to bury the pain than face it head-on.
"People move, Beck. It’s not that deep."
She was lying through her teeth. It was that deep. It had always been that deep. She left because of him, because staying had felt impossible. And once she was gone, staying away had been easier. At least, that’s what she told herself.
Beck let out a quiet scoff, though there was no real bite to it. "You didn’t even finish your last year at Julliard."
She crossed her arms, trying to brace against the way his words grazed old wounds. “I got an offer from a great company.”
Paris Opera Ballet had extended her a spot during the winter intensive, and she’d said yes. It was a dream opportunity. And, conveniently, it also meant an ocean between them.
"Yeah?" His gaze didn’t waver. "You wanted New York City Ballet. Not that French company."
He wasn’t wrong. But the way he said it, so sure and so familiar, was almost laughable. Like he still knew her. Like he still had the right to.
"I’m at New York City Ballet now," she said, forcing a shrug, as if the weight of it all didn’t still press against her ribs. "So it all worked out. For both of us."
Beck let that sit for a moment before his voice dropped, quieter but sharper. "I don’t think you have the right to say that. You have no idea what my life was like after you left."
That landed like a slap, and she had no quick retort for it.
Because he was right. She didn’t know. And not by accident, she had made an effort not to know.
She had avoided updates, scrolled past mutual friends’ posts, and treated any mention of his name like it might burn her alive.
She didn’t want to know if he was happy.
She didn’t want to know if he was dating.
She definitely didn’t want to know if he had moved on like she was just some half-forgotten chapter in his life.
She could already hear her therapist sighing, taking off her glasses like this was especially disappointing. And what do we call that, Ingrid? Avoidance. With a capital A.
He looked at her, and she could see the realization settle in. That she wasn’t going to ask about his life. That she had no plans to bridge the canyon of five years between them.
"It’s interesting," he said.
Oh, great. Now he was making vague observations. What was interesting? The fact that she could still feel this stupid, infuriating fire in her chest whenever he looked at her? That her stomach still did a ridiculous little flip like it hadn’t gotten the we’re-over-this memo?
Fine . She’d bite.
"What is?"
"That you can still speak. I was starting to think you’d taken a vow of silence just to protest me moving in next door."
"No. Just avoiding you like my life depends on it."
"Well, you suck at it because I found you easily," he replied, scratching under Freddie’s chin with the ease of a man who had no right to be so comfortable here.
"I was foolishly hoping you went out on Halloween like a normal twenty-six-year-old."
Her mind couldn’t help but conjure images of him at a bar, drink in hand, flashing that irresistible smile at some unsuspecting girl.
She imagined her falling for his charm, laughing at something stupid he said, thinking she was different, thinking she mattered, only to be left behind when things inevitably got too complicated. She would know. She was the prototype.
"What, and miss a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be a recluse with you?" Beck grinned, his smile prying into her chest like a crowbar cracking open a very stubborn can of emotions. "Besides, someone has to stay behind and make sure you don’t get tangled in your fairy lights again."
His gaze flicked to the twinkling string lights draped across her apartment. Yes, they were whimsical. Yes, they made her happy. No, she would not be shamed for it.
"That happened one time," Ingrid huffed, crossing her arms. "And for the record, I freed myself just fine."
"If by ‘freed yourself,’ you mean dramatically collapsed and took an entire bookshelf down with you then sure." Beck folded his arms, looking far too pleased with himself.
She took a slow sip of wine, refusing to dignify him with a response. "Look, if you want to go out, don’t let me stop you. Go. Put on a ridiculous costume. Make choices you’ll regret by morning." She waved a hand toward the door, as if shooing him into the night.
Beck chuckled, a rough, unguarded sound that made the cool air feel ten degrees warmer. Goosebumps prickled over her arms, and she immediately blamed the autumn chill.
"Not interested," Beck mused, leaning against the railing like he had nowhere else to be.
That surprised her. Halloween was his thing–crowds, drinking, revelry. He thrived in it, fed off the energy like some kind of social vampire.
She took another sip of wine, it did nothing to loosen the tightness coiled in her chest. Beck was still watching her, gaze steady, unreadable. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the glass.
"If you say so," she said breezily, tilting her chin up. "Well, if you aren’t going out, then you can’t have any of my wine." She swirled the glass for effect. "This is the good stuff."
Beck smirked. "Generous as ever. But I don’t drink."
That made her pause. She blinked at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke.
"You... don’t drink?" She said it slowly, as if the words themselves didn’t quite make sense together.
She blinked, blindsided, as her mind spiraled back to a time when the clink of bottles and the smell of whiskey had been constants, harbingers of fights that never ended well.
Beck had been so consumed by drinking back then, it felt like a permanent part of him, one of the reasons everything between them had shattered so spectacularly.
"Nope. Five years in January," he replied, his tone soft. Her breath caught. Five years in January. She did the math, and her heart lurched. They had broken up at the end of December. One month. One month after she’d walked away, he’d found the strength to change.
It felt significant. Had she been the breaking point for him?
She doubted it, doubted she had been the catalyst for something so monumental.
Why then? Why not when they were together? When she’d begged him to see what he was doing—to himself, to them ?