Chapter 13Ingrid. Halloween, Present #2
She forced herself not to react, locking her face into the calm, unreadable mask she’d perfected over the years.
Still, she could feel his eyes on her, searching for something, some flicker of emotion, some crack in the veneer she refused to let slip.
But inside, her thoughts churned, the what-ifs and whys that clawed at her.
"I’m genuinely happy for you," she said, her voice quieter now.
And she was. She knew what he had faced, the demons that had haunted him, the ones he tried to bury beneath every drink.
His struggles had always been there beneath the surface of his easy charm, like fractures in glass no one else could see.
For a second, she thought about asking about his mom, who’d still be serving her twenty-year sentence.
About Rodney, who always seemed one impulsive decision away from wrecking everything.
But those parts of his life weren’t hers to hold anymore, and digging into them might only make things harder for both of them.
"Thank you," he said at last, nodding as his eyes met hers. He hesitated, like he wanted to say more but instead, he said, "So… how’s rehearsal going?"
The question landed like a stone in her chest.
Swan Lake.
The last time she danced that role, she’d come dangerously close to losing everything: her career, her confidence, and him. Well, she had lost him. Though maybe he was never really hers to begin with. Did he even know she was preparing for it again?
"It’s going well," she said too quickly, forcing her tone into something breezy, almost dismissive. She didn’t want to talk about it. Not with him. It felt too close, too raw, too real .
So she pivoted. "How’s teaching at Juilliard?"
"It’s been great, actually," he said with a small smile. "Seeing these kids with so much enthusiasm, so much hunger for it. It’s kind of contagious. Makes me remember why I love it in the first place."
For a moment, just a flicker, she saw it. That version of Beck she used to know. The one who could get lost in a melody, who talked about music like it was the most important thing in the world. The one who made you believe that every note mattered.
"It’s official. We’re old. You’re a teacher now. I swear we were students five minutes ago."
The words slipped out before she could stop them, and regret hit instantly. Why did she sound like she was still stuck in the past? Like some sad, lovesick girl who hadn’t quite caught up with reality?
"Yeah," Beck murmured, too softly. "Feels like yesterday."
The quiet of his voice made something in her chest tighten.
Five years, and the ache still lurked beneath the surface, just waiting for a moment like this to remind her it had never really left.
Was it normal to still feel this way? She doubted it.
Emotions had their own stubborn timelines, and hers refused to obey logic when it came to him.
Back then, it had felt like she was trying to hold on to someone slipping through her fingers, someone who didn’t want to be saved. He hadn’t been ready. And now, five years later, he had become the man she always believed he could be.
But without her. Without her, he’d picked up the pieces. Without her, he’d turned it all around.
She took another sip of wine, hoping to drown out the bitterness that clung to her thoughts.
She didn’t know why it bothered her so much.
She was happy that he was happy, truly. But it still hurt.
Hurt that he hadn’t wanted her there with him while he did it.
That she wasn’t important enough to include.
That, in the end, she hadn’t been part of the version of his life that finally worked.
"Was the hot chocolate as good as it was back then?"
"I wouldn’t know," she replied dryly. "The last cup I got… I poured it down the drain." She glanced at him, challenging him to say something.
His laughter erupted, wrapping around her like it always had. As he laughed, the neckline of his T-shirt shifted, and she caught a glimpse of a thin gold chain resting on his collarbone. When she looked up again, his grin was still there, his eyes crinkled with amusement.
"I should have figured," he said, tilting his head as if sizing her up.
"Nice try, though," she added, her lips betraying her with the faintest twitch of a smile. She turned her focus to the parade of kids in Halloween costumes, their laughter ringing through the crisp evening air.
Then she saw her. A girl who was college-aged, tight red dress, devil horns perched on her head.
Ingrid stiffened. Willed him not to notice. His gaze followed hers, landing on the girl for just a beat too long before sliding back to Ingrid with a slow, knowing grin.
"Sooo, you still have that devil costume or what?"
Her head snapped toward him, heat prickling at her neck. "Are you serious?"
His smirk deepened. "It’s Halloween. You can put it on. I won’t judge. If anything, I strongly encourage it."
She groaned, rolling her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out. "You have serious problems."
"I have solutions," he corrected smoothly. "It’s called giving the people what they want. And they want you in a smoking hot devil costume."
"By ‘they,’ you mean you," she shot back.
"Obviously." His grin widened, flashing white teeth against the fading sun.
"You’re still a freak," she teased, shaking her head as a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.
"Only when it comes to you," he said softly.
The teasing faded, and something else slipped in. Her skin prickled under his gaze, like he’d just peeled back a layer she wasn’t ready to show. She hated it. Hated how easily he got under her skin.
"Goodbye, Beck," she said abruptly, standing before she could second-guess herself. She needed distance, needed space to breathe.
"Wait," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, and she stilled, her breath catching in her throat.
"We should talk. About the way it ended."
Her pulse quickened. No. They couldn’t do this. Not now. Not ever.
Talking meant reopening wounds she’d spent years stitching closed. It meant acknowledging the night that had changed everything. The night she needed him most, and he wasn’t there.
"There’s nothing to talk about," she said, her voice brittle.
"Yes, there is." His tone softened, but the frustration lingered. "Are you telling me you’re over everything?"
Her head snapped toward him. He wasn’t looking at her with pity, but with something worse: understanding.
But he didn’t understand. How could he? He carried the kind of charm that lingered long after he left a room.
The kind of face that turned heads without effort.
Women gravitated toward him—at bars, at gigs, in every city between tour stops—eager for a smile, a chance.
Women without her baggage. Simpler. Easier.
Meanwhile, she had spent five years folding in on herself, pouring everything she had into ballet.
It was the one place she still felt like she belonged.
The one space where loneliness couldn’t quite reach her.
She’d tried to move on, gone on dates when her friends pushed her to, but it never felt right. No one ever did.
It all boiled down to one moment. One choice.
He’d let her go.
And she hadn’t been enough for him to stay.
"I don’t have to be over something to move on," she said, voice steady, though her fists curled at her sides.
He didn’t flinch. "You’re living half of your life."
The honesty of it sliced through her like a knife, sharp and unrelenting.
She didn’t need love. Not when she had dance. It filled the spaces where love had once lived, replacing tenderness with discipline. It was early mornings in the studio, the ache of muscles, the pursuit of perfection. A life measured in rehearsals, not emotions. It was enough.
Love was messy, unpredictable, and dangerous. It made people weak, made them cling to things they could never keep. Love had broken her once, left her gasping for air. She wouldn’t drown again.
"Just let me explain," he pressed, voice softer now.
"Explain what? That you weren’t there when I needed–" Her voice wavered, catching on something raw. She shook her head sharply. "Forget it."
"We have to talk eventually, Ingrid." His voice was firm, edged with something dangerously close to regret.
The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. He used to call her "princess" or "kitten”, teasing nicknames whispered in the soft glow of late-night conversations or pressed against her ear in stolen moments. Hearing her real name felt almost worse somehow.
She grabbed her cat, clutching her wine glass as she climbed through the window, desperate to put some distance between them.
"You can’t hide forever," he said quietly. "I told you you were stuck with me, and I meant it."
She froze halfway into her apartment, her breath catching.
She could still hear it so clearly, the way he’d murmured those words in the subway, as if nothing in the world could pull him away.
You’re stuck with me now. It had been a lie, and hearing him say it again felt like salt rubbed into a reopened wound.
Anger hardened in her chest. "You don’t get to say that to me. Not anymore."
He flinched. Just slightly. But she saw it.
With a force that rattled the glass, she slammed the window shut. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t na?ve.
And yet–
You’re living half of your life.
She hated that part of her knew he was right.