Chapter 17Beck. Early November, Five years ago
BECK. EARLY NOVEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
He was losing his mind. He was sure of it. His thoughts looped endlessly, circling the same name. It was a constant reprise.
Ingrid .
Even nights out didn't dull it. Drinks after gigs usually did the trick, numbing the sharp edges of his thoughts and drowning out the usual memories he couldn’t afford to keep. But it didn't work. She was still there.
With a groan, Beck dragged a hand through his hair and kept walking, jaw ticking at the thought of her slipping out before he was even conscious. No note, no goodbye, just the ghost of her perfume on his pillow and a bruised ego.
Finn had nearly choked laughing. "She didn’t even wait for the cab to stop, did she? Just took off like it was a heist."
It had been two days since he’d seen her. Two days without her sharp tongue, her guarded smiles, the way she watched him like she was always on the verge of running. He still didn’t have her number, so he had no way to reach out.
He had even checked her social media, but she rarely posted.
When he searched for her, he found himself staring at her last post from the summer.
Her long blonde hair was loose and windblown, laughter frozen midair as she leaned into Eden.
Sun-drenched, carefree. She looked happy, the kind of happy he wanted to give her. If she would let him.
So he did the only thing he could. He went to where he knew she’d be, to the dance wing after class.
As he reached the studio, he stopped short, fingers grazing the cold metal of the doorframe. He saw her through the doorway.
Her movements were hypnotic, her body gliding across the studio floor like water over smooth stones.
Her movements were poetry in motion, each step a graceful brushstroke on the canvas of the studio floor.
Her body seemed to shimmer under the soft light, her movements fluid and hypnotic.
Beck found himself holding his breath, his chest tightening as he watched her.
Then she stopped. Her gaze swept the room then locked onto him like she felt him watching her. His pulse quickened when her eyes met his.
"She’s still in New York?" Beck teased, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Could’ve fooled me with how fast you left my bed. Do I snore or something?"
"I figured you didn’t want me to linger," Ingrid said, her tone guarded. She focused on smoothing her bun, fingers running over already flawless strands.
"Well, you figured wrong. I want you more than lingering." Beck’s voice was quieter now.
She was inescapable to him, threaded through his thoughts, tangled in every quiet moment. It wasn’t enough to catch glimpses of her. He wanted to know the secret language of her silences, the hidden places where her dreams lived, the exact way her warmth would seep into him and never let go.
Ingrid’s hands stilled mid-motion. Her expression was neutral, but the restless twitch of her fingers at her side gave her away.
"You scared me in the cab," she said, her voice firm but edged with something softer. "That was really dangerous."
Beck’s grin faded. "I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t like the way he looked at you, and when I drink, I get impulsive." He glanced away, guilt settling in his chest. "I didn’t mean to scare you."
"I’ve seen some bad drunks. I’m not like Rodney or..." Beck’s voice trailed off, his mother’s face flickering in his mind. He gave a weak chuckle, trying to shake it off. "I mean, I don’t think I’m that bad when I drink. But yeah... I can be impulsive. Can’t everyone?"
The thought of being anything like his brother, or worse, his mother, made his skin crawl. He wasn’t like them. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
"Maybe you shouldn’t drink then," Ingrid said gently. No judgment, just quiet concern. And somehow, that made it even harder to hear.
Beck’s jaw tightened, her words hitting him in a place he tried not to visit. Memories surfaced, unbidden. Shouting matches that rattled the walls. The sharp crash of dishes shattering. The nights he buried his head under a pillow, desperate to muffle the screaming. It was all too vivid, too real.
He had sworn he’d never become that. Told himself he had it under control. He got up every morning, made it to class, played gigs, paid his bills. He was functioning.
But functioning wasn’t the same as living. And deep down, he knew that. The bottles tucked away in cabinets, in corners, even behind the toilet. They weren’t just for the occasional drink. They were a crutch, a safety net he wasn’t ready to let go of.
Because the weight was constant: his band depending on him, his brother’s chaos pulling him under, the nagging voice that whispered he wasn’t enough.
The liquor didn’t fix any of it, but it dulled it, made it bearable enough to get through the day.
He knew it wasn’t sustainable, knew he was toeing a line he shouldn’t be.
But the thought of giving it up? That felt impossible.
Ingrid’s gaze didn’t waver, her eyes steady and filled with something he couldn’t name. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved. It wasn’t pity. It was deeper than that, and it cut right through him.
"I can handle it," he said, sharper than he meant to. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they rang hollow. His eyes dropped to the ground, to his hands, anywhere but her.
"I would never purposefully do anything to hurt you," Beck said earnestly, his gaze locking onto hers. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
He studied her, the way her fluttering skirt and tight leotard clung to every line of her frame, the way her muscles held the rigid tension of someone always bracing for impact. His gaze drifted lower, landing on her pink pointe shoes, where small blotches of red had seeped through the satin.
"Your feet…" he murmured, his voice heavy with concern.
"They’re fine. It happens sometimes," she said briskly, brushing off his worry like it was nothing.
Seeing her bloodstained shoes stopped him cold. It wasn’t just the pain; it was what the pain represented. She was pushing herself too hard, chasing some unreachable standard. This wasn’t dedication anymore, it was self-sacrifice, and he wasn’t sure she even saw the damage it was doing.
In that moment, he saw himself in her. Both of them clung to the things they thought might fix them, numb them, help them hold it together. Different methods, same intent. Crutches, really—ways of masking hurt or filling empty spaces, even as they quietly consumed pieces of who they were.
Ingrid cut through his thoughts with a sharp tone. "We can just focus on the class. You don’t have to pretend you care."
Pretend? The word hit harder than it should have. If anything, he cared too much and too fast.
He met her gaze, and beneath the icy defiance, he saw it. The fear. The doubt. The hesitation that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with herself.
She was afraid of what he represented, something that could pull her off course. Her entire life had been built on discipline, on the belief that if she just worked hard enough, controlled everything enough, she could mold herself into exactly who she was supposed to be.
He was unpredictable, the kind of mess she couldn’t afford. And yet, she was here. Talking to him. Lingering even when every instinct told her to run. And now, she was grasping at straws, doing everything she could to push him away.
"You’re lying to yourself," he said, voice low and steady. He reached behind him, closed the door, and flipped the lock with a quiet click. Then he stepped forward, gaze pinned to hers. "You kissed me, Ingrid. You wanted it. And now you’re pretending it didn’t happen."
He stepped forward. She stepped back. A slow, silent dance until her spine met the full-length mirror.
"You think if you push hard enough, I’ll let you go," he murmured. "That I’ll walk away."
She said nothing.
"It’s not going to work," he said quietly. "You’re not going to scare me off that easily."
"Pity," she snapped, brittle and sharp-edged. "Because I don’t even like you." The words landed flat. A lie so thin, it barely held its shape. They both knew it.
He stepped in, close enough for the heat of her skin to brush against his. Close enough that his breath stirred a loose strand of hair near her cheek.
"Lie to yourself if you want," he murmured, "but don’t waste it on me."
He found her hand, his fingers tracing the backs of hers before gliding down. His thumb settled over the fast thrum at her wrist. Her head tipped back against the mirror, eyes shuttering, chest rising quickly.
"You don’t like me, huh?" he asked, teasing.
"I tolerate you," she said, tilting her chin as her teeth sank into her bottom lip.
Beck smirked. "That so?"
His other hand found her jaw, fingers tracing along her skin, his thumb tilting her chin just slightly. "First, you hated me. Now you tolerate me. At this rate, you’ll be in love with me by next month. Better start saving that five dollars, princess."
"Not happening," she shot back, her voice stronger this time, like she needed to convince herself more than him.
Beck leaned in, his breath ghosting over her lips.
"You really don’t feel this?" Beck whispered. "This pull between us?"
He felt it in every nerve, an overwhelming need to close the distance, to touch her, to lose himself in her completely.
"Barely," Ingrid murmured, but her voice was little more than a breath, soft and unsteady.
Beck didn’t miss the slight shift in her stance, the press of her thighs together as if seeking friction. He bit back a smirk. She was cute when she was trying to stay composed, but her body told him everything he needed to know.
"Why are you squeezing those pretty thighs together?" he murmured, tilting his head as he leaned in just a fraction more.