Chapter 18Ingrid. Early November, Five years ago #2
Her feelings were out of control. She was one bad decision away from actually responding to his churro take, and then what? What if this led to something real? What if she got distracted? What if she liked it? What if she liked him?
Who was she kidding? She really liked him. So much it was dizzying, thrilling, and terrifying all at once.
"Oh, this is serious. She’s pacing," Eden murmured, watching Ingrid’s path back and forth.
"And fidgeting like a caffeinated squirrel," Sylvia whispered back, her lips twitching as Eden nodded sagely.
Ingrid pressed her lips together and ignored them.
She had feelings. Big feelings. The kind that made people do irrational things, like write bad poetry or cry during commercials. And, unfortunately, she was going to have to deal with them.
"What does it mean if you want to spend all your time with someone, but they also drive you insane? Like, they make you happy, but also freak you out because you suddenly... care about them way too much?" Ingrid asked, her pacing slowing as she turned toward Eden and Sylvia on the couch.
Eden and Sylvia exchanged a glance. The kind of glance that screamed oh, this is gonna be good .
"Hypothetically, of course," Ingrid added quickly, as if that would somehow make her question sound less like a panicked confession.
"It sounds like you like someone," Sylvia said, smirking.
"Or," Eden said, leaning forward, " you're falling in looooove ."
Ingrid’s head snapped toward her so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. "Absolutely not."
Eden just grinned. "Mmm-hmm. Classic denial. A textbook case."
"This is not a case! There is no case!" Ingrid protested, her voice inching toward hysteria. "I mean, sure, do I think about him all the time? Maybe. Do I feel like I’ve swallowed a live grenade every time he looks at me? Possibly. Do I want to run my hands through his stupidly perfect hair while also shoving him off a moderately high surface? Who doesn’t? "
Sylvia blinked. Eden looked mildly alarmed.
"Uh-huh," Sylvia said.
"Totally normal, non-love-like behavior," Eden added, nodding sagely.
"Exactly!" Ingrid exclaimed before pausing. "...Wait."
Her brain took a sharp left into crisis mode. Because this wasn't love. No way. That would be ridiculous. Love was big and serious and involved things like joint bank accounts and sharing a Netflix password.
This was not that.
"How did you know Jessica was the right person for you?" Ingrid asked, flopping onto the couch. Freddie jumped up beside her, narrowing her green eyes at Sylvia like she, too, had suspicions about where this was going.
Sylvia smiled dreamily. "It was the way she supported me. The way she made me laugh. The way she touched me. It just clicked."
Ingrid’s stomach dropped.
Because if that was the standard... then Beck technically checked every box.
"Shit," she muttered, absently stroking Freddie’s fur. "I think I have... a mild case of caring. Like, just barely. Medically insignificant."
Eden burst out laughing. "Oh, babe. You’re doomed."
Sylvia patted her knee sympathetically. "Don’t fight it. Just let it happen."
Ingrid scowled. "I refuse. I am not some lovesick idiot who–"
"You’re literally lovesick right now," Eden pointed out, gesturing broadly at Ingrid’s entire existence."You’ve been sighing like a lovesick Victorian heroine and pacing like a suburban dad who just realized the grill’s out of propane five minutes before dinner."
Sylvia nodded. "Honestly, if you don’t go kiss him, I might."
Ingrid shot her a glare. "I hate both of you."
Eden grinned. "Because we’re right?"
"Obviously."
She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. She felt trapped. One path was familiar: push Beck away, build her walls higher, let him think she didn’t care until he gave up and left. That was her specialty. It had worked before.
But this time was different.
Because just the thought of losing him made her stomach clench.
And the alternative? Letting him in? That meant showing him everything. Not just the good parts, but the scars, the baggage, the pieces of herself she barely acknowledged. It meant trusting him. And that was terrifying.
Her mother’s voice hissed in her head, a chorus of reminders from childhood:
No one wants to hear about your problems.
Just sit there and look pretty.
You’d be perfect if you didn’t open your mouth.
Words were tossed around so casually, yet they were shaping her into a closed-off emotional black hole.
Words that made her into someone who wore perfection like armor, keeping her feelings locked away.
Beneath the polished surface, she was always fighting, always struggling, and at one point, she had turned that fight inward.
The scars reminded her of how far she’d come since then.
But with Beck, it was different. Talking to him didn’t feel like a burden.
He’d opened up to her about his struggles, about his family and his brother’s addiction, and never once had she felt like he expected her to fix him. He trusted her with his truth, and she had run. But she was so tired of running.
With a decisive huff, Ingrid stood, scooping Freddie off her lap and plopping her onto the couch beside Eden. Freddie turned her head slowly, narrowed her green eyes in disdain, then leapt off the couch and stalked into Ingrid’s bedroom like an offended queen.
Eden raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Pretty sure that was cat for ‘get your life together.’"
"She’s judgy," Ingrid said with a shrug. "Always has been."
Ingrid walked to the coat rack, grabbed her red beret, and perched it on her head. Serious emotional growth or not, there was no reason not to accessorize.
"Thanks, you two," she said, smoothing her coat and grabbing her purse. "I’m going for it."
"Go get your man!" Eden cheered.
"Hypothetically speaking," Sylvia added with a smirk.
Ingrid rolled her eyes. "There are pizza rolls in the freezer, and I recorded the new Law & Order. Stay as long as you want and keep Freddie company."
"The only company Freddie would enjoy is a troll who collects toenails and hurls insults at travelers for fun," Sylvia said dryly.
Eden gasped. "Don’t say that where she can hear you!" She shot a wary glance toward Ingrid’s bedroom. "She remembers things. She plots ."
Ingrid laughed, shaking her head as she opened the door.
And as she stepped out, nerves buzzing, she realized that for the first time in forever, she wanted to take the risk.