Chapter 21Ingrid. Mid November, Five years ago
INGRID. MID NOVEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
"Add a bendy thing at the big drum roll?" Beck suggested, as he twirled a drumstick between his fingers like some kind of rhythmic show-off. Honestly, it was borderline criminal how smooth he was.
"Bendy thing? Is that the technical term?" Ingrid deadpanned, arching a brow as she executed a perfectly controlled plié.
"I don’t know," Beck mused, tapping his chin with the drumstick. "Can you technically do that on my face?"
Ingrid gave him a long, unimpressed look. "Technically, you’re an idiot."
Beck grinned. "And yet, here you are, hopelessly charmed."
She scoffed, but okay… maybe a little. Their rehearsals had become a ridiculous balancing act between fine-tuning their performance and Beck being an absolute flirt. She should have been annoyed. Instead, she found herself entertained. And a little bit turned on.
He stood from his drum kit, closing the distance between them in three easy strides.
"Focus," she teased, pressing a hand against his face to stop him from getting any closer.
He simply leaned into her palm, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "I can’t when you’re around," he admitted, voice dropping to a low murmur.
Since that day at the café, something between them had shifted.
Now, being with him felt real and surprisingly easy.
Lighter than she ever expected. There was something freeing about it, something she hadn’t even known she needed.
Every day with him felt like peeling back old layers, making space for something new to grow.
Leaning in, he rested his forehead against hers. "I can’t look away when you’re dancing. I can play drums in my sleep, but you… the way you move. It’s like you were born for this. Every time I watch you, it’s like something inside me tears open."
His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help but smile. She rubbed her nose against his, her heart fluttering like it had grown wings.
"I know the feeling," she whispered, her voice sincere.
His hands tightened slightly on her waist, and she felt the gentle tug of his smile against her cheek.
Suddenly, the doorknob of the studio jiggled, and the moment shattered as a group of freshman students burst in, their laughter and chatter filling the space. Damn freshmen.
"Oh. Uh. Sorry. We have this room booked?" one of them said, blinking at them like they’d just stumbled into the middle of a rom-com and weren’t sure if they should start clapping.
Beck exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "Damn it. Foiled by the youth."
Ingrid bit back a laugh. "Guess the bendy thing will have to wait."
Beck smirked, leaning in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. "Yeah, but for the record, I still think it’s a brilliant idea."
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at her lips. "Come on, Pretty Boy. Let’s go."
As she packed up, slipping out of her pointe shoes and into her boots, Beck slid an arm around her waist.
"You think I’m pretty?" he asked, grinning.
"The prettiest. But don’t let it go to your head," she muttered, but her smile gave her away.
He slung his drum bag over his shoulder. "Too late."
Before heading out, he turned to the group, gave them a mock salute, and said, "All yours, youngsters. Hope your beats are sick and your schedules better coordinated than ours."
Then he reached for Ingrid’s hand, lacing their fingers together as they stepped into the hallway.
The past few weeks had been a blur–rehearsals, late nights, and quick moments snatched from their crazy schedules. And since Halloween, she’d started to notice something else: Beck didn’t drink when they were together. He never said anything about it, never made a big deal. But she noticed.
Still, Ingrid couldn’t help wondering about the nights they weren’t together.
Sometimes he’d mention hanging out with Finn and Reef, playing late gigs to make some extra cash.
And then there were the texts: sent well past midnight, full of typos, their usual banter just a little off in a way that made her think maybe he’d been drinking.
It wasn’t really her place to say anything. But still… she worried.
As they stepped outside, the cold air bit at her cheeks, sharp enough to steal her breath for a second. The city was alive in its usual way, a blur of glowing headlights, distant honking, and the rhythmic click of hurried footsteps against the pavement.
"Do you want to come over and meet my cat?" Ingrid asked, as casually as she could manage.
They had spent so much time together already, but he’d never seen her apartment. He’d never met Freddie. It was a small thing, but it felt like opening another door between them, one with claws behind it.
"Sure, I’d love to meet Freddie," he said, smiling. Brave soul.
But this was Freddie they were talking about. Freddie, who had hissed at the maintenance guy for fixing the radiator during nap time, threatened the mail carrier for knocking too loudly, and nearly ended the career of a poor pizza guy who made the fatal error of making eye contact.
"I hope she’s in a good mood," Ingrid muttered under her breath.
He raised an eyebrow. "Should I bring treats, a peace offering, or just draft a will?"
Ingrid glanced at him, deadpan. "All three. And maybe a laser pointer, just in case things go sideways."
As they walked, Beck suddenly slowed, his gaze snagging on a store window display. Ingrid smirked. This was their stupid little game: spot the ugliest outfit and say, "Hey, didn’t you wear that last week?" It was childish, and it never failed to make her laugh.
She followed his line of sight, bracing for some horror show of sequins and pleather, but instead, she found a small glass case with delicate men’s chains laid out on black velvet. One in particular caught the light: a simple, polished gold chain with a compass pendant.
Not exactly roast-worthy, and judging by Beck’s suddenly serious face, it wasn’t a joke.
Ingrid’s gaze flicked to the price tag. It was gold-plated, so the price wasn't outrageous. A pang of guilt pinched her chest. Beck was barely scraping by on gig money. Their lives were different, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.
She’d worked hard for her independence. She taught dance classes every summer, covering most of her expenses, but there was no denying the safety net beneath it all.
She lived in her dad’s fully paid-off apartment.
Her mother sent her expensive gifts every month, luxuries she accepted because it was easier than explaining that what she really wanted couldn’t be bought or shipped.
Even if she lost everything, she’d still be okay. Beck wouldn’t. He had no backup plan. Just him, hustling to stay afloat.
"God, being broke sucks," he said. "Good thing I’ve got a winning personality to fall back on."
"You’re rich in all the ways that count," she teased, bumping her shoulder against his.
He grinned. "Damn right I am." Then he leaned in, eyes warm. "I’ve got you.”
And then he kissed her. When they finally pulled apart, he stayed close, his forehead resting lightly against hers. Then he slipped his hand into hers, their fingers finding each other.
They started down the subway stairs, the city noise fading behind them. Ingrid swiped her MetroCard and passed through the turnstile. Without missing a beat, she swiped again and waved Beck through.
He blinked. "Hey–"
"Shh," she said. "Don’t argue with someone holding the card."
"I could’ve paid," he said, stepping through after her.
"I know," she said. "But I’ve seen you try to argue with the ticket machine. I’m saving us both fifteen minutes and a dramatic monologue."
"I wasn't arguing," he said, following her through. "I was negotiating."
"Oh, right. I forgot you and the MTA are in a committed relationship."
"Not anymore," he said, nudging her shoulder gently. "I’ve been seeing someone new. She spoils me and pays my fare."
"Must be serious," she said, her voice light.
He glanced at her, his tone quieter now. "Yeah. I think it is."
Her stomach did a little flip. She liked to think it was serious too, but the truth was, she wasn’t even sure she knew what serious meant anymore. She cared about him. A lot .
Was he her boyfriend? No clue. No one had said the word out loud, and honestly, she was too afraid to ask. Saying it would make it real. It would mean stepping into something with both feet, no exit strategy.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what his life had looked like before they met.
He had given her pieces of it, small details tucked between laughter and long silences, little glimpses that never quite added up to the full picture.
But she wanted it all. She always wanted more of him.
And if all he ever gave her were fragments, she’d still take every single one.
"What was it like for you growing up?" she asked softly.
Beck was quiet for a moment, as though deciding how much of himself to give, "Honestly?
It was rough." He exhaled slowly, as if dredging up the memories took effort. "We didn’t have much. My mom was more into booze than taking care of us. I always wore Rodney’s hand-me-downs, stuff that barely fit.
Middle school was hell. Kids love to tear you apart for things like that. "
Ingrid’s heart twisted at the image–Beck, younger, smaller, alone in all the ways no kid should be. But maybe that version of him, the one who had to survive all that, was what made him so solid now.
"The first day of sophomore year, this kid shoved me in the hallway, same guy who’d been on my case for years," Beck said, his voice low, tightening at the edges. "I’d hit a growth spurt that summer, finally bigger than him. And I just… snapped. Threw a punch. Broke his nose."