Chapter 25Beck. Thanksgiving, Five years ago
BECK. THANKSGIVING, FIVE YEARS AGO
Beck had walked into the liquor store with a plan: buy a decent bottle of red wine, impress the parents, survive the afternoon.
The clerk handed him a bottle with a label written entirely in French and a forty-dollar price tag that made his stomach tighten. Forty bucks felt like a splurge, but he’d forked it over, figuring it was worth the investment.
But standing in Ingrid’s parents’ elegant dining room, surrounded by wine that probably had birth certificates, he started having second thoughts.
His sad little bottle sat on the polished table like a lost tourist, while Ingrid’s dad, Charles, gave it the kind of look usually reserved for parking tickets and expired yogurt.
Apparently, it wasn’t as impressive as Beck had hoped. It’s the thought that counts, right?
"Thanks, Bret," Charles said, in a tone so neutral it felt weaponized. Apparently, the thought didn’t count. At all.
"Dad, his name is Beck," Ingrid said, smiling tightly as she reached for Beck’s hand under the table.
Before he could fully panic, Ingrid’s stepmother, Anika, floated in like a breeze wearing Chanel. She was radiant, sharp-eyed, and already rescuing him.
"Well, I personally love a merlot-cabernet blend," Anika said, lifting the bottle like Beck had brought her a lost puppy and not a bargain-bin wine that barely survived the drive over.
Beck exhaled, chest loosening an inch. One ally secured.
"I’m not really a wine guy," Beck said, unbuttoning the top of Finn’s blazer, which was somehow both too tight and too itchy. "More of a whiskey type, if I’m being honest."
The jacket pinched his shoulders every time he breathed, but hey, if he passed out from lack of circulation at least he wouldn’t have to finish dinner.
"Don’t mind Charles," Anika said, flashing Beck a conspiratorial grin. "He bought a vineyard last year and now thinks he’s God’s gift to fermentation. But between you and me? He's just drinking expensive grape juice. Real people drink whiskey."
Charles made a sound deep in his throat, a rich person noise that meant I object, but not enough to get my hands dirty.
Unbothered, Anika poured two fingers of something expensive-looking into a crystal glass and handed it to Beck.
"Cheers," Beck said, clinking their glasses and immediately throwing the whiskey back like he was still at a dive bar after last call.
It burned smooth and rich, probably distilled from hundred-dollar bills and generational wealth. He could feel it trickling down into his soul or possibly into his next credit card statement.
Across the room, Charles stared at Beck’s tattoos like they were personally lowering his property value.
Beck just smiled wider: bright, unbothered, and fully committed to the bit. Smile. Nod. Look trustworthy. Don’t let them smell the fear.
"So, how did you two meet?" Anika asked, her warm smile cutting through the tension.
"Prisoner pen pals?" Charles muttered into his wine glass.
Beck fought back a grin. He was used to snap judgments. The combination of his tattoos, broad build, and general air of " this guy has definitely been in a fistfight " always made people assume the worst. Funny, considering he was probably the most law-abiding person in his family.
For a brief moment, he considered casually mentioning that his mother was actively incarcerated, just to see Charles choke on his overpriced cabernet. But he let the thought pass. Winning over Ingrid’s father was already an uphill battle; no need to turn it into Mount Everest.
"We met at Juilliard," Beck said instead, keeping his tone warm and non-threatening.
He glanced at Ingrid, his voice softening.
"We had a class together and teamed up for a project.
We just… clicked." His eyes lingered on her for a moment.
"She’s incredible. The first time I saw her dance, I was completely blown away. "
Charles sniffed, unimpressed. "Yes, Ingrid is very special. She deserves nothing but the best," he said, each word sharpened to a point and aimed directly at Beck.
Ingrid didn’t even blink. She turned to her father with a look so cutting Beck was amazed Charles didn’t physically flinch.
"Beck is a musician," she said, her voice steady and proud. "An insanely talented drummer."
The words hit Beck harder than he expected.
Warmth unfurled in his chest, catching him off guard.
She didn’t have to say that. She didn’t have to stand up for him.
But she did without hesitation, without apology, and something about it hit deeper than any compliment ever had.
She chose him, right there, in front of the person whose approval she probably cared about most.
When their eyes met, she gave him a quick, secret smile. Nothing flashy. Just hers. And Beck felt his heart pull tight in his chest, gratitude and something a lot like awe threading together.
Charles arched a skeptical eyebrow. "I didn’t realize Juilliard had a drumming program," he said dryly.
"They do, among other things," Ingrid replied, her tone edged with irritation.
Charles chuckled, swirling his wine. "Do they also offer puppeteering? Competitive knitting?
Beck opened his mouth, fully prepared to launch into an impassioned defense of Juilliard’s very real and very elite percussion program, but before he could, Ingrid inhaled sharply and pushed back her chair.
"Father, may I speak to you privately?" she said tightly, every syllable drenched in barely contained anger.
"Of course," Charles replied smoothly, standing to follow her out of the room like this was some kind of formal hearing.
As soon as they disappeared, Anika turned to Beck with an apologetic smile. "I must apologize for my husband," she said gently. "Charles is extremely protective of Ingrid. You’re the first man she’s brought home, so I think he’s panicking a bit."
Beck blinked. The first? That definitely caught his attention.
He guessed he should’ve figured, given her dismal dating history.
He'd never brought anyone home either, and it wasn't just because his family was a complete mess.
It was because he had never met anyone worth introducing to them.
If his family were more... normal, he would have liked to bring her to meet them.
Anika stood gracefully. "Pardon me while I get the hors d’oeuvres," she added, disappearing toward the kitchen.
And just like that, Beck was alone. With only the vast collection of overpriced wine, Charles’s silent judgment lingering in the air, and the very loud argument coming from the other room.
He tried to focus on literally anything else, but it was impossible not.
“Seriously, Ingrid, where did you find that guy?” Charles’s voice was low, disapproving.
A dive bar, but thanks for asking, Charles. Your daughter practically tackled me over her best friend’s amplifier. Real meet-cute stuff.
“You don’t even know him! He’s amazing, and he treats me right. Isn’t that what you want?” Ingrid snapped back.
That’s right, Baby. Say it louder for the judgmental dads in the back.
“Of course, but a boy like that won’t be able to provide for you,” Charles retorted. “You’ll struggle your whole life.”
Oh, awesome. Glad we’re broadcasting that in full surround sound.
"You don’t know that," Ingrid shot back. "I don’t need much to be happy."
"Ingrid, you grew up in luxury. You have no idea what a life like that would be. I’ve worked hard to give you stability."
"I appreciate everything you’ve done," Ingrid said, her voice unwavering. "But I care about Beck. Either you respect him, or we leave."
Beck straightened in his chair. Damn. She meant that. He hadn’t expected her to draw that line in the sand, but now that she had, he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. She wasn’t just defending him; she was defending them . And it made him feel more connected to her than ever before.
A heavy silence followed before Charles finally muttered, "Fine."
And then, finally, they walked back in.
Beck had to fight the urge to wince. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a steak knife.
"So," Charles said stiffly as he sat down, his smile so forced it looked painful. "I understand you’re in a band?" Beck felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Jesus, this is a nightmare.
After an hour and a half of awkward small talk, mostly about Charles’ exclusive vineyard in Napa and his timeshare in St. Barts, Beck was drowning.
The luxury and privilege surrounding Ingrid’s family felt like an entirely different planet, one where the air smelled like old money and people used "summer" as a verb.
To make matters worse, Ingrid’s father had clearly taken up passive-aggressive hostility as a personal hobby. Every thinly veiled dig felt like a verbal kidney punch. So, Beck, what exactly do you do? Is it… lucrative?
He tried to shrug it off, but the truth was, it stung.
He didn’t have a trust fund, a vacation home, or even a consistent grocery budget.
That forty-dollar bottle of wine he’d brought as a peace offering had probably sent his checking account into the red.
He’d either have to walk home or jump the subway turnstile.
As they stepped out of the ridiculously fancy lobby, Ingrid’s grip on his arm tightened, as if she was afraid he might make a run for it.
"I’m really sorry," she said, her voice heavy with regret. "I didn’t think he’d act like that. He’s not usually this bad, I swear. I think he was just caught off guard that I actually brought someone home. Still, that’s no excuse."
Beck exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s fine. I get it. I don’t exactly scream 'trust fund'." He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "He probably wants you with someone who can whisk you off to St. Barts at a moment’s notice."
"Guess what?" Ingrid’s voice cut through the hum of the city, firm and certain. She stepped in front of him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. "I don’t want anyone else. You’re stuck with me, remember?"
He’d thrown those words at her weeks ago–half a joke, half a dare–and hearing them now, in her voice, sent a rush of something fierce and blinding through him.
Gratitude, hope, fear, all tangled so tight he couldn’t tell one from the other.
It rose up all at once, unspooling inside his chest faster than he could catch it.
"I know I missed your birthday last week with the rehearsals for Swan Lake and your crazy schedule," Ingrid continued, digging into her jacket pocket, "but I got you something."
Beck blinked, startled. "What? You didn’t have to–"
"Open it." She shoved a small box into his hands.
His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a thin gold chain with a compass pendant–the exact one he had been admiring in the jewelry store window two weeks ago.
"Ingrid, this is… this is too much." His voice came out rough, like panic and something raw and aching had collided in his throat.
"No, it’s not," she said easily. "I used some of my savings. Plus, I sweet-talked the jeweler into a discount.“
"Flip it over," she urged, nudging his hand. With slightly unsteady fingers, Beck turned the pendant.
Never lost, right where you should be - I
His heart clenched so hard it was borderline medically concerning.
For a guy whose birthday celebrations usually amounted to Finn and Reef buying him just enough drinks to regret every decision by morning, this was…
different. It was intentional, something meant for him. And that was what stopped him.
That someone had thought of him like that. Like he mattered. Like he was worth the effort. This was what it felt like to be cared for.
"Do you remember saying that to me, the very first time we met?" she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.
He nodded, a quiet smile tugging across his lips. "Yeah. I remember."
"It felt like a joke then," she murmured. "But the more I thought about it… meeting you?" Her voice faltered. She bit her lip, gathering the words. "It’s strange, isn’t it? How every twist, every wrong turn–somehow, it all led me here. To you."
"I used to think fate was something people clung to when they didn’t know what else to believe in," she said, her voice low. "But then… you ."
His breath caught, sharp and small, like the sound of a page turning.
For so long, he’d felt adrift— a boat cut loose, wandering waters he didn’t know how to navigate.
He used to blame the world for that feeling, the way it had handed him rough tides and no maps.
But now, standing here with her, he understood: He hadn’t been searching for a place. He’d been searching for her.
The realization wasn’t loud or showy; it didn’t crash into him like a wave. It settled over him like dusk, soft and sure. He was in love with her.
She made him feel steady, like stepping onto solid ground after years of swimming against a current he couldn’t see. She saw him, in a way no one else ever had— past the noise, past the broken edges, down to the heart of him.
Ingrid waved a hand in front of his face, her nose scrunching in amusement. "Beck? Did I break you? You’re looking very… existential crisis-y right now.”
"Huh? Oh. No, I just–" He let out a rough breath, running a hand through his hair. "I think this is the best gift I’ve ever been given."
The words felt too small for the way his heart was splitting open, but they were all he could find.
Ingrid beamed at him, her grin wide and unguarded, the kind that made her whole face light up, dimples and all. And just like that, all the sharp glances from her father, all his old fears of not being enough, all the walls he had built to survive fell away, like they had never mattered at all.
Beck swallowed hard, his fingers curling tighter around the necklace. Whenever she was, that’s where he belonged.