Chapter 27Beck. Early December, Five years ago
BECK. EARLY DECEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
Beck woke up tangled in his sheets, his skull pounding with the merciless ache of a hangover.
Morning light slashed through the curtains, cutting into the fog of last night.
He groaned, throwing an arm over his face, but the memories were already clawing their way back, sharp, disjointed, and bitter.
His brother’s sneering words. The way he’d dismissed Beck in front of everyone. That casual, cutting cruelty that turned the room into a pit of humiliation. It all came rushing back, leaving a raw, burning anger simmering beneath the exhaustion.
Rodney hadn’t just crossed a line, he’d bulldozed it.
This wasn’t some typical blow-up or brotherly spat.
It was betrayal, pure and personal, and it hit Beck like a steel-toed kick to the ribs.
Not just because of what Rodney had done to him, but because he’d dragged Ingrid into it too.
Because he’d made a mess of something that mattered.
He rolled over and blinked at the unfamiliar neatness of his room. The clutter from the night before had vanished. His stomach dropped.
Ingrid. She’d been here. She’d seen him like that again. Had probably wrestled him into bed, cleaned up his mess.
Guilt struck hard and sharp, a flare of heat in his chest. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve him. The image of her face, eyes full of worry, pierced through the haze, and he swore under his breath. This couldn’t keep happening.
If he didn’t get his act together, he wouldn’t just lose himself. He’d lose the one person who still gave a damn.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered. Maybe it was Ingrid. He snatched the phone. His stomach clenched.
A Pennsylvania area code. He didn’t need to look twice to know who it was. His mother.
The correctional facility’s number stared back at him, filling his chest with a familiar, tangled knot of love, disappointment, anger, guilt.
She’d done so much damage. Left so many scars. And yet, there were still fragments of good in the wreckage. Moments he couldn’t let go of, no matter how hard he tried.
With a resigned sigh, Beck accepted the call. The automated voice announcing the prepaid connection faded, and the line clicked open.
"Bear, is that you?"
His mother’s raspy voice crackled over the line, tugging at something deep in his chest. She was the only one who still used that nickname. Rodney, as a kid, couldn’t pronounce Beck, so "Bear" had stuck, but only with her and Grandma.
"Yeah, Mom. It’s me," he said, keeping his voice steady.
"How are you? We haven’t talked in ages." The faint hum of the correctional facility buzzed in the background, with muffled voices and the occasional sharp whistle from a guard.
Yeah, he’d been dodging her calls. He couldn’t help it. Talking to her brought everything back, all that chaos, the disappointments, all the memories he tried so hard to bury.
What stung the most was knowing she was only sober because she had no choice. Not because she wanted to get better. Not because of him. Or Rodney. She could have. But she didn’t.
She was only sober because she was locked up, because the alcohol was taken away, not because she had walked away from it herself. And that truth sat like a stone in his chest, heavy, bitter, and impossible to swallow.
"I'm good. Just busy with school and gigs," Beck said lightly. He left out the mess with Rodney, the drinking, and everything else quietly fraying at the edges.
The truth was, he’d been drinking most nights.
Enough to take the edge off, to quiet the noise constantly roaring in his head.
He told himself it wasn’t that bad, that he was managing.
He’d switched to beer instead of whiskey most nights, as if that somehow made it better, more controlled.
It was a flimsy excuse, but one he clung to.
He kept it hidden from Ingrid. Or at least, he tried to.
She hadn’t said anything, but he wasn’t sure if that meant she didn’t notice or didn’t want to.
But last night... last night had been a breaking point.
"And your brother? Is he behaving himself?" she asked, sounding hopeful.
His brother had always been the wildfire Beck was forced to chase, unpredictable and reckless, leaving destruction in his wake. He was two years older but acted like a damn teenager. Their mom’s golden boy, no matter how many times he crashed and burned.
Beck let out a short, humorless laugh. "No, Mom. When has Rodney ever behaved?"
"Cut him some slack, Bear. You know what he’s been through. What we’ve all been through. He talks a big game, but you know what’s underneath."
Beck’s jaw tightened, his grip on the phone instinctively clenching.
He did know. He’d seen it all. He was the one who found him after his overdose at seventeen, the one who covered for him when he stole money straight out of Mom’s purse.
The one who kept trying, again and again, even when he knew better.
But knowing didn’t make it any easier to forgive.
"Yeah, well, he’s not exactly making it easy," Beck muttered, his voice edged with something bitter, something tired.
"He’s your only brother. The only family you’ve got left."
"What about you?" he asked before he could stop himself.
"You have me," she said quickly. "But it’s hard, Bear. You know it is."
There was a pause, and for some reason, the urge to tell her about Ingrid crept in.
"Well," he started slowly, "I met someone."
Silence stretched for a beat before he could practically hear her smile. "Really? Tell me about her."
His lips quirked despite himself. "Smart, caring, talented… and always giving me shit." A warmth threaded through his voice as Ingrid filled his thoughts. "And beautiful. Like, everything beautiful in the world, packed into one person."
His mother let out a quiet laugh, surprised. "I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about anyone like that before."
Beck didn’t hesitate. "I’m gonna marry her."
He hadn’t planned on saying it, but the moment the words left his mouth, he knew it was true. From the moment he met Ingrid, he just knew. She was it, the one thing in his life that made sense.
His mom let out another small, almost wistful chuckle. "I believe it. You’ve always been a bulldog about what you want. Grandma used to say that all the time."
Beck smiled at the memory. It had been years since he’d thought about that, but it fit.
Before he could say anything else, his mother’s voice softened. Warmer than it had been in a long time. "If I can’t make it to the wedding… just know I’m proud of you. Anyone you choose to love has to be special."
"Everything okay, Mom?"
"Yeah, yeah," she said quickly. "Just feeling a little off. Some pain here and there, but I’m seeing the doctor later. It’s probably nothing serious."
Beck frowned, unease curling tight in his chest. "Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll send you some money."
"That’d be nice, honey," she murmured, her voice unusually tender. "Love you, always."
"Love you too, Mom."
And just like that, the line went dead.
Beck exhaled slowly, lowering the phone, his hand falling limply to his side.
He knew, more than ever, that if he wanted to be worthy of Ingrid, if he wanted to build something real with her, he needed to get his shit together.
But it wasn’t just about quitting the drinking or making better choices.
It was about healing. About becoming the kind of man who could hold love without breaking it.
The problem was, he had no clue where to start. Or if he was even ready to face all of it.
Dragging himself out of bed, Beck armed himself with a green smoothie, dark sunglasses, and a determination to fix things with Ingrid. Whatever it took, he’d make it right.
By the time he slipped into the theater, rehearsal was already in full swing. Moving quietly, he scanned the small group gathered onstage. Then, he saw Ingrid.
She moved through the choreography with that same effortless grace, her focus razor-sharp. The music swelled in the final scene of Swan Lake, the prince locked in battle with the enchanter, Ingrid caught in the storm of it all.
Beck ducked between rows, staying low, not wanting to interrupt. He finally sank into a seat near the front, his eyes fixed on her.
Beck’s breath caught as Ingrid was lifted into the air, her body arching in a perfect line above her partner’s head. It looked effortless, but Beck knew better. His stomach tightened. Her partner had a slight tremble in his arm. Just enough to make Beck sit up straighter.
"Hold her steady, Weston!" the instructor barked, all sharp consonants and judgment.
As if sheer panic snapped him into shape, Weston’s arm steadied.
Then, from a few rows ahead, someone muttered, "Don’t fall, little pigeon," followed by a mean little laugh.
Beck’s jaw clenched. His grip tightened on the smoothie like he was seconds from hurling it at the back of the girl's head. He didn’t, obviously.
But he glared hard enough to imagine it landed.
Jealousy, he thought, narrowing his eyes at the back of her bun.
Classic mean-girl energy. Probably sabotages pointe shoes for fun.
Onstage, Weston lowered Ingrid back to the floor. The instructor clapped once.
"Good, good. Take a few minutes."
As the dancers dispersed, Ingrid walked toward her bag, towel slung over one shoulder.
Beck’s eyes trailed after her. He couldn’t stop staring and he wouldn’t even try to lie about it.
The sweat, the flushed cheeks, the way she moved like she was made of music.
It was mind-blowing how gorgeous she was.
Her eyes caught his and widened. Then she was moving— fast, like she had a bone to pick or a kiss to deliver. Beck wasn’t sure which, but he sat up straighter just in case it was both.
"What are you doing here? Aimee’s going to kill you if she sees you at a closed rehearsal," Ingrid whispered, sliding into the seat beside him. Her head turned toward the instructor as she sank lower in her chair, staying out of sight.
Beck mirrored her, slouching down until he was hidden behind the seat in front of him. When he turned to face her, their faces were suddenly close, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. The noise in Beck’s head went quiet.
"I wanted to apologize for last night," Beck said softly, his voice low and sincere. "I’m sorry."
Ingrid’s expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "I get it, Beck. I really do. Messy family stuff, I understand that. But the drinking? The way you handled it? It’s too much."
"I know," Beck admitted, his gaze steady. "If you want, I’ll stop. I won’t touch alcohol again."
"I don’t want you to stop for me," Ingrid said, her voice gentler now. "I want you to stop for you."
She wasn’t asking for promises he couldn’t keep or ultimatums he’d resent. She just wanted him to want better for himself. And God, he wanted to be better. For her. For himself.
"I will," he said earnestly. "I promise I’ll work on it."
"Okay," Ingrid whispered back, relief softening the lines of her face.
Before either of them could overthink it, Beck leaned in and kissed her. Soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that made every bad decision in his life momentarily irrelevant.
"You were incredible up there," he murmured when they pulled apart. "I can’t wait to see it on opening night."
Ingrid’s eyes lit up, her excitement returning. "Just two weeks," she said, practically buzzing. "Aimee just added that lift you saw today. She’s convinced it’ll add more drama." Ingrid rolled her eyes, grinning. "She wants people gasping in the cheap seats."
"A one-arm lift?" Beck raised an eyebrow. "That’s not choreography. That’s a dare."
"It is," Ingrid said with a laugh. "Weston better channel his inner forklift. No pressure or anything."
"He’ll nail it," Beck assured her. "And if he doesn’t, I’ll pop that arm off like a Barbie limb."
"You’re ridiculous," she said, but her smile stretched wide.
Beck’s eyes sparkled. "Guess what else is creeping up?"
"Our duet," Ingrid said immediately. "You ready?"
"It’s our baby. A perfect mix of both of us," Beck said, wiggling his brows.
"Must be immaculate conception," Ingrid teased, her grin downright devious.
Beck exhaled sharply, tilting his head back like he was begging the universe for strength. Patience, they said. Respect. Be a gentleman. Well, congratulations to him. If there were awards for blue balls, he’d have an entire goddamn trophy case. Hell, he’d have a wing dedicated in his honor.
But the tension between them? It was about to drive him clinically insane. He was more than happy to go down on her, wherever, whenever, however she wanted. And he had. Enthusiastically. Frequently.
But every time they got close to having sex, he pulled back. Like some chivalrous prince with a tragic amount of self-control. Because he wanted it to be perfect. When the hell had he become such a sap?
"Patience is a virtue," he murmured, glancing down at her parted lips, aching to close the space between them.
"Whoever said that hadn’t tried to resist you," she whispered, leaning closer.
Beck nearly died on the spot. His very patient, very respectful self was hanging on by a thread.
Her eyes darkened with desire, and Beck felt the heat of it crash over him. His heart pounded as she tilted her face up, closing the final inches between them.
Then finally their lips met. This kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. Beck’s hands cradled her face, while Ingrid’s fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer like even an inch of space was too much. Her tongue slid against his, slow, slick, devastating. And that was it.
He pulled back, chest heaving, because if she kept kissing him like that, he wasn’t going to be able to stop. And fucking her in front of her entire dance class probably wasn’t the grand romantic gesture he’d been holding out for. Yeah. He was definitely going to need a cold shower.
"Where is my swan?" A sharp French-accented voice cut through the moment like a bucket of ice water to the soul.
Ingrid winced. Beck barely had time to react before he grabbed the smoothie from the cupholder and pressed it into her hands.
"Goodbye, my swan," he whispered dramatically.
"Goodbye, my sweet prince," she said, all mock-serious, stealing one last kiss before slipping out of her seat. Then she sprinted toward the stage like she’d just remembered she left the oven on.
Beck snorted, unable to stop the grin tugging at his face.
Yeah. That was her. Pure determination in baby pink. And somehow, miraculously, she was his.