Chapter 29Ingrid. Mid December, Present #3
"For a month," Beck confirmed, chuckling. "They decided to rehabilitate elephants. Which, lovely, but let’s be honest, in two weeks they’re either going to be banned from the sanctuary or riding the elephants through the streets."
Ingrid laughed, shaking her head. "Wow. They haven’t changed a bit."
"Nope, still absolutely crazy," Beck agreed. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady on her. "What about you?"
"Me?" she asked, caught off guard.
"Catch me up. Last five years. Start from when I last saw you."
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. That was... a minefield of a question.
She looked at him carefully, searching for any flicker of hesitation, some sign that digging into the past might sting for him the way it still did for her. But he was steady, open. Like he really meant it. Like he actually wanted to know.
She hesitated, then nodded. "I left for the winter intensive," she began, her voice even despite the emotions twisting inside her. "But I ended up spending a year in France."
Beck leaned in slightly, listening closely as she continued.
"They offered me a spot in the company," she said. "So, I dropped out of Juilliard. It was... complicated, but it felt like the right move at the time. I came back to New York... once you graduated."
"Me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Her cheeks flushed immediately. God, that sounded worse out loud. It was true but he didn’t need to know she’d basically fled the country to avoid him.
"I mean–just... when the timing made sense," she said quickly, her voice pitching slightly as panic set in. "Not because of you. Obviously."
“Obviously."
She gave him a look, sipping her wine like it might save her from the hole she’d just dug.
"Did you stay with your mom the whole time you were in France?" he asked, casually enough but gently.
"No," Ingrid said softly, shaking her head. "That trip… I ended up cutting all contact with her."
Beck didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch comfortably between them. He was good at that. Giving her space without pressing, never tugging words out before they were ready.
"And I haven't heard from her since." She shrugged, trying to make it sound casual. Like it didn’t still hurt.
Her mother not even attempting to reach out told her everything she needed to know.
It was silence as clarity. It confirmed what Ingrid had suspected for a long time.
She used to twist herself in knots wondering what she’d done wrong, if she wasn’t enough.
But now? She got it. It wasn’t about her.
It never had been. And she wasn’t going to keep blaming herself for someone else’s failure to show up.
She let out a dry laugh, swirling her wine with a flick of her wrist. "I spent years bending over backwards, trying to be someone she’d approve of. The second I stopped chasing her validation, she was just... done. Like I only ever mattered when I was useful to her version of me."
Beck’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
Ingrid’s voice softened. "It’s probably for the best. Our relationship... it wasn’t healthy. She was controlling, judgmental. And she never saw it. Never thought she was the problem." She paused, exhaling slowly. "How was I supposed to keep living like that?"
Beck nodded once, his expression unreadable, but there was something solid in the way he looked at her.
"Believe me," he said, voice quiet. "I get it."
The weight of those three words cut her like a knife to the heart. Her mind went immediately to his family. She opened her mouth to ask him about it, but before she could, someone stumbled into her chair.
"Watch where you’re going, man," Beck said. His voice was calm and firm, with no bite.
Ingrid froze, instinctively bracing herself.
She knew the old Beck. The one who’d jump to his feet the second someone so much as looked at her.
The one whose jaw would clench, fists already curling, looking for something to hit.
There was a time when tension like this would've lit him up like a fuse.
But now... nothing. He didn’t so much as flinch. He didn’t rise. He just turned back to her, voice soft.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I’m good," she said, brushing at her dress where a few drops had splashed.
Without a word, Beck grabbed a napkin and handed it over. "Damn shame," he said, eyeing the spill. "That wine had a promising future."
Ingrid let out a surprised snort as she dabbed at the fabric. "You’re disturbingly calm."
"I contain multitudes now," he said with a casual shrug, but there was something behind the joke, a flicker of honesty in his smile.
She studied him for a moment. The Beck she’d known would’ve escalated things without thinking, chased the high of confrontation just to feel something. This Beck? He stayed seated. He made a joke. He passed her a napkin.
"And you?" she asked, tilting her head, her curiosity catching up with her. "What was it like, moving to L.A. after you graduated?"
Beck leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "Chaotic," he admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Moving out there felt like stepping onto another planet. Everything was shiny and weird and overpriced. I swear, even the air had a surcharge."
Ingrid chuckled, and he glanced at her, his grin widening. "I mean, New York isn’t much better," she pointed out.
"True," he said, nodding. "But in L.A., if you're broke, people just assume you're an artist. Here, they assume you're a liability."
She laughed, shaking her head.
"But it wasn’t all bad," Beck continued. "I met some great people, and the music scene was intense, but in a good way. It pushed me to be better, to figure out what I really wanted. Not just with music but with... everything."
Her brows lifted slightly, intrigued. "And did you figure it out?"
"Some of it," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "The rest... well, I’m still working on it."
He smiled at her then, something soft and genuine, and she felt it settle warmly in her chest, spreading outward like a slow-burning flame.
After a while, they found themselves back outside, wandering toward the subway.
Beck led her onto a train heading downtown, and she followed without question.
The city blurred past them in streaks of light and shadow.
Her focus kept drifting to him, to the way the overhead glow cast sharp lines across his face, and the way his hands flexed against his knees as he spoke.
He talked about whatever popped into his head. Stories about growing up on the outskirts of Philly, his first disastrous gig in LA, and a failed attempt at surfing in Malibu. She listened, smiling despite herself, caught up in the easy cadence of his voice.
He led her to the East River. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed above them, its lights shimmering against the dark water. And when Beck reached for her hand, she let him take it.
His palm was warm against hers, and she felt it everywhere. That slow, curling heat that spread through her chest and tightened in her throat. She told herself it was just the cold that made her skin tingle, but deep down, she knew the truth. She had missed this. She had missed him .
With a teasing grin, he nudged her backward until her spine met the cold steel of the bridge’s beams.
"Remember this?" he murmured, his voice low, intimate. His hand rested lightly on her arm, thumb brushing absently over her wrist.
Her breath hitched. His face was close, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against the cool night air. The way his eyes lingered on hers sent a slow, dizzying rush through her veins.
She wanted to kiss him. So badly. It would only take a shift, a tilt of her head, and she’d feel the warmth of his lips against hers again. The thought sent her pulse racing, her mouth suddenly dry.
"Of course, I do," she said quickly, pushing him back softly, untangling her fingers from his.
The memory of that night when she had told him she was falling for him flashed through her mind. He had looked so happy, so whole, and she had felt something mend inside herself just by seeing it.
And now, he was looking at her the same way. Like he could still see her. Like he knew exactly what she was thinking, the emotions she was trying so desperately to bury. His gaze didn’t waver.
"I used to come here all the time after you left," he admitted, shifting his focus to the river. The city lights reflected off the surface, fractured and scattered, like pieces of something broken but still beautiful.
Her brows pulled together. "Why?"
"When you brought me here," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. "It was the first time my life ever felt right. Like everything finally made sense. That all the mess, the pain, the stupid choices... they all led me to that moment. To you."
Her stomach twisted. "But it wasn’t right," she whispered.
Because it couldn’t have been. The proof was in what happened next–weeks later, everything had shattered. If it had been right, they wouldn’t have broken. Wouldn’t have left pieces of each other scattered across the years that followed.
She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could protect her chest from the ache blooming there. The cold air needled against her skin, but it wasn’t what made her shiver.
Beck exhaled, slow and steady, his breath curling in the night air like smoke from a memory.
"It was," he said again, quiet but certain. "You’ve always been right for me."
The words didn’t just land, they buried themselves in her. She felt them settle beneath her ribs, heavy and warm, like something she’d been holding off for too long. Her breath caught, and she stared at him, her balance slipping. The ground hadn’t moved but it felt like it had.
He meant it. She could see it in the way he looked at her, like she was still something precious. Like no time had passed at all. That same gentle awe that once made her feel infinite.
"What if I don’t feel the same way?" she asked, barely above a whisper. Her voice trembled despite how hard she tried to sound casual, like it wasn’t the most important thing she’d said in five years.
His face didn’t change, not really, but something in him pulled back. A subtle stiffening of his shoulders, but when he spoke, his voice was soft and even.
"I’d understand," he said, though his eyes told a different story.
Then, after a beat, he added quietly, almost like he was speaking to himself, "I know it’s been a long time. Five years can change a lot. But nothing has changed for me."
Her breath hitched, her nails pressing into her skin.
Beck stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel his warmth, like standing too close to a flame she’d long tried to forget the heat of.
"You know how people say that if you love someone, you should let them go?" His voice was low now, barely above a murmur. "That if they’re happy, that should be enough?"
She nodded, slowly.
"I tried that, Ingrid," he said quietly. "I let you go. But I don’t think I’m built that way. I think I’m selfish when it comes to you."
A muscle in his jaw ticked. His eyes shimmered with something sharp and tender all at once.
"The thought of you loving someone else. Laughing with them the way you laugh with me. Having a baby with someone else. A baby with your eyes, your smile. And knowing I’d never get to know them, never be part of that life with you…
" He swallowed hard, his voice cracking just enough to make her heart stumble.
"That would…" He trailed off, then took a deep breath.
The air between them went still. Dense. Saturated with everything unsaid.
"Ingrid," he said, voice rough now, "I’ve spent every day of the last five years trying to prove I could live without you."
He looked down, then back at her, eyes glassy with everything he couldn’t hide anymore.
"And I can. I have. But I don’t want to anymore."
Silence wrapped around them, heavy and electric.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud and uneven.
His words hung in the air, pulling her toward him before she even realized she’d started to lean. His words had echoed everything she’d locked away, everything she’d told herself she was done needing.
She looked at him and saw it. The fear. The longing. The stubborn hope still clinging to the edges of his voice. And suddenly she wasn’t sure if she wanted to run or reach for him.
But deep down, she knew. She had never really let him go.
"I don't know what to say," she said, the words barely escaping.
"Then don’t say anything," Beck said gently. He didn’t move any closer, didn’t push. "I’m not asking for a second chance. Not tonight. I’m just... I need you to know it wasn’t nothing. What we had. It mattered. It still does."
She blinked hard, fighting the sting behind her eyes.
"It wasn’t just real for you, Beck," she said, her voice low, threaded with hurt. "That’s what made it so hard."
He stepped toward her slowly, like approaching something fragile that might disappear if he moved too fast.
Then, gently, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off, he asked, "When you say you don’t know if you feel the same... is that forever? Or just not yet?"
There was no push in his voice, no demand. Just a quiet thread of hope.
She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she could shake out the ache and fear clinging to her.
Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out.
"I mean I don’t know," she whispered. "Being around you brings everything back. And it’s... a lot. Too much, sometimes. It scares me."
"I get that," he said softly. "But I’m here. And I’m staying, unless you tell me not to."
She didn’t have the answers, not yet. She didn’t know if she could risk everything again. Or if she could survive losing him a second time.
He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. He just nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets as they turned and walked in silence. The hum of distant traffic filled the space between them, stretching wider, heavier, until it felt like something tangible.
When they reached their apartment building, she lingered in the hallway, her hand hovering over the door handle, hesitating.
It felt like she was holding her breath.
Like the conversation wasn’t over, only paused.
Like the door between them was still cracked open, just enough to let hope slip through.
She glanced at him. His smile was soft.
"Goodnight," she murmured.
"Goodnight," he echoed.
She stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her. The latch clicked into place.
The quiet after felt heavier than it should have. And what lingered was something fragile, something unfinished. Something that refused to disappear.