Chapter 33Ingrid. Mid December, Present #2
No one else whose laughter felt like home, whose silences spoke in the same language as her own. His scars were mirrors of hers somehow, shaped differently, worn differently, but forged in the same kind of fire.
Their lives had veered in opposite directions, but still managed to land in the same emotional coordinates.
The same longings. The same quiet ache to belong somewhere, to someone.
And the terrifying truth was that she might still want to choose him.
Not because she needed him to be whole. But because, despite everything, some part of her always would. Again and again.
Sylvia, utterly unaware of the emotional spiral unraveling just two feet away, was still basking in the secondhand drama. "You know," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "I have always liked Beck. Especially when he punched Weston. That was a personal highlight for me."
Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Violence is not a love language."
Sylvia grinned. "It is when the guy getting punched totally deserved it."
Before Ingrid could argue, Sylvia suddenly tensed. "Oh my God."
"What?"
Sylvia didn’t respond, just started aggressively brushing croissant crumbs off her plate, pretending to be completely absorbed in the task. "Speak of the devil, and he shall appear," she muttered.
Ingrid barely had time to process before Sylvia, without a single ounce of shame, called out: "Beck? Is that you?"
Ingrid nearly knocked over her coffee. "Are you kidding me?" she whisper-yelled.
Beck’s deep voice drifted over from behind her. "Sylvia?"
Sylvia beamed. "The one and only. Wow, blast from the past. What are you doing here?"
Ingrid closed her eyes. She counted to three and resisted the urge to commit a mildly justified felony.
"Ingrid didn’t tell you?" Beck asked, clearly entertained.
"Nope," Sylvia said breezily, flipping her hair like they were discussing the weather. "You’re not exactly a trending topic in our group chat."
Ingrid bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly drew blood, fighting back a laugh. That lie slid out smoother than a late-night jazz solo.
Beck laughed. "Sounds about right."
"Well, I’m sure you two have lots to talk about!" Sylvia said brightly, pulling Ingrid into a hug that felt suspiciously like sabotage.
Ingrid shot her a sharp look, whispering, "You’re throwing me under the bus!"
"Just tuck and roll, babe," Sylvia whispered with a grin. Then she let go of Ingrid, gave Beck a quick hug, and practically skipped out of the coffee shop like she hadn’t just dropped a conversational grenade in Ingrid’s lap.
And just like that, Ingrid was alone with Beck. Ingrid shifted, rubbing her hands over her pants, acutely aware of the weight of Beck’s gaze.
He stood in front of her, effortlessly handsome, a beanie snug on his head and a wool jacket framing his broad shoulders. The café’s lighting caught in his blue eyes, making them gleam in a way that was just plain rude. It was unfortunate how gorgeous he was.
"So," Beck said, tilting his head. "You don’t talk about me much, huh?"
Ingrid crossed her arms, arching a brow. "Not at all. Barely a blip on my radar."
Beck’s lips quirked. "Huh. But still a blip."
Ingrid ignored the way her heart tripped over itself as she stood, slipping into her coat.
"I was just heading back to the apartment," she said, hoping her voice sounded calm and not like she was actively short-circuiting from the inside out.
"I’ll walk you, " Beck said, his voice warm and low, sending butterflies tumbling through her stomach.
Outside, the air was crisp, their breaths curling into soft clouds.
The scent of coming snow hung in the air, clean and sharp, while droplets of ice clung to the bare branches, glittering under the dimming sun.
It tugged at her memory, winter walks from another life, when everything had felt easier.
Not because it truly was, but because youth had a way of softening the truth.
Beck chatted about his music students, hands moving in big gestures through the cold air.
"Those kids remind me why I started in the first place. Why I love drumming," he said, grinning.
That grin, unguarded and so completely him, landed like both a punch and a hug. He looked lighter now. Happier. More at peace in his own skin than she had ever seen him. It was beautiful. And it hurt like hell.
When the conversation turned to her upcoming performance, Beck surprised her, he already knew about Swan Lake.
"You knew I was dancing Swan Lake?" she asked, her brow furrowed.
Beck smirked. "You think I wouldn’t keep up?"
She tried to sound composed as she dove into an update about rehearsals. The grueling hours, the company’s buzz, the pressure mounting with each run-through. She left out the part where her legs shook after solos, or how she lay awake at night wondering if she could really pull it off.
But Beck didn’t pry. He just listened, all calm intensity, like he still had that superpower of making her feel like the rest of the world had quietly stepped out for a coffee.
And then he dropped a bomb.
"Does the idea of me being in the crowd make you feel better or worse?"
His voice was casual, but carefully measured like he was hiding something behind the question.
Ingrid slowed as they approached their brownstone. The idea of him in the audience, watching her, should have rattled her. But it didn’t. It didn’t make her feel small or exposed. If anything, it alleviated her. Soothed something raw inside her.
"Better," she admitted softly.
Beck’s mouth twitched into a small smile. "Good. Because I got my ticket for opening night."
Her heart skidded to a halt. He reached into his wallet and pulled out the ticket, holding it between his fingers. As it fluttered slightly in the crisp air, her gaze caught the issue date. August. Her breath hitched. August .
That was long before he’d moved into the apartment across from hers. Before she had any idea they’d cross paths again. He had bought the ticket months ago.
Her eyes snapped to his face, wide with realization. "You… you bought this in August?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
Beck’s expression gentled. "Yeah." His voice was quiet. "I didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. But I couldn’t miss this. Not you. Not Swan Lake."
Her mind spun, trying to make sense of it all but it felt like she’d been working on a puzzle, only to realize half the pieces belonged to a completely different picture.
He’d been planning to see her all along.
He hadn’t just wandered back into her life by coincidence, he’d come looking.
That truth slammed into her with the weight of something too big to process all at once.
It made her chest ache, a slow, aching stretch where hope and fear tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. The words scattered before they could form, leaving only silence and the sound of her heartbeat thudding loud in her ears.
"Hey!"
The sharp call made her freeze.
Ingrid turned toward the voice, and her breath caught.
A thin, disheveled man stood a few feet away, pacing erratically, movements twitchy and unsteady. His clothes hung off him like they belonged to someone else. His hair stuck out in wild clumps.
It was Rodney. She barely recognized him. Five years had stripped Rodney down to something skeletal. His face was gaunt, skin smudged with dirt, his hands twitching at his sides.
Beck dropped his coffee cup into the trash and walked toward him.
"Rodney, I've been looking for you for months," Beck said, his voice tight. He grasped his brother’s frail shoulders, pulling him into a firm hug. Rodney stiffened but, after a beat, returned it.
"I'm glad to see you're okay," Beck murmured, emotion thick in his voice.
Rodney pulled back first, his eyes jittery and unfocused. "Listen," he said quickly, "I really need your help. Just a few hundred bucks, to make it by. That’s all."
"Rodney, you know I can’t just give you money." His voice stayed even, but there was tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers tightened slightly on his brother’s arms. "But I can get you help. Real help."
"There’s a facility," Beck continued. "The same one I went to. The people there are incredible. They know what they’re doing. They can help you, Rod."
Ingrid blinked. Facility?
Her mind snagged on the word, and for a moment, everything tilted slightly out of place. Beck went to rehab?
She knew he was sober, but she hadn’t known about rehab. He had never mentioned it. But it made so much sense. The calm, the quiet strength, the way he carried himself like someone who had fought for every inch of his balance and won it the hard way.
Rodney’s entire body language shifted. The pleading slipped from his face, replaced with something darker, meaner.
"You don’t fucking get it," he snapped, his voice sharp and hoarse. "You’ve got money, and you won’t share it. You stand there acting like you're better than the rest of us. It’s bullshit. You’re a fucking disappointment, and you don’t even see it. You’re just a selfish bastard."
Then came the knife.
"Mom would be so disappointed in you."
Ingrid barely masked her flinch. The words flung like a match into a room full of kindling.
Beck didn’t move, but his body coiled with restraint.
His shoulders tensed. His jaw clenched once, hard, before he inhaled slowly, trying to stay calm.
"Rodney, I love you," he said, voice quiet but taut. "And I want to help you. But I can’t enable you. That’s not love. That’s not what Mom would have wanted. "
"You don’t know shit about what Mom wanted," he spat. "You didn’t give a fuck about her. Not when she was sick. Not when she died."
The words struck Beck visibly, a flash of pain crossing his face before he pulled the mask back on, steady, controlled, but dimmed somehow, like someone had turned down the light behind his eyes.