Chapter 38Ingrid. Mid December, Present
INGRID. MID DECEMBER, PRESENT
"How lucky I was to matter to you, even if only for a moment."
"RAT!" Ingrid’s scream tore through the apartment like a murder scene in a low-budget horror movie.
Freddie was lounging on the couch, utterly unbothered. She barely opened one eye, stretched like she was on a beach in Ibiza, and resumed doing absolutely nothing.
Meanwhile, Ingrid was frozen in a full-body panic. Her eyes locked on the rat scuttling across her apartment floor like it had a lease and a key. It was the size of a small dog. Maybe a raccoon. Or a toddler. Definitely toddler energy.
She yanked the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. Because obviously, rat-proofing begins with a hoodie.
"Freddie, seriously? This is your whole job. This is your legacy!"
Freddie blinked. Slowly. If cats could roll their eyes, this would’ve been the moment.
"I feed you. I scoop your poop. I buy you gourmet kibble that costs more than my shampoo. And you give me this?"
Freddie let out a tiny yawn. Judged her. Went back to her nap.
The rat vanished behind the bookshelf. Ingrid backed away like she was in a hostage negotiation.
Glancing down at her bare feet, she groaned. There was no way she was dealing with this thing alone. Or grabbing shoes. What if the rat had crawled into her shoe? What if it was living there now?
Nope. Absolutely not. She needed backup. She stormed down the hall and banged on Beck’s door like it owed her money.
A moment later, the door creaked open to Beck, disheveled and sleepy-eyed. Tousled hair. A T-shirt that fit a little too well. Gray sweatpants that should’ve been banned by federal law.
His smirk grew as he caught her staring.
"You didn’t hear me screaming?" she asked, yanking her hood down.
Beck lounged in the doorway, clearly enjoying this. "Screaming? No. And I’d remember. You’ve got a very… memorable range."
She scowled. "There’s a rat in my apartment. Whiskers, claws, possible mob ties. And Freddie’s in there acting like she’s waiting for her room-service order at the Ritz."
Beck snorted. "You left her in there? Alone? Ingrid, she’s a house cat. She once saw a cucumber and boycotted the kitchen for three days."
Ingrid arched a brow. "And yet, here you are, mocking her instead of grabbing a broom and saving the day."
Beck stepped closer, the grin on his face pure trouble. “What do I get out of it? I’m risking my life with bubonic plague.”
“Just don’t get bit and you won’t die a peasant’s death.” With a smirk, she shoved him toward the hallway.
“Wow. So reassuring,” he called back.
“Think of the bragging rights,” she said. “And if you survive, I might be persuaded to share a box of rainbow cookies from Vito’s.”
“Wait— the Vito’s? The ones that taste like angels weeping into almond paste?”
“Dad sent more for opening night. Still hasn’t figured out my favorite cookie, but lucky you—these practically have your name written in frosting.
” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“So, be a good boy and do me one tiny, harmless favor, hmm?” She tilted her head, lashes sweeping low as she looked up at him like she already knew he’d say yes.
Beck blinked, his throat working hard as he swallowed.
“Anything you want, Baby,” he said, eyes trailing over her like he was already halfway gone. “You want my soul, I’ll gift wrap it. You want a kingdom, I’ll crown you. Just, please. Keep looking at me like that.”
Her stomach flipped. God. He said it like he meant every word, like he’d already handed her the crown and laid his soul bare at her feet.
He took a few dazed, obedient steps, then suddenly spun back around. "Wait. What’s the plan? Do I seduce it? Offer it cheese? Whisper sweet nothings until it scurries off in peace?"
"You are not seducing the rat."
"That’s a little closed-minded," he muttered.
She glared at him. "It was raccoon-sized, Beck. It could vote in some countries. I think it made eye contact."
They reached her door. Beck rolled his neck, like he was warming up for battle.
"If I don’t make it out alive," Beck said solemnly, "promise me one thing."
Ingrid leaned in. "Anything."
"Give me a funeral with flair. Kazoo solo. Flash mob. Keep ‘em guessing."
She grinned. "Done. I’ll even hire interpretive dancers and claim it was in your will."
"Perfect," he said. "Confuse the masses."
Beck gave a mock salute and disappeared into her apartment. Silence. Then a shriek. A thud. Something toppled. Then the unmistakable stomp of someone running for their life.
Beck came flying back out like the apartment had ejected him, clutching Freddie like she was a life preserver and he was a drowning man. His face was ghost-white. His breath came in short gasps.
"That’s not a rat," he gasped. "That’s a goblin. That thing pays taxes and files a W-2."
"I told you!" Ingrid squealed. "It’s trying to establish dominion over the living room!"
Beck took a moment to compose himself, still holding Freddie. "Okay. New plan. I’m going to find the maintenance guy. You go to my place, grab supplies. Wooden spoons, colander helmets, mop swords. Whatever you can find. If this turns into a siege, we go down swinging."
Ingrid narrowed her eyes, taking Freddie from his arms. "You’re being ridiculous."
"I’m being realistic," he said, dead serious. "It definitely made eye contact. It hissed. That rat has opinions."
And with that, Beck slipped on his sneakers and marched down the hallway like a man off to lead the rebellion. She watched him go, torn between concern and the urge to laugh.
Shaking her head, Ingrid stepped into Beck’s apartment. It was familiar from the days Eden had lived there but now it had unmistakably become Beck’s. There were drumsticks scattered across the counter, a half-zipped duffel bag in the corner, his oversized shoes kicked haphazardly near the door.
Freddie, fully zen after her brush with the rat-adjacent trauma, was already curled up on a flannel shirt like she’d never emotionally invested in the chaos.
She made a beeline for the bathroom because, spiritually, she needed a full decontamination ritual. No, she hadn’t touched the rat. But she’d breathed the same air as it. That was enough. She needed soap. Maybe sage. Possibly industrial-grade disinfectant.
The first thing she noticed in the bathroom was the towels. Not Eden’s monogrammed set from Etsy. No, these were real, fluffy, white towels. The kind of towels that belonged to someone who flossed nightly and knew their credit score.
To her relief, there was soap. And not some sad, half-melted bar wasting away in the corner of a soap dish.
This was a proper pump bottle. It was functional, clean, borderline luxurious.
And right next to it? Moisturizer. SPF. Beck owned sunscreen now.
And used it. Of his own free will. If that wasn’t growth, she didn’t know what was.
She lathered up and scrubbed her hands, then reached for the towel hanging neatly beside the sink. Gone were the days of that communal disaster of a towel Beck and his old roommates used to share, the one they insisted was "still fine if you use the dry side."
She turned to leave, weirdly proud of him for evolving beyond frat house hygiene standards, but paused mid-step. Something on the side table caught her eye.
An envelope. Her name, scrawled across the front in Beck’s unmistakable, messy handwriting. Her heart dropped, landing somewhere near her stomach.
She hesitated, fingers hovering over the envelope as if touching it might set off a chain reaction she couldn’t stop.
She shouldn’t invade his privacy. She knew that.
But her name was on it. And beneath it, peeking out from under the first, was another envelope. And another. A stack. Dozens of them.
The breath in her lungs turned shallow, her fingers tingling as she carefully lifted the top envelope. The paper was slightly worn, edges creased as if it had been handled too many times.
Swallowing hard, she tore the envelope open.
Inside were two things: a letter and a ticket stub.
Her stomach clenched as she turned the stub over.
It was from Giselle, opening night. The performance she had starred in a year ago.
A sharp, electric jolt ran through her as the memory struck.
She unfolded the letter, her eyes quickly scanning the first few lines.
You were breathtaking, as you always are. I almost lingered outside the theater just to catch another glimpse of you, but I decided against it.
Something cracked in her chest, sharp and sudden, like a fault line giving way. Beck had been there. He had watched her. While she had poured herself into that performance, he had been in the crowd, quietly witnessing it all.
The thought stunned her. She tried to picture him in the audience, sitting among the sea of faces, watching a world she had long since convinced herself he no longer belonged to.
It was easier to believe he had moved on, that the stage, the spotlight, and everything it demanded of her existed far beyond his reach.
But he had been there. And now, every step she’d taken that night felt different like he had been part of it without her ever knowing.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she reached for another envelope. This one was older, from February, five years ago. Just two months after she had left. Her fingers trembled as she slid the letter out.
I went back home. It had been years since I left and never looked back. The trailer was foreclosed, abandoned now. Somehow, it felt fitting. That the place where the anger began, where the wounds were carved deep, would be left to rot.
I stood outside, staring at the rusted edges, the sagging steps, the walls that had held too many fights and too much silence. I just stood there and breathed, letting the past press in from all sides.