Epilogue #2
Sadie gave him a look, amused. "Oscar, babe. That’s for movies. You’re thinking of the Grammys, the music one. You know, your actual job?"
Reef blinked, then grinned like she’d just complimented him. "Right. I do... do that."
Before Sadie could roast him further, Quentin cut in smoothly, "You ready for Montana, fosforito ?"
Sadie’s head snapped around so fast she almost dislocated something. "I’m sorry, what did you just call me? Did you just curse me out in Spanish?"
"I think he called you a mosquito," Finn offered, not even looking up from his drink.
"No, it definitely wasn't mosquito," Eden added.
"No, no, he said fosforo-something," Reef mumbled, already pulling out his phone. "Hold on, lemme get Google Translate real quick–"
But before he could type a single word, his eyes went wide.
"Oh my God. Is that Brie?" Reef pointed across the room to a charcuterie board.
"Reef, no–" Eden started.
Too late. He was already gone, sprinting toward the cheese like a linebacker, knocking over a decorative plant and very nearly taking out an old woman in a sequined blazer.
"I can’t take him anywhere," Finn muttered.
Quentin, completely unbothered by the chaos he’d just ignited, turned back to Ingrid with a smile. "Anyway, congrats, Ingrid. You absolutely killed it tonight."
"Hear, hear!" Ronan bellowed from somewhere behind them, raising his glass.
"For she’s a jolly good feeeeellooooowww!" Finn suddenly burst into song, arms wide like he was about to lead a choir.
No one joined in. Dead. Silence. The silence hit so hard you could practically hear the charcuterie knives clinking.
"Okay... cool. So that didn’t land."
Eden gave him a sympathetic smile. "Not your finest, but I respect the effort."
"But the point stands," Finn recovered, clapping Ingrid on the shoulder with enough enthusiasm to nearly knock her over. "You killed it."
Ingrid shook her head, laughter bubbling up as she took in the absolute circus that was her friend group. For the first time in a long time, it hit her just how full her life really was. And... kind of perfect.
Beck was watching her, his expression soft.
"It's nice," he said quietly. "Having everyone in one spot."
His gaze flicked briefly across the room at Sadie and Sylvia doubled over with laughter; at Finn holding court, tossing out jokes; at Reef and Eden crammed onto a too-small couch, arguing over something ridiculous.
Quentin and Ronan locked in intense conversation about something deeply nerdy, probably comic books or conspiracy theories.
It was rare to have all their friends gathered like this. And it was for her, her night.
"There's only one person missing," Ingrid said, brushing her fingers lightly against his arm. "Rodney."
On Christmas morning, Rodney had shown up at Beck’s apartment.
A duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his hair a wreck, and a look in his eyes that was all exhaustion and something brittle and raw underneath.
He’d accepted Beck’s offer to try rehab.
So the day after Christmas, he’d checked into a facility.
They didn’t know if he’d stick it out; Rodney’s track record wasn’t exactly a shining beacon of consistency.
But he was still there, more than halfway through the program, showing up.
He had a long road ahead, a lot of trust to rebuild, and even more to answer for.
But for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t running. And that counted for something.
Ingrid’s mind flicked to Beck’s bedside table, five small sobriety coins neatly lined up like tiny trophies. His sixth coin was only a few days away. A fierce, proud ache bloomed inside her. She knew exactly what it had cost him to get here. And what it still cost him, every day.
"Soon," Beck murmured, voice almost lost under the noise of the room. "He’ll get there."
Then he looked at her, and something in his eyes shifted, turning softer and gentler.
"How does it feel?" he asked, voice low.
She didn’t need to ask what he meant. She knew. How does it feel to stand on the stage you once thought would crush you? To face Swan Lake and win? To be here, breathing, laughing, loving, with all the people who mattered most?
"It feels like coming back to life," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, but full to the brim, thick with all the things she hadn’t even let herself hope for.
Beck’s smile deepened, something luminous blooming behind his eyes. At that moment, he looked more like himself than she had ever seen him. Maybe more himself than he ever had been.
"Couldn’t have said it better myself," he murmured, his grin stretched wider, pulling at her heart. Then, almost casually, he added, "I was offered a full-time position at Juilliard."
A beat. A universe cracking open.
"I want to move to New York permanently."
Ingrid’s stomach flipped so hard she swayed on her feet. The room dissolved into a distant hum, irrelevant compared to the earthquake he had just triggered inside her.
"What?" she managed, blinking up at him like she might’ve misheard. Her heart felt like it was trying to run and fly at the same time.
"I’ve been touring for so many years," he said, the words almost shy. "It’s been incredible. But…" He let the breath out slowly. "I don’t want to live out of a suitcase anymore. Teaching... it makes me feel like I’m actually building something. Like I’m not just passing through life, gig to gig. And…"
He looked at her then.
"I want to be here. With you."
Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She swallowed, struggling to find her voice through the tidal wave of feeling rising in her chest.
"What about the band?" she asked, even though a part of her already knew, could feel the change radiating off of him.
Beck smiled faintly, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head "They’ll still play. I’ll join them sometimes. But the road? The constant leaving, the never putting down roots?" Beck’s voice gentled, dropping into something low and certain.
"It’s not my life anymore. It doesn’t feel like home." He hesitated, then added, softly, with a kind of finality, "You do. You always have."
Her pulse shattered into a wild, broken rhythm. Because this wasn’t some grand gesture wrapped in fireworks or false promises. It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t temporary. He had a job lined up. It was simple. Solid. A choice. A life he was building with her at the center of it.
And God, she hadn’t even realized how deep that old, aching fear had run. This quiet, gnawing terror that no matter how much they loved each other, no matter how fiercely they fought for it, it would never be enough to hold them in the same place, at the same time, for good.
But here he was, not running, just choosing her.
Her lips parted, breath catching in her throat, but the words tangled somewhere between her heart and her mouth, caught on the sharp edge of emotion.
So instead, she simply whispered, trembling, "You really want this?"
"More than anything," Beck said.
Her breath shuddered out of her in a broken exhale, the world fuzzy around the edges. Her hands, without thinking, fisted into the front of his shirt, clutching the fabric. And then she moved before she could think.
Their lips met, tentative at first, a breathless brush of mouths. A question, an answer, a beginning. But then it deepened, sweetness tipping into hunger, longing bleeding into relief.
Years of wanting, of missing, of hoping poured into that kiss, all the broken pieces finding their way back together in the quiet, desperate clutch of fingers and the dizzying slide of mouths.
No end. Just this.
Ingrid pressed closer, feeling the solid heat of him, the familiar shape of him anchoring her to something she finally believed could last. Warmth flooded her, through her veins, down to her fingertips, her toes.
When they finally pulled apart, Beck didn’t move far.
He stayed right there, forehead resting against hers, their noses brushing, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.
Ingrid closed her eyes, letting herself just feel it. The fullness, the weightless peace blooming in her chest, washing out years of fear and loneliness.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t just surviving. She was living.
And she wasn’t doing it alone anymore.