Ellery #2
If I cry now, my mascara will win, I thought wryly. The absurdity of it almost made me smile again.
So I blinked once, twice, forcing the shine out of my eyes. Lifted my chin. Rolled my shoulders back until I looked like someone in control.
Then I tucked my cue cards under my arm, squared my stance, and whispered to my reflection, “Showtime.”
And for the first time all night, I didn’t wait for someone else to steady me. I did it myself.
The emcee’s voice boomed through the speakers, smooth and practiced, “Please welcome the director of the West Michigan Youth Foundation, Ellery James!”
Applause swelled—warm, bright, and deafening. For half a heartbeat, I froze behind the curtain, hand still clutching my cue cards. Then the stage lights hit, and instinct took over.
I stepped onto the stage as the applause began to fade, scanning the crowd, the lights, the sea of faces that had come to support the foundation. And somewhere near the back, I found Beckett watching me—steady, quiet, exactly where he said he’d be.
For the first time all night, I didn’t have to pretend to breathe. I just did.
The mirror behind the stage caught me off guard.
I hadn’t meant to look, but there I was—lipstick perfect, hair smooth, gown flawless—and eyes that gave everything away.
They looked glassy, brittle. The kind of eyes that didn’t belong to someone about to give a speech, but to someone who’d just let go of something she’d been clinging to for too long.
I smoothed my dress even though it didn’t need smoothing, straightened the stack of cue cards that I’d already memorized. Anything to keep my hands from trembling.
“Good evening, everyone.” My voice came out steady—thank God. “First off, I want to thank all of you for being here tonight. Every person in this room represents a piece of what we’re building: opportunity, community, and a future for kids who might not believe they have one yet.”
A pause. Smiles from the crowd. I let the silence breathe for a second before continuing.
“When we started this foundation,” I said, glancing down at the cards I no longer needed, “we had six volunteers, a few soccer balls, and more heart than funding. And yet, somehow, we’ve grown into something that touches hundreds of lives every year.
That doesn’t happen without the people sitting in front of me—the board, the coaches, the volunteers, the families, and the incredible sponsors who believe in what we do. ”
There was polite applause. I smiled, pressing on.
“And of course,” I added, “we couldn’t do it without our partners at the SWM Storm. You’ve shown up for us in more ways than one. Whether it’s running clinics, donating gear, or giving kids a reason to believe they belong on the field—thank you.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Instinctively, my gaze drifted to the back of the room.
Beckett stood there, half in shadow, arms folded, suit a little too sharp for how effortlessly he wore it. He wasn’t smiling, but his expression—focused, steady—hit me harder than I expected.
For a moment, everything else blurred—the crowd, the clinking glasses, the lights. It was just him. Solid. Present. The one person who always seemed to show up when no one else did.
I cleared my throat and forced my attention back to the microphone. “And finally,” I said, my tone softening, “to our newest partners, who stepped in when we needed it most—you reminded me that community isn’t just a word we use on posters. It’s something we do. Together.”
The applause came again, louder this time. But I barely heard it. My pulse was still thrumming, my mind replaying that single second when his eyes found mine.
“I’ll end with this,” I said, taking a breath.
“Every child deserves a chance to dream. To feel seen. To know that their story matters. Tonight isn’t just about raising money—it’s about reminding each other why we started.
Because when we invest in their futures, we remind ourselves that it’s never too late to rewrite our own. ”
For a beat, there was silence. Then someone stood. Then another. Then the whole room was on its feet.
I exhaled, the tightness in my chest dissolving as the applause swelled again.
And through it all, I found him in the crowd once more. Beckett Mason. Still there. Still watching me like I was the only one in the room.
The second I stepped offstage, the applause still echoing behind me, Naomi was there waiting. She didn’t say a word—just grabbed me and pulled me into a hug so tight I nearly dropped my cue cards.
“You were flawless,” she whispered into my ear.
I laughed, the sound a little shaky. “I broke up with Kyle right before I went on stage.”
Naomi froze, pulling back to stare at me like I’d just announced I’d robbed a bank. “You what?”
I shrugged, my voice lighter than it should’ve been. “He called to say he couldn’t make it. Scouts. Meetings. The usual. So… I ended it.”
For a moment, she just blinked, processing. Then her expression softened, and she smiled—a real, proud kind of smile. “Good timing,” she said finally. “Now you’ve got the room and the future.”
That made me laugh again, though it trembled on the edge of something else—relief, heartbreak, adrenaline, maybe all of it tangled together.
I reached for a tissue on the dressing table, dabbing beneath my eyes before the makeup artist could kill me for crying.
“Don’t tell anyone yet,” I murmured. “I’m not ready for the rumor mill. ”
Naomi held up a hand solemnly. “Your secret’s safe.” Then she smirked. “But for the record, I saw Beckett looking at you like you hung the moon.”
“Naomi,” I groaned, pressing a hand to my forehead. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” she said, all fake innocence. “Just noticing.”
I gave her a look, but she only grinned wider.
Behind the curtain, the band started playing again—the low hum of conversation rising as people drifted toward the dinner tables. The whole night was still unfolding, bright and loud and full of expectation. But in that tiny pocket of quiet backstage, it felt like something in me had settled.
I wasn’t the girl waiting for someone to show up anymore. I wasn’t patching over the cracks or pretending not to notice when someone chose something else over me.
I had just stood in front of a room full of people and meant every word I said—and for once; I wasn’t performing for anyone’s approval.
Naomi nudged me gently. “You did good, boss.”
I exhaled, smiling at her reflection beside mine in the mirror. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I think I did.”
The ballroom glowed with soft gold light, the kind that made everyone look a little more elegant, a little more untouchable. A jazz trio played near the stage, their music weaving gently through the hum of conversation and clinking glasses.
I stood by the open balcony doors, half in the light, half in the cool night air.
The city stretched out below—buildings glittering, traffic moving like veins of red and white.
Everything about the evening should have felt triumphant.
The sponsors had shown up. The speeches went perfectly. The kids were happy.
But all I could feel was the weight of it finally being over.
Beckett appeared beside me, quiet as always, holding two glasses of water instead of champagne. I didn’t even hear him approach. He offered one out without saying anything at first.
“You killed it,” he said finally, voice low enough that I almost missed it over the music.
I smiled faintly. “I survived it.”
“Same thing.”
Our fingers brushed when I took the glass. Even through the condensation, that small touch felt too warm. I sipped to cover it. “Thanks for coming,” I said softly.
He glanced out toward the city, his expression unreadable. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Simple. Casual. But the words landed somewhere deeper than they had any right to.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was thick, charged, the kind that made your chest tighten because you didn’t trust what might slip out next.
Then someone called his name from across the room—one of his teammates, laughing, waving him over. Beckett looked at me like he didn’t really want to go but knew he had to.
“Duty calls,” I said, forcing lightness into my tone.
He gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Don’t let them talk you into karaoke.”
I laughed softly. “I make no promises.”
And then he was gone—just like that. Back into the crowd, swallowed up by the movement and laughter and noise.
I turned back to the balcony doors, exhaling slowly. The tension drained from my shoulders, leaving behind only exhaustion and the faint ache of something unnamed. I let the music drift over me; the saxophone winding around the chatter like smoke.
This was supposed to be the happiest night of my life.
The foundation had pulled through. The sponsors were secured. The kids’ futures were safe. I’d done everything I’d set out to do.
So why did it feel like the start of something else entirely?
Out on the terrace, flashbulbs went off—reporters catching shots of donors and athletes. The bright white bursts flickered like fireworks, like applause that had long since faded for me.
Inside, I leaned against the doorframe, letting the night air cool my skin. The sound of the city, the soft laughter behind me, the faint echo of Beckett’s voice—it all blended together until I couldn’t tell what was victory and what was longing.
For the first time in months, I felt free.
And utterly uncertain about where that freedom might lead.