Chapter 25 Adela
Beckett is asleep beside me, one arm draped across my waist, his breathing deep and even.
I study the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the fading bruises on his face now more yellow than purple, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Then I look at the bruise on his ribs.
The one that's my fault. The one he got because masked men broke into my apartment and beat him while I sat tied to a chair, helpless.
Guilt flickers through me, sharp and immediate.
I carefully extract myself from his arm and sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. The sheet falls away, and the cool air raises goosebumps on my skin.
I'm not doing this again.
I'm not replacing one man with another. I'm not jumping from Cody's bed into Beckett's and pretending that's healing. I'm not building my entire identity around being someone's girlfriend.
Not again.
Beckett stirs beside me, his eyes opening slowly. When he sees me sitting there, he smiles — small and sleepy and genuine.
"Morning," he murmurs.
"Morning."
He reaches out, his hand finding my hip, pulling me gently back down beside him. I let him, curling into his warmth, but the thought doesn't leave.
We lie there for a few minutes in comfortable silence before he checks his phone and groans.
"Practice in an hour."
"You should go then."
He kisses me and starts gathering his clothes from where they're scattered across my floor. I watch him dress, noticing the way he moves carefully around his injured ribs.
"Are you feeling better?" I ask.
"Yeah." He pulls his shirt over his head. "Never better."
When he's ready to leave, he leans down and kisses me again. "Text me later?"
"Yeah."
No demands. No claims. No expectations beyond what we've already established.
That keeps him safe.
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone in the silence of my apartment.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
For a half-second, my heart jumps — expecting it to be... someone else.
But it's just a notification about a class assignment.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary, waiting for another message that doesn't come.
An hour later, my phone actually does buzz with a text.
Maeve: Are you alive?
Thank God. I’ve been waiting.
I type back: Not really.
Maeve: Are you still avoiding everyone?
Me: Not avoiding, babe.
Maeve: Rumors are insane btw
My stomach tightens.
Me: What rumors?
Maeve: About Cody. About the videos. About your transfer. People are talking.
I close my eyes and lean back against my headboard. Of course they are.
Me: What are they saying?
Maeve: That Cody was assaulted. That his family moved him. That you're hiding something.
Great.
Maeve: Are you seeing anyone?
I hesitate before responding.
Me: No. I'm not jumping into anything.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again.
Maeve: Good. You need time.
Maeve: Come see me. Please.
I stare at the message, feeling the pull of my old life. My best friend. My safe space.
Me: Okay. I'll come this weekend.
Maeve: Really?
Me: Really.
Maeve: I miss you.
Me: I miss you too.
Friday afternoon, I'm sitting in my Comparative Government lecture, struggling to keep up.
The professor is discussing institutional checks and balances, referencing articles I haven't read yet because I transferred mid-semester, and I'm still playing catch-up with the syllabus.
When she asks a question about Supreme Court precedent, I raise my hand, confident I know the answer.
I cite the wrong case.
"Actually," the professor corrects gently, "that's Marbury v. Madison. The case I'm referencing is McCulloch v. Maryland."
Heat floods my face as I nod and lower my hand.
A few students glance my way. Nobody says anything, but I feel the weight of their judgment anyway.
I cannot let my life implode academically. I've already lost so much — my relationship, my sense of identity, my trust in the people around me. I can't lose this, too.
I force myself to focus for the rest of the lecture, taking detailed notes and highlighting passages in the textbook that I should have read earlier.
But my mind keeps drifting.
Not to Beckett. Not to Cody.
To Theo.
Specifically to his dark eyes and the way he stood over me.
Saturday morning, I make the drive to Puget Sound.
It's longer than I remember — almost an hour in traffic — and by the time I pull into Maeve's driveway, I'm exhausted from the mental gymnastics of navigating Seattle highways.
She's waiting on her front porch when I arrive, practically bouncing with excitement.
"Finally!" she shouts, pulling me into a hug the moment I step out of the car. "I thought you'd forgotten about me."
"Never," I say, hugging her back tightly.
We spend the afternoon in her room like we used to — sprawled on her bed, snacks scattered around us, music playing low in the background.
"So," Maeve says, propping herself up on one elbow. "How is UW?"
"Intense," I admit. "The classes are harder. The professors don't coddle you. Everyone moves faster."
"Do you like it?"
I consider the question. "I think so? It's different. But different might be good."
"Have you made a new best friend?" She gives me a knowing look.
I feel a flush creep up my neck. "Why do you say that?"
“Because we have not talked since that night you went with Julian. And honest to God, Adela, I’ve seen you with a boyfriend before. I know what happens.”
I swallow the guilt. “What happens when I get a boyfriend?”
Her eyes brighten as they watch me closely. "Adela Kalkaska, are you having a casual fling?"
"It's not a fling."
"Oh my god!" she squeals. “Who is he?”
"No." The word comes out firm. "He’s no one. I'm not doing that again. Not right now."
Maeve's expression softens. "Good. You need time to figure out who you are without Cody."
See, she knows.
She shifts topics, asking about the campus, my classes, and whether I've made any friends yet. I deflect most of it, giving vague answers because the truth is complicated and messy, and I'm not ready to unpack all of it yet.
Before I leave, I stop by my parents' house. It’s just a quick visit to show my face and prove I'm still alive.
My mother answers the door, her expression immediately concerned. "Adela! We've been worried."
"I'm fine, Mom."
"Are you eating enough? You look thin."
"I'm eating."
My father appears behind her, reading glasses perched on his nose. "Everything okay at school?"
"Yes, Dad. Everything's fine."
“Is it what you thought it would be?”
I stare blankly at him. “It’s good, and I am actively job searching.”
“Job searching?” my mom echoes, looking at my dad.
“That was the deal.”
My dad winks. “Something will pull through.”
I nod.
They don't push any further than that. They just want confirmation that I'm functional, that I'm not falling apart publicly, that I'm maintaining the image of the mayor's well-adjusted daughter.
I stay for about twenty minutes, answering my mom’s surface-level questions as I grab a few things from my bedroom. I hug them goodbye on the way out.
The drive back to Seattle feels longer than the drive there.
That evening, Beckett comes over again.
Not for sex — though there's an undercurrent of physical tension that's always present now. Just for company. For comfort.
"You can leave a hoodie here if you want," I tease. "For next time."
He grins. "Planning for next time already?"
"Maybe."
He pulls me against him, hands warm on my waist, and kisses me slow and deep.
I sink into it the way I've been sinking into everything with him lately — easily, maybe too easily.
My fingers thread through his damp hair, and I feel him exhale against my mouth like he's been holding something in all day.
There's a half-second where I hesitate.
Not because I don't want this. I do. That's almost the problem — how much I do, how quickly wanting him became the most uncomplicated part of my life here. Everything else is fractured and unanswered questions. This is the only thing that doesn't require explaining.
He notices the hesitation. I can tell by the way his grip tightens, the way he pulls me flush against him like proximity is an argument he's already won.
We don't talk about it.
We move to the bed instead, and I let myself stop thinking.
He's good at this. I don't know why that still catches me off guard every time.
He takes his time in a way that feels almost unfair, like he has all night, like he already knows exactly where to put his hands and is just waiting to see if I'll ask for more.
His mouth finds my throat, and my eyes close.
And I stop caring about anything except the specific warmth of him and the way he seems to know what I want before I do.
I pull him closer.
His mouth drags down my throat, my collarbone, lower, and I arch into him.
I can't help it; my body has completely stopped consulting my brain about these things.
He takes his time there, too, until I'm breathing too fast, my fingers tight in his hair, and I'm saying his name in a way that doesn't sound like me.
"Beck." It comes out broken at the edges.
He looks up at me, and the eye contact alone does something to my chest that I'm not ready to acknowledge. I reach for him, and he comes back up my body, his weight settling over me, and I pull him down because the distance between us feels unbearable.
When he finally pushes inside me, my breath cuts off completely. I press my face into his neck and hold on.
He's slow about it. Achingly, deliberately slow — like he wants me to feel every inch, like he's in absolutely no rush, even though my nails are already digging into his back and my hips are already rolling up trying to take more of him.
He pulls back and does it again, just as slowly, and I make a sound I don't entirely recognize as mine.