Chapter 26 Beck
BECK
We’ve been at this table for almost an hour, the late afternoon light filtering through the oak branches and striping the pages of Sophie’s notebook.
We’ve gotten some real work done—outlined the basics, divided up a few tasks—but somewhere along the way, the conversation started to wander.
Little questions here and there. Favorite movies.
Worst cafeteria meals. The kind of easy stuff you ask when you want to know someone, not because you have to.
Sophie taps the end of her pen against the table, scanning the packet again. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Remind me what the difference between positive and negative symptoms is again? I keep mixing them up.”
Before I even think about it, the words come out. “Positive symptoms are things that shouldn’t be there—like hallucinations, delusions, disorganized behavior. Negative symptoms are when things that should be there are missing. Flat affect, withdrawal, stuff like that.”
Her pen freezes. When she looks up at me, her expression isn’t teasing—it’s surprised. Almost…startled. “You didn’t even have to think about that.”
I shrug, a little too stiff. “Yeah. Guess not.”
She tilts her head, searching my face like she’s trying to piece something together. “Did you already study this section?”
“No,” I say too fast. My hand curls into a fist under the table, the instinctive kind. “Just…know it.”
There’s a quiet beat between us. She doesn’t push, which I appreciate more than I can say. She just nods slowly, scribbles something in her notes, and moves on.
But the damage is done. My heart’s thudding like I just ran a sprint. I didn’t mean to sound like that. It’s not like I want to be fluent in this stuff—it’s just carved somewhere deep, the kind of thing you don’t forget.
She starts rambling about who should handle which sections of the project, and I let it wash over me while I get my breathing under control. She has no idea what that slip cost me, and I’m not ready to explain it quite yet.
She doesn’t linger on it, thank God. Instead, she flips the packet toward her, chewing on her pen cap like she always does when she’s thinking. “All right, next one.”
Her eyes skim the page, and she reads, “Which of the major schizophrenia subtypes is no longer officially recognized in the DSM-5, but is still often used informally in clinical settings?” She groans softly. “I just read this, and it’s already fallen out of my brain.”
The answer slides out of me before she finishes the sentence. “Paranoid type. Technically, they dropped the subtypes in DSM-5 because they weren’t stable or distinct enough, but people still use the old terms sometimes, especially clinicians who trained on DSM-IV.”
She stares at me again, mouth slightly open. “Okay, Harrison, what the hell. Do you have a photographic memory or something?”
I laugh quietly, but it’s hollow around the edges. “No. Some things stick with me easier than others.”
Her eyes soften, curiosity flickering there, but she doesn’t pry. Instead, she shakes her head in mock disbelief. “Remind me never to underestimate you in a psych trivia contest.”
“Duly noted,” I say, trying to match her light tone.
The tension that had crept between us earlier loosens, replaced by something quieter, warmer. She smiles as she writes down what I said, then looks back up at me.
“You’re really good at this,” she says. Not teasing. Sincere.
And that throws me more than any question she’s asked today.
I shrug again, but it doesn’t come out nearly as casual as I want. “I think anyone can be good if they apply themselves or take a true interest into something.”
“Yeah,” she says softly, like she doesn’t quite buy that.
For a moment, all the noise of the quad fades. It’s just the two of us at this table, sunlight fading through the trees, and her eyes on mine like she’s seeing me, not just looking.
It’s disarming.
So, I clear my throat, glance down at the packet, and say, “We should probably get through the rest of this section before we run out of daylight.”
She laughs quietly, flipping another page. “Fine. But I’m officially nominating you as our trivia champ.”
We push through the last page of the packet, trading questions and scribbling notes until the sun dips low enough that the shadows stretch long across the quad. Sophie finally closes her notebook with a dramatic sigh.
“Okay, that’s my brain tapped out for the day,” she says, tucking her pen behind her ear. “If I look at one more diagnostic criterion, I might actually start diagnosing random students walking by.”
I chuckle as I pack up my stuff. “You’d probably get at least a few right.”
She grins, slinging her bag over her shoulder as we head toward the athletic complex.
The air is cooler now, that soft in-between light just before sunset.
She tells me a story about Ava almost face-planting during a cheer stunt last week as we walk, and I find myself laughing more easily than I have in a long time.
When we reach the split where the cheer practice field branches off from the weight room, we both stop. There’s a small pause—nothing awkward, but lingering. She’s looking up at me with that bright, open expression that always throws me off balance.
I don’t even think about it. My hand lifts, finding her waist, and before I can talk myself out of it, I pull her in.
It’s not a long hug. Just a few seconds. But it’s firm, warm, and completely unplanned.
I feel her breath catch against my chest. Her hands hover like she’s startled, then settle lightly against my sides.
When I pull back, she’s blinking up at me, eyes a little wide, and cheeks flushed. Honestly, I feel just as thrown. I’m not a spontaneous hugger. That’s not me.
“Uh,” I say, clearing my throat and shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket. “See you after practice.”
She nods, still looking a little dazed. “Yeah. See you.”
She turns toward the cheer field, glancing back once with a soft, surprised smile that hits me square in the chest.
As I walk toward the weight room, I can’t shake the warmth lingering where she pressed against me—or the thought that, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t hesitate.
By the time Coach finally blows the last whistle, the field lights have fully taken over the sky, and sweat clings to me like a second skin. My shirt is plastered to my back, my legs feel like lead, and my lungs burn in the best kind of way.
Logan jogs up beside me as we make our way toward the sideline, both of us still breathing hard. He pulls his helmet off, hair sticking up in a dozen directions, and gives me a knowing side-eye.
“You’ve been real quiet tonight, man,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine. “That usually means one thing.”
I grab a water bottle and take a long drink, trying to play it off. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He grins. “A certain blonde cheerleader.”
I choke slightly on the water, coughing into my elbow. “Jesus, Logan.”
“What?” He lifts his hands innocently. “Don’t ‘Jesus Logan’ me. I saw that little moment before practice. You pulled her in like a guy would in some romance book.”
I shoot him a look, but his grin only widens.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not giving you crap. Honestly? It’s about time.”
“About time for what?” I mutter, shoving my gloves into my helmet.
He shrugs. “For you to stop acting like your heart’s made of steel. It wasn’t before, and it’s not now. She’s a good one, Beck. You don’t have to tell me how you feel, but I see the way you look at her. And I saw her face when you hugged her too.”
I look down, jaw tightening. I don’t know how to explain it—not even to myself. The hug wasn’t planned. It simply…happened. But the way it felt? The way she looked up at me after? That’s what’s messing with me.
Logan elbows me again, less teasing this time, more brotherly. “I’m not saying go plan a wedding. Don’t run from something good because you’re scared it’ll hurt again.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Since when did you become Dr. Phil?”
“Since I stopped watching you mope around like a fucking seventy-year-old man who’s sworn off love,” he fires back with a grin.
I shake my head, but a small smile creeps in anyway. That’s Logan for you—never subtle, always hitting closer to the truth than I’d like.
“Come on,” he says, tossing his helmet toward the bin. “Let’s shower before Coach makes us run extra just for standing here like smelly idiots.”