Chapter 32
SOPHIE
Beck’s room smells like…Beck.
The faint spice of his body wash and whatever else he uses, creating a mix that’s both distracting and…intoxicating in a way.
Sunlight breaks through the half-open blinds, cutting across the navy comforter where I’m sprawled on my stomach, laptop open and textbook splayed somewhere between my elbow and the bed frame.
It’s Sunday morning, and we promised ourselves we’d make solid progress on our Abnormal Psych project—outline the case study, work on the divided the sections, maybe even draft a paragraph or two if we were feeling ambitious.
So far, ambition has not made an appearance, but the urge to kiss him again is definitely in attendance.
Beck sits in his desk chair, turned just enough to face me instead of his laptop. He’s got a pen spinning idly between his fingers, a notebook balanced on his bouncing knee. The assignment instructions are pulled up on his laptop screen, but he hasn’t looked at them in at least ten minutes.
Mostly because he’s looking at me.
Again.
I tilt my head, letting my hair slide over one shoulder as I glance up from the page I’m pretending to read. “You know, we’re never going to get this done if you keep staring at me like that.”
His mouth quirks, slow and unbothered. “What? I’m just admiring the view.”
Heat blooms up the back of my neck before I can stop it. “Beck.”
“What?” he repeats, grin widening a fraction. “You’re the one making yourself at home on my bed. I’m only a guy after all.”
I bury my face in my arm to hide the way my lips want to betray me with a smile.
We’ve been dancing around the kiss all weekend—neither of us bringing it up, both trying—and failing—to pretend that nothing shifted Friday night.
But here, in the easy quiet of his room and his gaze snagging on me like he just can’t help himself…
pretending keeps getting a little harder.
I push myself upright, crossing my legs on the bed. “Okay, how about you put those pretty eyes to use and actually read the diagnostic criteria?”
He laughs, low and warm, leaning back in his chair as if he has all the time in the world. “Yes, ma’am.”
Beck finally drags his chair closer to the desk and props his elbows on the armrests, scrolling through the DSM-5 criteria like he’s actually paying attention now.
I flip to the relevant page in our textbook and start typing an outline into our shared doc. “Okay,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Schizophrenia. We should probably start with the diagnostic criteria before we pick a case study.”
“Right,” he says, voice lighter than usual. “Positive symptoms, negative symptoms, disorganized speech, catatonia…you need two or more present for a significant portion of time during at least one month.”
I blink. “Okay, overachiever. Didn’t realize you had this memorized.”
He shrugs, spinning his pen between his fingers again. “You’d be surprised what sticks.”
I smirk and keep typing. “So…criterion A is basically the hallmark symptoms—hallucinations, delusions, disorganized behavior. B is social or occupational dysfunction. And C is continuous signs for at least six months, including that one-month active phase.”
He nods along, adding, “And diagnosis usually involves a clinical interview, ruling out substance use, other medical conditions, or mood disorders with psychotic features. Sometimes they’ll use structured interviews like the SCID to assess symptoms more objectively, but more often than not, the disease has progressed a lot before it’s ever fully diagnosed to the point where it can be treated.
Normally, it’s not diagnosed until after at least one major episode. ”
My fingers still over my keyboard. That wasn’t the kind of detail most students throw out offhand.
I glance up at him. He’s leaning back now, gaze fixed somewhere near the corner of the room—not at me. The joking edge from earlier has slipped away and his posture has stiffened some.
“Okay,” I say slowly, watching his face. “You definitely didn’t get all that from the lecture.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just taps the pen against his notebook in an uneven rhythm. For a heartbeat, a heavier silence stretches between us.
I set my laptop aside and draw my knees up, resting my chin on them. “Beck…are you ever going to tell me how you know so much about schizophrenia?”
His eyes finally meet mine, and for the first time all day, there’s nothing playful there. Just that guarded intensity he gets sometimes, as if he’s weighing how much of himself he’s willing to let me see.
The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not a smile. “I could tell you,” he says quietly, “but…I’d rather show you.”
My heartbeat stumbles. There’s something in his voice, soft, sure, and a little vulnerable—that tells me whatever he’s about to share, it’s not a story he offers lightly.
He doesn’t explain right away. Just closes his laptop with a soft click, grabs his truck keys from the hook by the door, and nods toward me.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
I hesitate only a second before slipping off the bed and tugging on my sneakers. There’s something in his voice—gentle, but firm enough that it feels like an invitation, not an obligation.
The late afternoon sun is sinking low as we climb into his truck.
The cab smells faintly like cedar and his detergent.
Neither of us talks much on the drive, but it isn’t uncomfortable.
Music hums low through the speakers, just enough to fill the silence.
Beck’s hands are firmly on the wheel, jaw set in a way that makes me think he’s not entirely sure about this but is doing it anyway.
We turn off the main road about twenty minutes later, the trees thickening around us until a set of gates comes into view. A brick sign out front reads Willowridge Psychiatric Center, letters carved clean and even into the stone.
My stomach gives a soft, sympathetic twist.
Beck pulls into the small parking lot and kills the engine. For a moment, neither of us move. He stares through the windshield at the building like he’s seeing it for the thousandth time and still never quite gets used to it.
“She’s been here for…a long time,” he says finally, voice low. “My mom. She was diagnosed when I was ten. Schizophrenia. It got bad fast. The meds helped for a while, but she had a couple of episodes that…” His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “It wasn’t safe for her. Or anyone else.”
I stay quiet, letting him have the space.
“She’s stable here. Mostly. They have a long-term wing that feels more like a residential program than a hospital.
But she’s not…she’s not the mom I grew up with anymore.
” His throat works, like he’s forcing the words past something heavier.
“Visits are hard. She doesn’t always know who I am.
Some days she calls me by my dad’s name.
Some days she thinks I’m her doctor. And some days…
” He blows out a breath. “Some days she’s just gone somewhere I can’t reach. ”
My chest aches for him. “Beck…”
He shakes his head slightly, like he doesn’t want pity. “Angela was the only person outside of my family who knew. Back when we were together.”
His voice dips lower, rougher, and he clears his throat before continuing—turning his head just enough that his gaze finds mine. He’s watching me carefully. Measuring.
“Not because I told a lot of people,” he adds. “Because I trusted her.”
I meet his eyes, holding his stare. “And then she betrayed that trust.”
The smallest, bitterest laugh escapes him.
“Yeah. You could say that.” He leans back against the seat, eyes drifting toward the building again.
“She was my best friend for a long time. Not just my girlfriend. That’s the part that gutted me.
I didn’t just lose the person I thought I’d spend my life with.
I lost the person who knew everything about me.
“That’s why,” he says after a beat, eyes still on the building, “I promised myself I wouldn’t put my heart in that position again. Not unless I knew for sure it was worth it. No more blind trust. No more giving everything away just to get crushed.”
I do my best to hold back the tears I can feel forming behind my lashes. I can’t imagine the pain of not only walking in on the person you loved being intimate with another person, but to have trusted that person so much with such vulnerable pieces of you. My heart truly breaks for him.
Being publicly humiliated by Zach was one thing, but I had no emotional attachment to him.
I don’t even know if I’d go as far as saying we were friends.
I had hard boundaries with what I would share and even what I’d allow to happen between us physically while I was trying to get myself to fall even the smallest bit for him. Thank God that never happened.
His gaze slides back to mine then—searching. The intensity of it steals my breath for a second. There’s so much sitting in that look. History. Hurt. Maybe even a quiet question he isn’t ready to ask out loud.
One that I might be ready to answer.
But I know now isn’t the time for that conversation, so I clear my throat and look toward the entrance. “Do you…want to go see her?”
“Yeah. I think I do.” He studies me for a beat longer, then nods once. “If you’ll go with me.”
So I do.
Beck exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself, then pushes his door open. I follow suit, the late afternoon breeze cool against my skin as we cross the small parking lot. He reaches for the door first, pulling it open for me, but when we step into the lobby, his fingers brush mine—light, hesitant.
I don’t think about it. I just lace my fingers with his.
His shoulders ease, just barely. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I feel it in the way his thumb grazes my knuckles once, like he’s reminding himself I’m here.
The lobby is quiet, softly lit, with pale green walls and a mural of trees painted along the far hallway. It smells like disinfectant and lavender, an odd mix that tries a little too hard to be comforting.
At the front desk, a nurse in light blue scrubs looks up from a clipboard. “Hi there. Visiting?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Beck says, his voice lower than usual. “Beck Harrison. I’m here to see Lynn Harrison.”
She nods, flipping through a binder before pulling out a sign-in sheet and sliding it toward him.
He scrawls his name quickly, then hands me the pen without hesitation.
I sign just beneath his, heart giving a little stutter as I see my name there next to Beck’s, like this is something we do all the time.
“She’s in her room today,” the nurse says, her tone professional but warm. “It’s been a quieter afternoon, but she has mentioned your last visit quite often since you came to see her. I really think it brought her a lot of happiness.”
He goes still for a moment, jaw tightening the slightest bit. “That’s good,” he says. “I’m glad to hear that.”
The nurse gives us visitor badges and motions down the hallway. “You know the way. Just remember to press the call button if you need anything.”
Beck clips the badge to his shirt, then looks at me. There’s a question in his eyes—not about whether I can handle it, but whether I want to.
I squeeze his hand. “I’m right here.”
For a beat, his gaze softens, something unspoken passing between us like a thread pulled taut. Then he nods and leads the way down the hall.
The linoleum floor gleams under the muted lights, each step echoing softly.
We pass a few residents shuffling toward the common area, some talking quietly to themselves, others accompanied by family.
The air hums with that strange mix of stillness and unpredictability that hangs in places like this.
By the time we reach the long-term residential wing, Beck’s grip has tightened slightly—not crushing, just enough for me to feel how much this affects him.
Outside a pale wooden door with a small plaque that reads Lynn Harrison, Room 212, he pauses. I can see the way his chest rises and falls, measured and practiced, like he’s internally trying to prepare himself for what he will find behind the door.
Then he reaches for the handle.