Chapter 2
BEA
TWO YEARS AGO
The wind cut sharp across Midway, snapping at the hem of my jacket and pushing loose strands of hair into my mouth as I hurried down the path, my boots striking fast against the brick.
Chicago didn’t ease you into anything—it hit you head-on, unapologetic.
Around us, the campus moved in that same rhythm—heads down, coffee in hand, purpose in every step—stone buildings rising on either side like they’d been there long before any of us and would be there long after.
Micah moved beside me like she belonged to it, like she understood the pace of everything without trying.
One hand gripped her clutch, the other cut through the air as she talked, her words quick and animated, her energy threading effortlessly through the noise of passing conversations and distant traffic.
“And I’m telling you, if he looks at her like that again, I’m intervening. I don’t even care if I don’t know him. That kind of body language? Immediate red flag.”
I huffed out a breath, adjusting the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, my focus split between keeping up and keeping my thoughts from spiraling. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Micah shot me a look, sharp and knowing, her mouth curving. “I always know what I’m talking about. You’re just not listening.”
She wasn’t wrong. Not because I didn’t care—but because my brain had been stuck on one thing since Lo’s text that morning.
Dinner tonight. You’ll love him.
I exhaled slowly, the words replaying again, heavier now that we were minutes away instead of hours.
“You’re nervous,” Micah observed, her tone shifting just enough to cut through everything else. Not teasing. Not dramatic. Just… accurate.
I glanced at her. “I’m not nervous.”
Her brow lifted, unimpressed. “Bea.”
“I’m not,” I insisted, even as my stomach twisted tighter. “I haven’t seen her like this. Ever. Not once.”
Micah’s expression softened. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
“That’s exactly the point,” I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair. “Lo doesn’t do this. She doesn’t date. She doesn’t bring people into her life unless they matter.”
“Which means he matters.”
I didn’t answer right away because that was the part I couldn’t quite settle around.
Lo had always been constant. Solid. Mine in a way that didn’t need to be questioned. Even when everything else shifted—schools, cities, expectations—she had stayed exactly where I needed her to be.
And now there was someone else stepping into that space.
For a second, I clung to the fantasy version of things I’d crafted years ago without ever saying out loud.
Lo running off for a while, letting herself breathe, proving to my father that she had a life beyond him.
He’d regret it. He’d convince her to take him back.
They’d find their way to each other again somewhere far from home—somewhere meaningful, somewhere that felt like them—and everything would fall back into place the way it was supposed to.
But even as the thought formed, it didn’t sit right anymore. It felt small. Distant. Like something I’d outgrown without realizing it.
“I just don’t want things to change,” I admitted finally. “But I know they will.”
Micah’s mouth curved, something almost fond threading through her expression. “Nothing is going to change between you and Lo, Bea. You know that.”
I let out a breath that felt heavier than it should’ve.
“And if this goes sideways,” she continued, without missing a beat. “I will absolutely ruin his life for you. Psych major, remember? I’ll dismantle him emotionally.”
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it, the tension cracking just enough. “That’s comforting.”
“It should be.”
We reached the edge of campus just as a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, the timing so precise it almost felt intentional. The driver stepped out immediately, already moving toward us with practiced ease.
Micah’s entire body stilled for half a second. “Oh, we’re being picked up,” she sang out, elated, practically skipping towards the driver.
I closed my eyes briefly. “Micah.”
Her hand slid around my arm, not gripping—anchoring—as her gaze flicked toward the car, then back to me, something curious threading through her expression. “This is either very Lo… or very intentional.”
“Probably both,” I sighed, already stepping forward before she could spiral into a full analysis.
“Mm,” she hummed, lips curving slightly. “I like him already.”
The driver opened the door with a polite nod, and I returned it automatically as I slid inside, Micah following smoothly behind me. The interior was warm, quiet, insulated from the city in a way that felt familiar rather than overwhelming.
Micah leaned in slightly, her voice low, thoughtful now. “Okay, this is nice. Not over-the-top. Just…considerate.”
The restaurant sat tucked down a quiet street just off the main rush, warm light spilling out through wide windows, the interior glowing with a kind of understated elegance that didn’t try too hard and didn’t need to.
The door opened before we reached it, the host stepping aside with a smooth, practiced smile that made the shift from rain to warmth feel effortless.
And then I saw her.
Lo stood near the back of the room, already turned toward us like she’d felt us coming, like distance was something she simply refused to respect. Her face lit—instant, unguarded—and it hit me straight in the chest.
Everything else blurred for a second. The noise softened. The movement slowed. Because she looked the same. Familiar. Safe.
“Bebê,” she breathed, already moving.
I didn’t think. I went.
We met halfway, her arms around me before I could say anything, before I could decide how much of this I was allowed to feel. She smelled the same—expensive florals cut with citrus, bright and impossible to ignore—and something in me settled on contact, like a piece clicking back into place.
“You cut your hair,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to look at me. “It suits you. You look—” Her eyes softened, something quieter slipping through the performance. “Happy. Or at least convincing.”
I laughed, breath catching somewhere between nerves and relief. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Oh,” she breathed, pulling me tighter. “Eu te amo, minha menina linda.”
I exhaled into her shoulder, tension I hadn’t named loosening anyway. “I love you, too” I breathed against her, taking in the sweet scent that comforted me instantly. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know,” she huffed dramatically. “Obviously. I’m delightful.”
She turned then, one hand still looped casually around my wrist, keeping me close as she shifted her body slightly—opening the space beside her without making it a production.
“Bea,” she breathed. “This is Ezra.”
He stepped forward, not rushing it, not performing it.
Up close, he was… calm. That was the first thing I noticed. Not passive. Not detached. Just steady in a way that didn’t need to prove itself. He wore it easily—dark suit, no tie, the kind of simplicity that only worked when nothing about you needed to be explained.
His eyes met mine, direct but not intrusive. “Hi,” he said, voice low, even. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of myself in a way I hadn’t been two seconds earlier. “I’m hoping it was all good.”
The corner of his mouth moved—barely there, but real.
Lo made a soft, satisfied sound, like something had aligned exactly the way she wanted it to. Her fingers squeezed once around my wrist before she let go.
Micah stepped in without hesitation, her vigor shifting smoothly into something polished but still entirely her. “Hi, I’m Micah. I’ve heard a lot about you already.”
Ezra’s smile widened slightly, something amused flickering in his eyes. “Hopefully nothing too damaging.”
“Oh, I’m withholding judgment until after dinner,” she returned, completely unbothered.
Lo laughed, the sound easy and bright, and just like that, the tension in me loosened. Because this—this felt right.
Dinner unfolded like it had been designed to.
Conversation flowed without effort, moving between stories and questions and small moments that layered over each other until the space felt full but never crowded.
Ezra had a way of including everyone without making it feel intentional, drawing Micah in just as easily as he did me, listening in a way that made you want to keep talking.
And Lo—I watched her more than I realized at first. The way she leaned toward him without thinking. The way her eyes softened when he spoke. The way she seemed… settled. Not different. Just… happier.
“Bea, Lo tells me you’re thinking about specializing in Sports PR. Are the rumors true?” The spark in Ezra’s eyes carried genuine curiosity.
Swallowing down a too-large bite of marinara-coated noodles, I nodded. “Lo is correct.”
“Good,” he bellowed, like that confirmed something for him. “What sport holds your attention?”
I smiled. “You call it soccer here. Football is my favorite.”
“Of course it is,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“Bea was an incredible goalkeeper for her school team back in Brazil,” Lo added smoothly.
Ezra’s gaze shifted back to me, interest sharpening. “Goalkeeper,” he repeated. “So you see the whole field.”
I blinked. “I—yes.”
He leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that made me sit up straighter without meaning to. “That’s a useful instinct. Anticipation. Positioning. Reading movement before it happens.”
My fingers tightened slightly around my fork.
“If you ever decide you prefer working inside the machine instead of reporting on it,” he added lightly, reaching for his glass, “people who think like that tend to do very well in my world.”
When the plates cleared and we stepped back out into the night, I expected the evening to wind down. Instead, Ezra glanced between us, something almost playful threading into his expression. “You both busy for the next few hours?”
Micah blinked. “Define busy.”