Page 127 of One Last Encore

"Mom would be so disappointed in you."

Ingrid barely masked her flinch. The words flung like a match into a room full of kindling.

Beck didn’t move, but his body coiled with restraint. His shoulders tensed. His jaw clenched once, hard, before he inhaled slowly, trying to stay calm. "Rodney, I love you," he said, voicequiet but taut. "And I want to help you. But I can’t enable you. That’s not love. That’s not what Mom would have wanted."

"You don’t know shit about what Mom wanted," he spat. "You didn’t give a fuck about her. Not when she was sick. Not when she died."

The words struck Beck visibly, a flash of pain crossing his face before he pulled the mask back on, steady, controlled, but dimmed somehow, like someone had turned down the light behind his eyes.

Ingrid felt something cold settle in her chest. Their mother had died. She didn’t know when or how, but Beck’s silence made her feel the loss like a chill pressing hard against her ribs.

Rodney’s gaze snapped to her then, and his lip curled in a sneer, like he had just noticed her. "Oh, it’s the rich girl," he said, voice thick with disdain. "I know she’s got money. Is she as selfish as you, Beck?"

Ingrid straightened. Beck stepped between them without saying a word, slipping in front of her like it was second nature. He didn’t look angry. No tense shoulders, no clenched fists, no sharp words ready to fly.

He wasn’t here to start anything. He was just making sure she’d be okay if Rodney lost his cool.

And somehow, that made her chest tighten more than if he had lashed out. Because this version of Beck, the measured, present, resolute man standing in front of her, was the one she had always believed he could become. Not the hot-tempered boy with a chip on his shoulder. Not the impulsive dreamer who burned bridges just to feel the warmth. But this man. The one standing between her and someone else's anger, not with fists, but with a calm, steady kind of strength.

Beck held out the grocery bag he had been carrying.

"Take these," he said quietly, offering it to Rodney. "It’s not money, but it’s food. You know where to find me if you want real help. Please, Rod. Just… think about it."

Rodney stared at the bag like it was an insult. His hand hovered in the air for a second, twitching with hesitation. With a muttered curse, he snatched the bag and stormed off, swallowed by the city’s gray edges and late afternoon light.

Ingrid stood frozen, eyes fixed on the spot where Rodney had disappeared, questions swirling with no answers. Just the quiet ache of realization. Beck had gone to rehab. His mother had died. Two truths she’d never known, not because he’d hidden them, but because she hadn’t been there. So much of his life had unfolded without her.

She thought back on the last few weeks: the quiet concern in his voice, the gentleness in his gaze, the weight behind his words.

It all painted a new picture, one she wasn’t sure how to hold. Beck wasn’t just the boy she had once loved. He was a man who had walked through fire, faced his demons, and come out the other side.

And somehow, that shook her more than anything. Because with every new layer she saw, she felt herself being pulled in deeper, not just to who he was, but to who he’d become. And she didn’t know what she’d find if she kept going. Or what it would mean if she turned back.

"I'm sorry about that," Beck sighed as he guided her inside their building. "I've been sending him grocery gift cards, but lately, they’ve been undeliverable to his old address. I haven't seen him in months."

They walked toward the elevator. He rubbed a hand through his hair, the motion restless.

"It’s nearly impossible to talk to him when he’s like that," he said as they reached the elevator. "He loves going for the lowblows just to get a reaction out of me." Beck’s lips pressed into a tight line, his jaw clenched for a beat before he forced a deep exhale. "But I’ve learned not to take the bait."

Ingrid glanced up at him, catching the flicker of sadness in his eyes as they stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft whoosh.

"I used to get so angry when he acted like that," Beck said, his voice softer now, thoughtful. "Every time he lashed out, I’d bite back without thinking. But the more I unpack it... I think that’s how we learned to get attention. Growing up, no one noticed unless you were yelling. Unless you were acting out. Getting into trouble. That was the currency in our house, noise and chaos. If you were quiet or doing the right thing, you just disappeared."

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "It sounds backwards, but that was the only way to feel seen. Even if it meant being seen as a screw-up. And now it’s like... he doesn’t know how to turn it off. I didn’t either, not for a long time."

His shoulders dropped a little, the tension finally beginning to ease. "I just want him to get help," Beck said after a pause, his voice lower now, more private. He looked over at her then, and there was something quiet and knowing in his gaze. A faint, sad smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"I’m sure if anyone knows that, it’s you."

The words were soft. But they hit hard, right at the soft ache blooming beneath her ribs. Because he wasn’t just talking about Rodney. He was talking about himself. About the boy she had once begged to slow down. The one she had tried to hold onto even as he self-destructed in front of her. The one she had loved fiercely and lost to his own chaos.

The elevator hummed as it climbed, but the silence between them was anything but empty. It was thick with memories. With pain. With the quiet, mutual knowing of two people who had seen the worst in each other and still lingered.

"You’re doing what you can. More than most people would."

"I just wish it felt like enough," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She looked at him. At the weariness in his eyes, the way he carried his love for his brother like a bruise he refused to stop pressing on.

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