Page 136 of One Last Encore

His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. 1:07 a.m. The numbers burned into his eyes, and suddenly the booze-fueledfog vanished, wiped out by a brutal jolt of clarity. His heart slammed against his ribs. He couldn’t breathe right.

Ingrid.

Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.

His stomach lurched. The whiskey turned sour, churning like acid in his gut.

Her opening night. The performance she’d been pouring herself into for months. Panic surged. It was instant. Primal. Electric.

He shoved off the booth and staggered to his feet so fast his knees gave out beneath him. He crashed against the table, grabbing the edge, his fingers digging into the worn wood until the pain cut through his skin.

And then it hit. The second blow. Heavier. Crueler.Mom was dead.

The thought slammed back into him like a freight train barreling through his chest. It knocked the air from his lungs, crushed every bone beneath it. He swayed, vision tunneling, breath shallow and ragged.

There was no time to sit with the grief pressing down on him. No space to grieve, or scream, or fall apart the way his body begged him to. Not now. Not when Ingrid was waiting. And he hadn’t shown up.

He stumbled out of the bar, shoving past chairs, past tables, past the bartender’s disapproving glare. The moment the cold night air hit his face, he broke into a sprint. His legs wobbled beneath him, the alcohol still thick in his veins, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He thrust a shaking hand into the street, waving frantically until a cab screeched to a halt.

The ride blurred past in streaks of neon and headlights, sirens crying somewhere far off. Ingrid’s name lit up his phone screen again and again.

Ring.

Voicemail.

Ring.

Voicemail.

Each missed call hit like a hammer to the chest, stacking panic on top of panic until it twisted into something sharp and breathless.

When the cab stopped outside her building, Beck was out before the driver could even speak. He sprinted to the front door of her apartment building but it was locked. He slammed the buzzer with his palm, again and again. His pulse pounded in his ears, in his throat, in his skull.

A tenant exited, and Beck lunged, catching the door before it clicked shut. He slipped inside without a word. He took the stairs two at a time, heart battering his ribs, hands shaking so violently he nearly tripped.Don’t be too late. Not again.

He reached her door and pounded with everything he had.

"Ingrid!" he shouted, voice already frayed. "Please, open up!"

Nothing. He hit the door again. Harder. Louder. His fists a blur of panic and desperation.

"Ingrid, please!"

A neighbor cracked their door. "Jesus, man, shut the hell up!"

He didn’t care. He kept pounding, kept shouting, even as his hands throbbed and his voice shredded in his throat. He was half-surprised no one had called the cops already.

And then his strength gave out. His knees buckled. His back hit the door, and he slid to the floor, breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.

His mother’s face flickered through his mind. Faint. Distant. It had been years since he’d even seen her. All he had left were scraps, her apologies, the broken promises, the silence after calls that never came. She had always chosen the bottle over herboys. Over him. He and Rodney had waited. Hoped. Hurt. Until resentment settled in like rot.

And now she was gone. No second chance. No final conversation. No way to fix any of it.

And Ingrid. God, Ingrid. The only person who had ever believed in him, really seen him. She was slipping through his fingers the same way. The realization wrapped around his throat, cutting off air, thought, everything. He had done to her what his mother had done to him. He had chosen the bottle. The shame burned hot and relentless, eating through him like acid.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, minutes, maybe hours. Time blurred. His limbs were heavy, bones leaden, his mind a raw and hollow ache. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t leave. Not like this.

Then he heard footsteps. A soft shuffle on the stairwell tile. His breath hitched. His chest seized, like invisible hands had closed around his lungs and squeezed. He looked up and there she was.

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