Page 144 of One Last Encore

She glared at him. "It was raccoon-sized, Beck. It could vote in some countries. I think it made eye contact."

They reached her door. Beck rolled his neck, like he was warming up for battle.

"If I don’t make it out alive," Beck said solemnly, "promise me one thing."

Ingrid leaned in. "Anything."

"Give me a funeral with flair. Kazoo solo. Flash mob. Keep ‘em guessing."

She grinned. "Done. I’ll even hire interpretive dancers and claim it was in your will."

"Perfect," he said. "Confuse the masses."

Beck gave a mock salute and disappeared into her apartment. Silence. Then a shriek. A thud. Something toppled. Then the unmistakable stomp of someone running for their life.

Beck came flying back out like the apartment had ejected him, clutching Freddie like she was a life preserver and he was a drowning man. His face was ghost-white. His breath came in short gasps.

"That’s not a rat," he gasped. "That’s a goblin. That thing pays taxes and files a W-2."

"I told you!" Ingrid squealed. "It’s trying to establish dominion over the living room!"

Beck took a moment to compose himself, still holding Freddie. "Okay. New plan. I’m going to find the maintenance guy. You go to my place, grab supplies. Wooden spoons, colander helmets, mop swords. Whatever you can find. If this turns into a siege, we go down swinging."

Ingrid narrowed her eyes, taking Freddie from his arms. "You’re being ridiculous."

"I’m being realistic," he said, dead serious. "Itdefinitelymade eye contact. It hissed. That rat has opinions."

And with that, Beck slipped on his sneakers and marched down the hallway like a man off to lead the rebellion. She watched him go, torn between concern and the urge to laugh.

Shaking her head, Ingrid stepped into Beck’s apartment. It was familiar from the days Eden had lived there but now it hadunmistakably become Beck’s. There were drumsticks scattered across the counter, a half-zipped duffel bag in the corner, his oversized shoes kicked haphazardly near the door.

Freddie, fully zen after her brush with the rat-adjacent trauma, was already curled up on a flannel shirt like she’d never emotionally invested in the chaos.

She made a beeline for the bathroom because, spiritually, she needed a full decontamination ritual. No, she hadn’t touched the rat. But she’d breathed the same air as it. That was enough. She needed soap. Maybe sage. Possibly industrial-grade disinfectant.

The first thing she noticed in the bathroom was the towels. Not Eden’s monogrammed set from Etsy. No, these were real, fluffy, white towels. The kind of towels that belonged to someone who flossed nightly and knew their credit score.

To her relief, there was soap. And not some sad, half-melted bar wasting away in the corner of a soap dish. This was a proper pump bottle. It was functional, clean, borderline luxurious. And right next to it? Moisturizer. SPF. Beck owned sunscreen now. And used it. Of his own free will. If that wasn’t growth, she didn’t know what was.

She lathered up and scrubbed her hands, then reached for the towel hanging neatly beside the sink. Gone were the days of that communal disaster of a towel Beck and his old roommates used to share, the one they insisted was "still fine if you use the dry side."

She turned to leave, weirdly proud of him for evolving beyond frat house hygiene standards, but paused mid-step. Something on the side table caught her eye.

An envelope. Her name, scrawled across the front in Beck’s unmistakable, messy handwriting. Her heart dropped, landing somewhere near her stomach.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the envelope as if touching it might set off a chain reaction she couldn’t stop. Sheshouldn’t invade his privacy. She knew that. But her name was on it. And beneath it, peeking out from under the first, was another envelope. And another. A stack. Dozens of them.

The breath in her lungs turned shallow, her fingers tingling as she carefully lifted the top envelope. The paper was slightly worn, edges creased as if it had been handled too many times.

Swallowing hard, she tore the envelope open. Inside were two things: a letter and a ticket stub. Her stomach clenched as she turned the stub over. It was from Giselle, opening night. The performance she had starred in a year ago. A sharp, electric jolt ran through her as the memory struck. She unfolded the letter, her eyes quickly scanning the first few lines.

You were breathtaking, as you always are. I almost lingered outside the theater just to catch another glimpse of you, but I decided against it.

Something cracked in her chest, sharp and sudden, like a fault line giving way. Beck had been there. He had watched her. While she had poured herself into that performance, he had been in the crowd, quietly witnessing it all.

The thought stunned her. She tried to picture him in the audience, sitting among the sea of faces, watching a world she had long since convinced herself he no longer belonged to. It was easier to believe he had moved on, that the stage, the spotlight, and everything it demanded of her existed far beyond his reach.

But he had been there. And now, every step she’d taken that night felt different like he had been part of it without her ever knowing.

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