Page 60 of One Last Encore

"I’ve seen some bad drunks. I’m not like Rodney or..." Beck’s voice trailed off, his mother’s face flickering in his mind. He gave a weak chuckle, trying to shake it off. "I mean, I don’t think I’m that bad when I drink. But yeah... I can be impulsive. Can’t everyone?"

The thought of being anything like his brother, or worse, his mother, made his skin crawl. He wasn’t like them. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

"Maybe you shouldn’t drink then," Ingrid said gently. No judgment, just quiet concern. And somehow, that made it even harder to hear.

Beck’s jaw tightened, her words hitting him in a place he tried not to visit. Memories surfaced, unbidden. Shouting matches that rattled the walls. The sharp crash of dishes shattering. The nights he buried his head under a pillow, desperate to muffle the screaming. It was all too vivid, too real.

He had sworn he’d never become that. Told himself he had it under control. He got up every morning, made it to class, played gigs, paid his bills. He was functioning.

But functioning wasn’t the same as living. And deep down, he knew that. The bottles tucked away in cabinets, in corners,even behind the toilet. They weren’t just for the occasional drink. They were a crutch, a safety net he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Because the weight was constant: his band depending on him, his brother’s chaos pulling him under, the nagging voice that whispered he wasn’t enough. The liquor didn’t fix any of it, but it dulled it, made it bearable enough to get through the day. He knew it wasn’t sustainable, knew he was toeing a line he shouldn’t be. But the thought of giving it up? That felt impossible.

Ingrid’s gaze didn’t waver, her eyes steady and filled with something he couldn’t name. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved. It wasn’t pity. It was deeper than that, and it cut right through him.

"I can handle it," he said, sharper than he meant to. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they rang hollow. His eyes dropped to the ground, to his hands, anywhere but her.

"I would never purposefully do anything to hurt you," Beck said earnestly, his gaze locking onto hers. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

He studied her, the way her fluttering skirt and tight leotard clung to every line of her frame, the way her muscles held the rigid tension of someone always bracing for impact. His gaze drifted lower, landing on her pink pointe shoes, where small blotches of red had seeped through the satin.

"Your feet…" he murmured, his voice heavy with concern.

"They’re fine. It happens sometimes," she said briskly, brushing off his worry like it was nothing.

Seeing her bloodstained shoes stopped him cold. It wasn’t just the pain; it was what the pain represented. She was pushing herself too hard, chasing some unreachable standard. This wasn’t dedication anymore, it was self-sacrifice, and he wasn’t sure she even saw the damage it was doing.

In that moment, he saw himself in her. Both of them clung to the things they thought might fix them, numb them, help them hold it together. Different methods, same intent. Crutches, really—ways of masking hurt or filling empty spaces, even as they quietly consumed pieces of who they were.

Ingrid cut through his thoughts with a sharp tone. "We can just focus on the class. You don’t have to pretend you care."

Pretend? The word hit harder than it should have. If anything, he cared too much and too fast.

He met her gaze, and beneath the icy defiance, he saw it. The fear. The doubt. The hesitation that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with herself.

She was afraid of what he represented, something that could pull her off course. Her entire life had been built on discipline, on the belief that if she just worked hard enough, controlled everything enough, she could mold herself into exactly who she was supposed to be.

He was unpredictable, the kind of mess she couldn’t afford. And yet, she was here. Talking to him. Lingering even when every instinct told her to run. And now, she was grasping at straws, doing everything she could to push him away.

"You’re lying to yourself," he said, voice low and steady. He reached behind him, closed the door, and flipped the lock with a quiet click. Then he stepped forward, gaze pinned to hers. "You kissed me, Ingrid. You wanted it. And now you’re pretending it didn’t happen."

He stepped forward. She stepped back. A slow, silent dance until her spine met the full-length mirror.

"You think if you push hard enough, I’ll let you go," he murmured. "That I’ll walk away."

She said nothing.

"It’s not going to work," he said quietly. "You’re not going to scare me off that easily."

"Pity," she snapped, brittle and sharp-edged. "Because I don’t even like you." The words landed flat. A lie so thin, it barely held its shape. They both knew it.

He stepped in, close enough for the heat of her skin to brush against his. Close enough that his breath stirred a loose strand of hair near her cheek.

"Lie to yourself if you want," he murmured, "but don’t waste it on me."

He found her hand, his fingers tracing the backs of hers before gliding down. His thumb settled over the fast thrum at her wrist. Her head tipped back against the mirror, eyes shuttering, chest rising quickly.

"You don’t like me, huh?" he asked, teasing.

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