Page 124 of One Last Encore

Sylvia groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "Oh my God, you always do this–"

But Ingrid wasn’t listening anymore. She was too busy scanning the café, her eyes skimming past the line of people waiting for their orders until they landed on him.

Standing at the counter, broad shoulders, tattooed hands, familiar silhouette. One hand was fishing out his wallet, the other cradling a bag of groceries. Because, of course, the universe decided to plop Beck here, at the café a block from their apartment building.

Her hands went clammy. Her heart, the traitorous little thing, went rogue in her chest. She hadn’t seen him since their night out a week ago. And she still didn’t know where they stood.

"Oh. Just Beck," Ingrid said, as nonchalantly as humanly possible, even as her stomach executed a flawless series of pirouettes.

Sylvia slowly turned her head to her. "Just Beck?"

"Yeah?"

"Just the guy you’ve been in love with since the dawn of time? Standing right there in front of us? Oh, no big deal. Totally casual. Super chill," Sylvia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, I have so much to fill you in on," Ingrid muttered, forcing a tight smile as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "Oh, you think?"

Lowering her voice, Ingrid launched into a rapid-fire explanation. How Eden had oh-so-conveniently let Beck move in next door. How yes, they now shared a wall. Sylvia leaned in, eyes glittering with intrigue.

Ingrid hesitated. Then, in a whisper, she confessed, "And then there was Thanksgiving."

Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, this should be good."

"I found out he still wears the necklace I gave him."

Sylvia slapped a hand over her heart. "WHAT?"

"And then he..he told me he wanted to start over. That I’d always been right for him." She swallowed hard, her cheeks heating as she added, "He even recreated our dates."

Sylvia audibly gasped. A woman at the next table shot them a weird look. Ingrid ignored her.

"He still wears the necklace?" Sylvia whisper-shouted. "And the dates? Holy shit."

"Shhh! Keep it down," Ingrid hissed, though she couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her

“Ingrid, come on, he still loves you. This is Beck we’re talking about!"

Her heart faltered at the words, a stutter in her chest, her palms damp with nerves. She wanted to believe it. Wanted to let herself believe it. But was it real or was she just clinging to some hopeless, romanticized version of him? Of them? The sting ofhis silence back then, how he hadn’t even fought for her, still sat heavy in her chest.

She knew she could find love again without him. If she tried, if she let herself be open to it, it would come. Maybe slower, maybe gentler. The kind of love that built itself brick by brick, that didn’t burn so hot it scorched everything in its path. Maybe she would even be happy.

But deep down, in the quiet places she rarely touched, in the marrow of her bones, she knew it would never be like Beck.

No one else whose laughter felt like home, whose silences spoke in the same language as her own. His scars were mirrors of hers somehow, shaped differently, worn differently, but forged in the same kind of fire.

Their lives had veered in opposite directions, but still managed to land in the same emotional coordinates. The same longings. The same quiet ache to belong somewhere, to someone. And the terrifying truth was that she might still want to choose him. Not because she needed him to be whole. But because, despite everything, some part of her always would. Again and again.

Sylvia, utterly unaware of the emotional spiral unraveling just two feet away, was still basking in the secondhand drama. "You know," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "I have always liked Beck. Especially when he punched Weston. That was a personal highlight for me."

Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Violence is not a love language."

Sylvia grinned. "It is when the guy getting punched totally deserved it."

Before Ingrid could argue, Sylvia suddenly tensed. "Oh my God."

"What?"

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