Page 16 of One Last Encore

For a split second, he thought about explaining. He could lay out the whole amplifier situation, maybe even the reason he spent more nights cleaning up Rodney’s disasters than dealing with his own life.

But that would mean explaining everything. She wasn’t the type to get it. The kind of person who had a plan, a direction, a life that wasn’t held together by duct tape and a dream. What the hell would she want with his mess? No. This was better.

This little back-and-forth, the way she got so annoyed at him. Like he was the most infuriating thing in her perfectly controlled world. It was the most fun he’d had in weeks. Maybe months.

It was safer behind the smirks and sarcasm, behind the version of him everyone liked. Letting people in? That was messy. Risky. Usually not worth it.

Nobody wanted the Beck who lay awake counting overdue bills or dragging his brother home from another screw-up. They wanted the Beck who laughed too loud, drank too much, and never took anything seriously.

"You wish. I’m actually here to audition. Think I’ll get the lead role? I wonder if they have a tutu in my size," he quipped, smirking as Ingrid rolled her eyes.

And then, before he could stop himself, the truth slipped out.

"But I think that’s reserved for you. You are amazingly talented."

She froze for half a second, her eyes widening ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

"I’m serious," he continued. "That was incredible. What’s wrong with those judges? They looked like they were watching paint dry."

Something flickered across her face, a crack in that polished exterior. It was gone as fast as it appeared, but he still saw it. That brief moment of uncertainty. And he knew that look. He lived that look.

He’d mastered tucking emotions away in some corner of himself where they couldn’t touch the raw places inside. It was strange seeing it reflected back at him in someone like her,someone who seemed so poised, so untouchable. But maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she hid too. Just like him.

"That's just how ballet is. Nothing is perfect. Good is never good enough." Ingrid shrugged, her movements controlled, like she was still dancing. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, she was fascinating. She kept walking, and he followed without thinking, like a lapdog.

Something about her made him want to speak, to reassure her. His opinion probably didn’t matter, but it felt important she knew – how talented she was, how beautiful that raw emotion was, how she seemed to pour every ounce of herself into every movement.

"I think you were perfect," he said, surprised by how much he meant it. "And I’ve watched Swan Lake like ten times with my grandma."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He rarely mentioned his grandma, those memories were sacred, untouched by the messiness of everything else. She had been the only person who truly got him, who didn’t try to fix or judge him. After she passed, there was no one left who made him feel that kind of safe.

He cleared his throat. "So, yeah... I know what I’m talking about," he added with a weak smirk.

Ingrid stopped in front of a classroom, her eyes narrowing slightly as they swept over his face, like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

"Well, thank you. Your grandma has good taste," she said, her tone softening.Has. The word hit him like a bruise, but he didn’t correct her.

Crossing her arms, she gave him a skeptical look.

"But seriously," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Class," he said with a shrug, his tone casual as he stepped into the classroom on his left.

Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she hurried after him. "You’re in this class?" she hissed.

He stopped and turned, raising an eyebrow as if to say,What else would I be doing here?

A small groan escaped her lips as she pressed her hand to her forehead, visibly frazzled. "You have got to be kidding me," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him.

As Ingrid begrudgingly entered the room, Beck couldn't help but revel in the unexpected turn of events. Fate clearly had a twisted sense of humor, and he was more than happy to laugh right along with it.

"Don't be so excited. You want to partner up or what?" Beck drawled, smirk firmly in place.

He was baiting her, and he really hoped she’d bite.

Partner selection was a battlefield–pure, unfiltered mayhem. The second the professor gave the word, dancers would pounce, desperate to lock down the best musicians. String players were already being circled like prime cuts at a steakhouse.

These partnerships weren’t just about a grade. They were about status, clout, and securing the least painful collaboration possible. Beck didn’t care about bragging rights, but he did care about keeping his GPA afloat. Scholarships had this pesky little rule about not failing.

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