Page 27 of One Last Encore

"Wow, France. That’s cool," he said, though something about the conversation made him feel oddly out of place. The closest he had ever been to Paris was Paris, Texas, on a road trip with his mom and brother one summer. He had been eight, and it was during one of her brief sober spells–a stretch of time he mostly remembered because she actually made them sandwiches instead of handing them loose dollar bills and telling them to figure it out themselves.

"Yeah, super cool," Ingrid sighed, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup, her voice carrying the kind of forced enthusiasm that came from years of pretending something didn’t bother her. Beck noticed the shift immediately, wanted to ask, but before he could, she changed the subject.

"Thanks for the hot chocolate," she said. "Can I give you money for it? I know how overpriced it is."

Beck blinked, caught off guard. He had just dropped twenty real-life dollars on two cups of hot chocolate. Almost his entire grocery budget for the week if he strategically avoided name brands, convinced himself that ramen was packed with essential nutrients, and maybe "borrowed" some condiments from the diner down the street. And yet, here he was, making it rain like a man with zero financial foresight.

All because it was her favorite.

He’d noticed the labeled cup in her hand at practice, the way she always got the same order, how she cradled it like it was the elixir of life itself.

"Nah," he said, shrugging. "It’s all good."

She smiled. And just like that, he was twenty dollars poorer and entirely too aware that he would 100% do it again if it made her smile like that.

She continued to look at him. The dying golden light filtered through the trees, a crisp breeze carried the scent of fallen leaves and roasted chestnuts from a nearby cart.

Beck's gaze flicked over her face, catching on the way her sweater deepened the warmth of her light brown eyes–not just brown. They were the shade of expensive whiskey. Or the glossy swirl of a caramel drizzle on a fancy latte. Whatever it was, it was warm, and it did something treacherous to his chest, something dangerously close to soft.

Beck tipped his head back, pretending to admire the canopy of green and orange leaves when, in reality, he just needed to not blurt out something ridiculous about how pretty she looked.

"I love autumn," he announced instead, words tumbling out to fill the space before his brain could betray him.

"Me too," Ingrid said. "It feels like a reset. The only thing I don’t like is that it means winter is right around the corner."

"But nothing beats winter in New York City. Holiday lights, fresh snow, the whole place looking like a Christmas card. It’s magic."

"I don’t know. Winter makes me feel lonely, I guess," Ingrid admitted, her voice quieter. The second the words left her mouth, she winced slightly, as if she wanted to reach out and shove them back in. Beck frowned.

"Why?"

The idea that Ingrid, who always seemed like she had everything figured out, who was effortlessly captivating without even trying, could feel lonely? It didn’t add up. But then again, he didn’t really know her. Not the real her. Not yet.

"The holidays are depressing," Ingrid admitted. "My mom will stay in France with whatever new flame she’s seeing, and my dad will be wrapped up with my stepmom or buried in work. Usually, it's just Eden and me hanging out."

Beck stilled, her words hitting harder than he expected. Guilt twisted in his chest as he thought back to every careless jab he’d made about her "perfect" life. He’d let her appearance and designer purse tell a story that wasn’t real. It was ironic, considering he only recognized the bag because his mom had once stolen the same one and pawned it for booze.

He remembered being the kid with holey sneakers and hand-me-downs, hating how people judged him. And now here he was, doing the same thing to her. It stung more than he wanted to admit.

"I'm sorry about all those rich girl comments," Beck said. He wasn’t big on apologies, but this one came easy. "I shouldn’t have said that."

Ingrid tilted her head, then gave a small, wry smile. "Well, they’re not totally wrong," she said. "But just because my family has money doesn’t mean they’re perfect. Far from it."

Beck wasn’t sure what surprised him more– that Ingrid understood that feeling, or that she trusted him enough to say it out loud. Complicated families... yeah, he knew that terrain like the back of his hand. The way it could hollow you out, leave you smiling through gritted teeth while pretending everything was fine.

He considered telling her everything: the dad who bailed, the mom in prison, the years spent couch-hopping when home wasn’t safe. The way survival mode had been his default setting for as long as he could remember. But instead, he chose something simpler. Enough to say: I get it without unloading everything at once.

"The holidays aren’t exactly magical for me either," Beck admitted. "I usually spend them cleaning up my older brother Rodney’s mess. He tends to binge alcohol, drugs, whatever he can get his hands on. It’s a cycle, and the holidays always seem to set him off."

He paused, his fingers tapping against the side of his cup, debating how much to share. "Rodney’s in the band with me. He’s… troubled, to say the least. Bar fights, public intoxication, broken gear. You name it, he’s done it. And I’m usually the one trying to fix things afterward."

Beck hesitated, the memory of that night at the Battle of the Bands surfacing like a bad taste in his mouth.

"That night during the Battle of the Bands? I’m pretty sure Rodney cut Eden’s guitar cable. I don’t have proof, but I’d bet on it. I think he might’ve sabotaged her the year before, too."

Ingrid’s eyes widened, her fingers toying with the lid of her drink as she absorbed the confession.

"When I found the cut cable, I swapped it out with a spare I had in my gear pack," Beck continued, his voice quieter now. "I confronted Rodney afterward, but he denied everything. Still, I know him too well to believe it wasn’t him."

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