Page 43 of One Last Encore

Her mind couldn’t help but conjure images of him at a bar, drink in hand, flashing that irresistible smile at some unsuspecting girl. She imagined her falling for his charm, laughing at something stupid he said, thinking she was different, thinking she mattered, only to be left behind when things inevitably got too complicated. She would know. She was the prototype.

"What, and miss a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be a recluse with you?" Beck grinned, his smile prying into her chest like a crowbar cracking open a very stubborn can of emotions. "Besides, someone has to stay behind and make sure you don’t get tangled in your fairy lights again."

His gaze flicked to the twinkling string lights draped across her apartment. Yes, they were whimsical. Yes, they made her happy. No, she would not be shamed for it.

"That happened one time," Ingrid huffed, crossing her arms. "And for the record, I freed myself just fine."

"If by ‘freed yourself,’ you mean dramatically collapsed and took an entire bookshelf down with you then sure." Beck folded his arms, looking far too pleased with himself.

She took a slow sip of wine, refusing to dignify him with a response. "Look, if you want to go out, don’t let me stop you. Go. Put on a ridiculous costume. Make choices you’ll regret by morning." She waved a hand toward the door, as if shooing him into the night.

Beck chuckled, a rough, unguarded sound that made the cool air feel ten degrees warmer. Goosebumps prickled over her arms, and she immediately blamed the autumn chill.

"Not interested," Beck mused, leaning against the railing like he had nowhere else to be.

That surprised her. Halloween washisthing–crowds, drinking, revelry. He thrived in it, fed off the energy like some kind of social vampire.

She took another sip of wine, it did nothing to loosen the tightness coiled in her chest. Beck was still watching her, gaze steady, unreadable. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the glass.

"If you say so," she said breezily, tilting her chin up. "Well, if you aren’t going out, then you can’t have any of my wine." She swirled the glass for effect. "This is the good stuff."

Beck smirked. "Generous as ever. But I don’t drink."

That made her pause. She blinked at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke.

"You... don’t drink?" She said it slowly, as if the words themselves didn’t quite make sense together.

She blinked, blindsided, as her mind spiraled back to a time when the clink of bottles and the smell of whiskey had been constants, harbingers of fights that never ended well. Beck had been so consumed by drinking back then, it felt like a permanent part of him, one of the reasons everything between them had shattered so spectacularly.

"Nope. Five years in January," he replied, his tone soft. Her breath caught. Five years in January. She did the math, and her heart lurched. They had broken up at the end of December. One month. One month after she’d walked away, he’d found the strength to change. It felt significant. Had she been the breaking point for him?

She doubted it, doubted she had been the catalyst for something so monumental.

Why then? Why not when they were together? When she’d begged him to see what he was doing—to himself, tothem?

She forced herself not to react, locking her face into the calm, unreadable mask she’d perfected over the years. Still, she could feel his eyes on her, searching for something, some flicker of emotion, some crack in the veneer she refused to let slip. But inside, her thoughts churned, the what-ifs and whys that clawed at her.

"I’m genuinely happy for you," she said, her voice quieter now. And she was. She knew what he had faced, the demons that had haunted him, the ones he tried to bury beneath every drink. His struggles had always been there beneath the surface of his easy charm, like fractures in glass no one else could see.

For a second, she thought about asking about his mom, who’d still be serving her twenty-year sentence. About Rodney, who always seemed one impulsive decision away from wrecking everything. But those parts of his life weren’t hers to hold anymore, and digging into them might only make things harder for both of them.

"Thank you," he said at last, nodding as his eyes met hers. He hesitated, like he wanted to say more but instead, he said, "So… how’s rehearsal going?"

The question landed like a stone in her chest.

Swan Lake.

The last time she danced that role, she’d come dangerously close to losing everything: her career, her confidence, and him. Well, shehadlost him. Though maybe he was never really hers to begin with. Did he even know she was preparing for it again?

"It’s going well," she said too quickly, forcing her tone into something breezy, almost dismissive. She didn’t want to talk about it. Not with him. It felt too close, too raw, tooreal.

So she pivoted. "How’s teaching at Juilliard?"

"It’s been great, actually," he said with a small smile. "Seeing these kids with so much enthusiasm, so much hunger for it. It’s kind of contagious. Makes me remember why I love it in the first place."

For a moment, just a flicker, she saw it. That version of Beck she used to know. The one who could get lost in a melody, who talked about music like it was the most important thing in the world. The one who made you believe that every note mattered.

"It’s official. We’re old. You’re a teacher now. I swear we were students five minutes ago."

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