Page 75 of One Last Encore

Ingrid glanced at him, deadpan. "All three. And maybe a laser pointer, just in case things go sideways."

As they walked, Beck suddenly slowed, his gaze snagging on a store window display. Ingrid smirked. This was their stupid little game: spot the ugliest outfit and say, "Hey, didn’t you wear that last week?" It was childish, and it never failed to make her laugh.

She followed his line of sight, bracing for some horror show of sequins and pleather, but instead, she found a small glass case with delicate men’s chains laid out on black velvet. One in particular caught the light: a simple, polished gold chain with a compass pendant.

Not exactly roast-worthy, and judging by Beck’s suddenly serious face, it wasn’t a joke.

Ingrid’s gaze flicked to the price tag. It was gold-plated, so the price wasn't outrageous. A pang of guilt pinched her chest. Beck was barely scraping by on gig money. Their lives were different, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.

She’d worked hard for her independence. She taught dance classes every summer, covering most of her expenses, but there was no denying the safety net beneath it all. She lived in her dad’s fully paid-off apartment. Her mother sent her expensive gifts every month, luxuries she accepted because it was easier than explaining that what she really wanted couldn’t be bought or shipped.

Even if she lost everything, she’d still be okay. Beck wouldn’t. He had no backup plan. Just him, hustling to stay afloat.

"God, being broke sucks," he said. "Good thing I’ve got a winning personality to fall back on."

"You’re rich in all the ways that count," she teased, bumping her shoulder against his.

He grinned. "Damn right I am." Then he leaned in, eyes warm. "I’ve got you.”

And then he kissed her. When they finally pulled apart, he stayed close, his forehead resting lightly against hers. Then he slipped his hand into hers, their fingers finding each other.

They started down the subway stairs, the city noise fading behind them. Ingrid swiped her MetroCard and passed through the turnstile. Without missing a beat, she swiped again and waved Beck through.

He blinked. "Hey–"

"Shh," she said. "Don’t argue with someone holding the card."

"I could’ve paid," he said, stepping through after her.

"I know," she said. "But I’ve seen you try to argue with the ticket machine. I’m saving us both fifteen minutes and a dramatic monologue."

"I wasn't arguing," he said, following her through. "I was negotiating."

"Oh, right. I forgot you and the MTA are in a committed relationship."

"Not anymore," he said, nudging her shoulder gently. "I’ve been seeing someone new. She spoils me and pays my fare."

"Must be serious," she said, her voice light.

He glanced at her, his tone quieter now. "Yeah. I think it is."

Her stomach did a little flip. She liked to think it was serious too, but the truth was, she wasn’t even sure she knew what serious meant anymore. She cared about him.A lot.

Was he her boyfriend? No clue. No one had said the word out loud, and honestly, she was too afraid to ask. Saying it would make it real. It would mean stepping into something with both feet, no exit strategy.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what his life had looked like before they met. He had given her pieces of it, small details tucked between laughter and long silences, little glimpses that never quite added up to the full picture. But she wanted it all. She always wanted more of him. And if all he ever gave her were fragments, she’d still take every single one.

"What was it like for you growing up?" she asked softly.

Beck was quiet for a moment, as though deciding how much of himself to give, "Honestly? It was rough." He exhaled slowly, as if dredging up the memories took effort. "We didn’t have much. My mom was more into booze than taking care of us. I always wore Rodney’s hand-me-downs, stuff that barely fit. Middle school was hell. Kids love to tear you apart for things like that."

Ingrid’s heart twisted at the image–Beck, younger, smaller, alone in all the ways no kid should be. But maybe that version of him, the one who had to survive all that, was what made him so solid now.

"The first day of sophomore year, this kid shoved me in the hallway, same guy who’d been on my case for years," Beck said, his voice low, tightening at the edges. "I’d hit a growth spurt thatsummer, finally bigger than him. And I just… snapped. Threw a punch. Broke his nose."

He paused, jaw flexing once before he added, "I got suspended for two weeks. But the bullying stopped after that. Guess I finally scared them off. But I broke my hand, and couldn’t drum for months. That part sucked the most."

Ingrid’s breath caught as she watched him, the pain of those years still written in the tight line of his mouth. The tension around his mouth eased as he turned toward her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

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