Her lips parted, as if she was about to say something, but then she shut her mouth. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and I knew that whatever she was thinking, she wouldn’t say it out loud.

We sat like that for a long time. I found myself staring, almost hypnotized, as her fingers skimmed the surface of the water, tracing lazy patterns like she was writing something only she could understand.

Unable to endure the silence any longer, I cleared my throat. “Was the date really that bad?”

Beverly snorted. “He asked me if I believed in soulmates.”

I blinked. “And?”

“And then he said, ‘Because I think you might be mine.’”

“Jesus Christ.”

She sighed, dragging a wet hand over her face like she was trying to physically wipe the memory away. “It was like a bad rom-com. It felt like he was reading from a script. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I mean, come on. ‘I think you might be my soulmate’? What do you even say to that? Thank you? Let’s plan the wedding? It was so awkward. I almost felt bad for him.”

“Almost?”

“Well, then he started talking about fate and how he doesn’t believe in coincidences and how maybe the universe put us at the same theater every weekend for a reason⁠—”

“What’d you say?”

Beverly’s fingers stilled in the water. “Huh?”

“To Reese,” I clarified. “When he got all deep about soulmates. What’d you say?”

“I told him I don’t believe in soulmates.”

I raised a brow. “Liar.”

She scowled at me. “I’m not a liar.”

“You used to say you did,” I reminded her.

Beverly hesitated, and in that brief pause, I knew she remembered. She remembered sitting under the oak tree in our backyard when we were kids, whispering about soulmates like they were something sacred. Something inevitable.

I could almost hear her voice again, younger, softer, filled with quiet certainty. There’s someone out there for everyone, she’d said back then, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. Someone who fits so perfectly it’s like they were made just for you.

“I was twelve,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I also thought that if I wished hard enough, unicorns would appear in the backyard, and that if I stared at the sky long enough, I’d see a shooting star.”

“You did stare at the sky for five hours once,” I reminded her. “Gave yourself a sunburn,” I added, a grin tugging at my lips.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. That was probably the worst sunburn I’ve ever had.”

I watched her for a long moment, my chest tightening. “So, what do you believe now?”