Love is a series of choices, a commitment that’s renewed every second of the day. In theory, people are capable of loving multiple times throughout their lifetime, experiencing different kinds of love with different people, each one distinct in its own way. In reality, some people leave such an imprint that the concept of love itself begins to change. Some people enter our lives not simply to be loved, but to change the way we understand love.

Beverly was one of those. She wasn’t just someone to love; she was the missing variable in the equation of my life. Without Beverly, nothing added up. And so, I chose her—again and again, in every version of time.

I chose her in the past, when I first saw her, when she first smiled at me like I was something worth looking at.

I chose her in the present, swimming in the ocean, with the salt on our skin and our hearts in each other’s hands.

And I would choose her in the future, in every tomorrow, in every unknown, in every possibility the world could offer.

EPILOGUE

BEVERLY, 2002

20 years old

There were three things I never thought I’d say in one sentence:

1. I live in Los Angeles again.

2. My boyfriend is my foster-brother-but-not-really-who-I-left-and-then-ran-back-to.

3. I own a dance studio that doesn’t smell like gym socks.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Blake said, already grinning as if he knew he was about to be annoying. He stole a fry from my plate, all sun-kissed smugness and long legs that somehow stretched across half the studio floor. “What if we install a dance floor in the ChimeIn office lobby?”

I gave him a long, flat stare. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Not mutually exclusive,” Jamal muttered, flipping a page of the XXL Magazine with the energy of someone who believed he was better than all of us. Which, okay—maybe sometimes.

The studio was bright with late afternoon light, the windows thrown open and a breeze flirting with the sheer curtains. Tiffany stood balanced on a chair in the middle of the room, holding a measuring tape like it was a sword.

“Mannequins should have actual boobs,” she declared. “Or, like, at least a suggestion of boobs. Justice for all bra sizes.”

Jamal, sprawled across the velvet couch in the corner, didn’t look up. “Are you body-shaming mannequins again?”

“I’m body-correcting,” she said, twirling the tape measure like a ribbon dancer. “Blake, if you let Bev dance in the office, I want a fashion show runway in the break room.”

“Approved,” Blake sighed, sipping from my soda. “Also, I may or may not have acquired a controlling interest in that fashion label you’ve been stalking for six months. You’re welcome.”

Tiffany froze mid-twirl. “Wait. Gilted LA?”