Tiffany adjusted her sweater—completely unnecessarily, considering it was perfectly fitted—and smoothed her hair like she wasn’t suddenly aware of how she looked. Jamal kept stealing glances at her in the way someone pretends they’re not looking.

It was subtle. Almost.

She cleared her throat and turned to me. “Anyway, Beverly, back to your wardrobe, do not let your mother catch you in those sad black leggings again. You own real pants⁠—”

I smiled at them—at my chaotic, ridiculous, beautiful life. There were still hard days. Still memories that knocked the air out of me sometimes. Still grief that didn’t quite know where to go.

But there was also this. Inside jokes. Laughter. Forgiveness. Love that didn’t need to prove itself anymore. And Blake—sitting beside me, now with his laptop in one hand and his other hand on my thigh—looked at me like I was still that girl sitting under an oak tree with him, only now he had a promise in his eyes.

There was nothing left to chase. No past to run from anymore. No shadow to haunt me. Just soft, certain love in front of me.

That night, we stayed at the studio too long again. Barefoot and sweaty, blasting music and shouting over each other about who got to pick the next track. Jamal was attempting a pirouette and knocking over folding chairs. Tiffany was wearing a pair of designer boots and claiming they absolutely qualified as dance shoes. Blake was sitting in the corner, watching me like he always did—like I was the only thing worth looking at.

I walked over, my arms crossed. “You going to dance,” I asked, “or just lurk like a creep?”

“I’m more of a visual learner,” he said with a lazy grin.

“Come on, Posh,” I teased. “Let’s see your moves.”

Blake sighed but stood, his fingers curling around mine. “Oh, the things I do for you. You know this ends with a sprained ankle.”

“I’ll kiss it better.”

Later, we decided to walk home barefoot, shoes in hand, the streetlights flickering gold as the city buzzed quietly around us.

“You good?” he asked, brushing his knuckles against mine.

Smiling, I looked up at him. “I’m more than good,” I said, lacing our fingers together. “I’m home.”

He stopped walking, turned to me, and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m going to love you forever, Beverly Price.”

I kissed him under the flicker of a broken lamppost, the air sweet with summer and sweat and the future.

“I know,” I whispered. “I’m going to let you.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a book means living in your own head for a very long time. This story would not exist without the people who reminded me that stories matter, even (and especially) when they’re messy.