He was still the guy who could make me laugh when I felt like crying, still the guy who seemed to know exactly what I needed before I even said a word, but now, his shoulders were broader, his arms were stronger, and his jawline was sharper, more defined.

He had this way of walking into a room now like he owned the place. It wasn’t cocky; it was just him—just a more grown-up version of Blake.

Just after his birthday, he got his driver’s license. I thought he’d be thrilled to hit the road, but he preferred to ride his bike around town. Halloween night was spent arguing over the best horror movies (Blake said The Shining, while I defended Candyman with everything I had), and Thanksgiving meant stuffing ourselves with Jamal’s mom’s cooking until we could barely move. His mom’s food was legendary. Her turkey was always perfectly cooked, golden and juicy with just the right amount of seasoning.

December arrived before I knew it. The streets glowed with color, and there was this feeling in the air—like the year was winding down, but something new was just around the corner.

We spent one whole afternoon Christmas shopping, mostly making fun of everything in the mall.

“Who’s buying a crystal dolphin for sixty bucks?” Blake scoffed.

“People with taste, obviously.”

Christmas felt magical. Not because of the gifts or the lights, but because of the small things. Blake and I walked through the neighborhood that night, just looking at all the Christmas decorations, our breath turning into fog in the cold air.

“You ever wonder if we’ll still be doing this when we’re old?”

Blake flashed a crooked smile. “Walking around in the cold?”

“No,” I said, half-laughing, half-shaking my head. “Just…being friends. Do you think we’ll still be doing this? Still hanging out even when we’re grown up and busy with our own lives?”

He was quiet for a second.

Then he said, “Yeah, Beverly. I think we will.”

And just like that, it was a new year.

9

BEVERLY, 1997

15 years old

Valentine’s Day had never been something I cared about. To me, it was just another day. Meanwhile, other girls at school got flowers, chocolates, teddy bears—grand gestures wrapped in pink and red, dripping with romance.

Tiffany had been gushing about the bouquet her boyfriend got her, showing off each rose like it was made of diamonds. “Look at the card!” she said, flipping her hair like she was in a shampoo commercial. “It’s handwritten. Isn’t he the sweetest?”

Everyone oohed and aahed, like it was the greatest love story ever told. I smiled politely but didn’t say much. It didn’t bother me. Not really. My life wasn’t a romantic comedy, and I was fine with that. Valentine’s Day was just another day on the calendar.