Page 34 of One Last Encore

She picked it up carefully, her thumb brushing over the image. They were younger, smiling like they had all the time in the world. His arm was draped over her shoulder, effortless, familiar. She remembered the moment clearly. How he hadpulled her close just before the flash, the way he had looked at her afterward, as if she was the only thing that mattered.

Her throat tightened, and she forced herself to set it aside.

Beneath it, her fingers found the frayed edges of a ticket stub.The Red Shoes.She let out a breath, a bitter smile ghosting her lips. It had been her favorite film, one she had convinced him to see with her. A ballerina, torn between love and the stage. At the time, it had felt poetic. Now, it felt like a warning she hadn’t been wise enough to heed.

The box was a collection of moments frozen in time, fragments of something that had once been whole. She had believed, once, that if she buried them deep enough, they would fade. That she would stop feeling the echoes of what they used to be.

She set the lid back in place, pushing it under the bed as if distance could lessen its weight.

Gripping the cup in her hands, she sat with it for a long moment. The warmth was comforting, deceptively so.

Then, without another thought, she stood, carried it to the sink, and tipped it over. She watched as the liquid spiraled down the drain, vanishing in seconds. If only it were that easy to pour out what hurt, to empty herself of everything she wasn't ready to feel.

CHAPTER 11

INGRID. EARLY OCTOBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

"Would you choose love or ballet?" Beck asked as they stepped out of the theater, the cool autumn air curling around her. The dim red glow of the marquee flickered against his face, casting him in shifting light.

"Ballet, duh," Ingrid replied without hesitation, flashing a grin. "Easy choice."

Beck let out a short laugh. "Wow. Not even a pause for dramatic effect?"

"Us creative types are married to our art," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, only for the wind to immediately slap it right back. "Ballet is forever. Love is... seasonal."

Beck snorted. "So what, love is like pumpkin spice?"

"Exactly," she said with a smirk. "Highly overrated, too."

"Harsh." He shook his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Well, I’d choose love."

Ingrid squinted at him. "You would?"

"Yeah. Seems like a solid investment."

"Have you ever been in love?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She wasn't sure she even wanted to know the answer.

Beck chuckled, the sound blending into the distant honk of a cab speeding past. "No," he admitted. "But I can imagine it. And judging by the number of songs and movies about it, it’s gotta be pretty great."

Ingrid snorted. "Flawless logic, really."

Before she could tease him further, a sharp gust of wind sliced through the street, sneaking under her thin jacket. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Beck noticed instantly. "You’re freezing."

Before she could say a word, he reached for her hand. Then he tucked both their hands into the pocket of his jacket like he’d done it a hundred times before.

His hand was warm and rough and the cool touch of his rings against her skin sent a quiet shiver up her spine. She glanced down, heart skipping, at the way their hands fit together, hidden away in that small, shared space.

A tingling sensation coursed through her, warmth creeping up her neck. She stole a glance at him, catching the faint pink flush on his cheeks from the cold. She quickly looked away, swallowing hard.

In the past few weeks, an unspoken rhythm had formed between them. After every practice, they somehow ended up together. Two weeks ago, it was a jazz lounge. The week after, a slow walk home from Juilliard that somehow turned into an impromptu tour of Central Park.

Beck had grown up on the outskirts of Philadelphia and, despite living in New York for three years, had somehow managed to avoid exploring most of it. Ingrid, being the gracious New Yorker she was, had taken it upon herself to introduce him to the city's hidden gems–dragging him to the carousel, herfavorite bridge, and the winding paths that felt like secrets only she knew.

Tonight was movie night, just like Beck had suggested. A movie night he had secured through highly questionable means.

Technically, he had "won" their pool game. Though "won" was a very generous term, considering the shameless cheating and the one undeniably illegal ear nip that nearly gave her a heart attack. Still, she’d let him have it.

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