Page 67 of One Last Encore

"This is not a case! There is no case!" Ingrid protested, her voice inching toward hysteria. "I mean, sure, do I think about him all the time? Maybe. Do I feel like I’ve swallowed a live grenade every time he looks at me? Possibly. Do I want to run my hands through his stupidly perfect hair while also shoving him off a moderately high surface? Who doesn’t?"

Sylvia blinked. Eden looked mildly alarmed.

"Uh-huh," Sylvia said.

"Totally normal, non-love-like behavior," Eden added, nodding sagely.

"Exactly!" Ingrid exclaimed before pausing. "...Wait."

Her brain took a sharp left into crisis mode. Because this wasn't love. No way. That would be ridiculous. Love was big and serious and involved things like joint bank accounts and sharing a Netflix password.

This wasnot that.

"How did you know Jessica was the right person for you?" Ingrid asked, flopping onto the couch. Freddie jumped up beside her, narrowing her green eyes at Sylvia like she, too, had suspicions about where this was going.

Sylvia smiled dreamily. "It was the way she supported me. The way she made me laugh. The way she touched me. It just clicked."

Ingrid’s stomach dropped.

Because if that was the standard... then Beck technically checked every box.

"Shit," she muttered, absently stroking Freddie’s fur. "I think I have... a mild case of caring. Like, just barely. Medically insignificant."

Eden burst out laughing. "Oh, babe. You’re doomed."

Sylvia patted her knee sympathetically. "Don’t fight it. Just let it happen."

Ingrid scowled. "I refuse. I am not some lovesick idiot who–"

"You’re literally lovesickrightnow," Eden pointed out, gesturing broadly at Ingrid’s entire existence."You’ve been sighing like a lovesick Victorian heroine and pacing like a suburban dad who just realized the grill’s out of propane five minutes before dinner."

Sylvia nodded. "Honestly, if you don’t go kiss him, I might."

Ingrid shot her a glare. "I hate both of you."

Eden grinned. "Because we’re right?"

"Obviously."

She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. She felt trapped. One path was familiar: push Beck away, build her walls higher, let him think she didn’t care until he gave up and left. That was her specialty. It had worked before.

But this time was different.

Because just the thought of losing him made her stomach clench.

And the alternative? Letting him in? That meant showing him everything. Not just the good parts, but the scars, the baggage, the pieces of herself she barely acknowledged. It meant trusting him. And that was terrifying.

Her mother’s voice hissed in her head, a chorus of reminders from childhood:

No one wants to hear about your problems.

Just sit there and look pretty.

You’d be perfect if you didn’t open your mouth.

Words were tossed around so casually, yet they were shaping her into a closed-off emotional black hole. Words that made her into someone who wore perfection like armor, keeping her feelings locked away. Beneath the polished surface, she was always fighting, always struggling, and at one point, she had turned that fight inward. The scars reminded her of how far she’d come since then.

But with Beck, it was different. Talking to him didn’t feel like a burden.

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