Beverly waved through a yawn as Alicia walked away, before heading in the opposite direction as the other girl. Normally, she would go to her dorm and collapse to get some sleep before her calculus final the nest day, but the letter in her backpack wouldn't leave her mind.

It was late in the evening, so Cynthia would be at home; Beverly was going to give her the letter from Francis.

The walk was long, since Cynthia's extravagant home was located just outside the city limits. There was no way she'd call Griffin for a ride, though—she was on her way to open up his godmother's old wounds, and she had a feeling his promise of "never really" getting mad at her wouldn't apply in this instance.

By the time she reached Cynthia's house, Beverly was exhausted, panting, and inwardly scolding herself for not working out more.

Blowing out a fluttering sigh, she straightened the backpack on her shoulders before knocking three times on the stained oak door.

Cynthia whipped it open a moment later with an exclamation of, "Miss Bev! What a pleasant surprise—come in, come in."

Beverly's smile was so fragile a small breeze could have broken it. "Thanks, Cynthia." She followed the older woman inside, her backpack feeling heavier than ever with the burden that rested inside.

Cynthia led her to the kitchen, and Beverly climbed onto one of the stools that rested in front of the island.

"Here," Cynthia said, dropping a cup of fresh coffee in front of the tired student. "It's not Griffin's mocha, of course, but it looks like you could use something." She winked, before turning back around and pouring another mug for herself. Beverly swallowed heavily, taking a long swig of the coffee and not even noticing how it burned her mouth.

"So," Cynthia started, hopping up in the stool next to Beverly, "what brings you by my not-so humble abode today?"

Starting intently at the flowery designs on the mug, Beverly traced a finger over the rim. "I don't know how to say this. Do you . . ." she sucked in a steadying breath, turning to meet Cynthia's curious gaze. "Do you know Francis Knott?"

Cynthia's demeanor changed entirely. Gone was the smiling, cheery woman; the sudden paleness of Cynthia's features made her look far older than she was. "W-what?" she stuttered, leaning back in her chair and eyeing Beverly with shock. "Francis? Why would—how do you know Francis?"

"I'm not trying to pry into your business," Beverly rushed on, pulling her hands off the mug and setting them on her knees. "I met Mr. Knott a little while ago, and I mentioned your coffeehouse, which is how he knows I know you. I saw him again recently, and he gave me something to give to you. I thought I would deliver it, if you'd like it."

Breathing in slowly, Cynthia nodded numbly, her eyes staring straight through Beverly. "I see. May I," she licked her lips, and Beverly wasn't blind to the spark of hope that seemed to appear in the other woman's gaze, "may I see it?"

Nodding hurriedly, Beverly shifted, digging through her backpack and pulling out the folder containing the letter. Slipping the letter out, she handed it to Cynthia, watching as the other woman took it carefully, as though it were a precious diamond that needed to be protected at all costs.

"I can't believe . . ." tears appeared in Cynthia's eyes, and she chuckled wetly. "After all this time. I thought he'd forgotten about me."

Beverly placed her hand on Cynthia's knee and confessed, "I don't think he ever did. He said to give this to you only if it seemed right—the last thing he wants to do is hurt you."

Instead of providing the intended comfort, the words only seemed to make things worse—Cynthia's lower lip wobbled, and Beverly mentally cursed herself out for making the woman cry.

"Sure," Cynthia laughed again, though this time it was bitter. "Hurt me. Right. I'm sorry, Beverly," she didn't sound very sorry, "but I need you to leave."

Beverly pulled her hand back in shock. "I'm sorry, Cynthia. I didn't mean to cause trouble or any—"

"Leave." Cynthia's jaw was tight, and the words were cold. "And, if you're smart, you'll stay away from Francis Knott. Goodbye, Beverly." Slipping off the barstool, Cynthia dropped the letter in the kitchen trashcan before striding smoothly out of the room.

"Shit." Beverly muttered. This was bad.

Correction: This was an absolute disaster.

But there was nothing more to be done about it at that moment, so she slipped off her seat and began to walk towards the front door, before stopping and staring at the metal trash can seated in the corner of the kitchen.

Don't do it, the sane part of her mind demanded. Don't you do it!

The apparently insane portion whispered back, You never know. Things change—maybe she'll want it after some time passes.

Obeying the perhaps less-than-wise voice in her head, she plucked the letter out from the bottom of the can, brushing off some pastry crumbs and tucking it back into her bag before hurrying out of Cynthia's home.

The walk back to her dorm had never felt so cold and lonely.