Page 31 of One Night in Glasgow
Beth sat at a small table near the back. Her fiery hair, usually a vibrant statement, fell like a dull curtain around her face as she stared down into a coffee cup, her shoulders slumped. She was wearing an oversized hoodie that dwarfed her frame, and even from outside, I could see the tension inher posture, the way she held the cup in both hands as if it were a lifeline. The fire I’d been so drawn to had been banked, leaving behind a woman who looked lost and terribly alone.
She looked like she’d been through hell.And I had sent her there.
The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside, the warm air thick with the scent of coffee. Beth looked up as I approached, and for a moment, her eyes widened. The impact was immediate. I saw a flicker of surprise before it was violently shuttered behind a wall of hurt and anger.
“Sean,” she said as I reached her table, her voice low and sharp as broken glass. “Come to gawk at the train wreck you helped orchestrate?”
Her words made every defensive instinct roar to life. But I crushed the impulse. My entire professional training screamed at me: Don’t react. Listen. Validate.
“Beth, I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice sounding hollow. I pulled out the chair across from her, moving slowly, deliberately. “Can I sit?”
“It’s a free country,” she said with a shrug, her gaze fixed on a point just over my shoulder.
I sat, the small table feeling like a vast, empty canyon between us. “You’re right to be angry. The last thing I ever wanted was to cause this kind of chaos in your life. I can only imagine how hard this past week has been.”
I saw a flicker of confusion in her eyes. Her defenses were braced for a fight, and I hadn’t given her one. But the confusion quickly hardened into a sharp, intelligent suspicion.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet as she finally met my eyes. The force of her gaze was startling. “Don’t you dare use your motivational speaker voice on me.”
My composure, my professional armor, didn’t just crack. Itshattered. The tools I used to navigate every difficult conversation in my life were suddenly rendered useless, exposed as cheap tricks.
“I’m not,” I started, but the lie died on my lips. “I’m just trying to say I’m sorry?—”
“No, you’re not,” she cut me off, jabbing a finger in my direction, her voice gaining strength. “You’re ‘actively listening.’ You’re ‘validating my feelings.’ You’re treating me like one of your clients who needs to be talked off a ledge.”
“You’re right,” I admitted, my own voice now raw.
“Where were you when I was getting fired from Bright Futures because of you?” she demanded, the dam of her composure finally breaking. “When my parents cut me off completely? When my friend died a few days ago from an overdose? Where were you when I needed you the most?”
The accusation knocked the air from my lungs. Her friend… dead? My mind scrambled, trying to make sense of it. The only friend of hers I even knew the name of…
“What? Kinna?” I asked, my voice strained.
“No, duh,” she snapped, a look of pure disgust on her face. “Kinna never touches drugs. It’s Colter. He is... was my best friend.” Tears gathered in her eyes.
I’d never heard of him, which made me realize that she had a whole life, a whole world of pain I knew nothing about.
“I tried to call,” I said weakly, the excuse sounding pathetic even to my own ears. “Your mother said?—”
“My mother.” Beth let out a short, harsh laugh completely devoid of humor. Her posture shifted, her spine straightening as her hurt transformed into pure, molten rage. “My mother, who’s spent my life trying to control me, who sees me as a reflection of her own reputation. You took her word as gospel and just… disappeared.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, but they were tears of fury now. She refused to let them fall. “I was trying to respect what your family wanted. I was trying not to make things worse for you.”
“Make things worse?” She stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Several heads turned. The sudden attention seemed to fuel her anger rather than temper it. “How exactly could you have made things worse, Sean? By being there? By giving a damn?”
I stood too, the small cafe suddenly feeling like a courtroom where I was the sole defendant. “I do give a damn,” I said, my voice rising to match hers. “That’s why I’m here. I came here because I care about you.”
“Care about me?” Her voice was laced with disbelief. “You don’t even fucking know me.” She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, her movements sharp and final. “I’m not a project, Sean. I’m the mess you left behind.”
“Beth, wait?—”
But she was gone, the door chiming softly behind her. The sound was a mockery, a gentle period at the end of a brutal sentence. I sank back into my chair, the gazes of the other patrons feeling like physical weight. I was a fraud. A complete and utter fraud.
My hand went to my pocket, my fingers closing around the cool metal of the bracelet.
“Sean?” I turned to find Danny in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. He must have seen her leave. “I’m sorry, man,” he said quietly, walking over. “But maybe… maybe it’s for the best. You got to say your piece.”
I looked down at my closed fist, the sharp edges of the bracelet digging into my palm. Danny was right, in his practical way. I’d tried. I’d failed. It was time to go home. The manI pretended to be on stage would have known what to say, how to fix this. I, apparently, had no idea.
