Page 23 of One Night in Glasgow
“Your mother is right. Don’t think for a second they won’t fire you,” Dad boomed, stepping back in to deliver the final blow, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “They will. And when they do, if you still refuse to go to Switzerland, then you’re cut off. Completely. No allowance, no credit cards. You’ll be on your own.”
My mother stood, her movements graceful and final. “The choice is yours, of course,” she said, though her tone made it clear there was no choice at all. “A restorative six-month retreat to Switzerland, or the harsh reality of a world that does not coddle the MacLeod name.”
Back in my apartment,I kicked off my shoes and plopped down on the bed, tossing my mobile onto the pillow.
How had everything turned into such a nightmare? Just a few days ago, I’d been on top of the world, thinking I could have it all, the wild nights outandthe responsible volunteer work. Now it was all crumbling around me.
My phone buzzed again, and against my better judgment, I picked it up. It was a message from Kinna: “You okay, babe? It’s a shit show out there. Call me if you need me.”
I opened a social media account, scrolling through the endless mentions and hashtags. #WildChildBeth was trending, along with #MacLeodScandal and #MotivationalMistress. Each tweet felt like a knife to the gut.
Once a party girl, always a party girl. #WildChildBeth
Poor Sean McCrae, getting mixed up with that train wreck. #MacLeodScandal
Guess money can’t buy class. Or common sense. #MotivationalMistress
I kept scrolling, powerless to look away from the train wreck. Former classmates weighing in with their own “wild Beth” stories. Acquaintances distancing themselves, claiming they’d always known I was trouble.
As I read comment after comment, I felt myself spiraling. They were right, weren’t they? I was a mess. A fuck-up. A lost cause. Maybe Mum and Dad were right to want to ship me off to rehab. Maybe I really was beyond help.
But then, buried in the sea of negativity, I saw a single post that made me pause:
Met Beth a couple days ago. She seemed genuinely kind and caring. Maybe there’s more to her than the headlines? #GiveBethAChance
It was from Maisie, the girl I’d connected with during the pottery class. My chest tightened as I stared at her words, feeling a glimmer of hope in this shit storm. She’d seen something in me that day, something beyond the party girl image. And for a minute, I’d seen it too.
I draggedmyself out of bed, feeling like I’d aged a decade overnight. The weight of the scandal pressed down on me, threatening to crush what little determination I had left. But I couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not when I’d finally found something that mattered.
With a heavy heart, I got dressed, opting for a modest blacktop and slacks. I’d been volunteering at Bright Futures for nearly a week, and I knew better than to wear something like flashy designer labels. Especially since I was going for ‘repentant volunteer’, not ‘wild society’s child’.
The drive to the Bright Futures office felt like a march to the gallows. Every traffic light was an opportunity to turn back, to hide under my covers and pretend the world didn’t exist. But I kept going, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a few people I knew hurrying inside. Their eyes darted away as soon as they spotted me.Great. Looks like everyone had seen the news.
I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders. “You can do this, Beth,” I muttered to myself. “Just get through the day. Show them you’re more than a headline.”
The moment I stepped through the doors, the atmosphere changed. The usual buzz of activity dulled to a hush. I felt every eye on me.
I kept my head high, ignoring the burning in my cheeks as I made my way to the volunteer lounge. A group of women I’d chatted with just yesterday suddenly found their phones fascinating as I entered.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a number I recognized with a lurch of my stomach.
Colter.
Unbelievable.The absolute nerve of this guy, calling me now after he completely bailed last time. I’d gone all the way down to that pub, waited like an idiot for him. In some ways he was responsible for all this misery. If Colter hadn’t stood me up that night, I wouldn’t have met Sean.
I stabbed the silence button on my phone without a second thought. I was here to work.
“Morning,” I said to the room, my voice sounding too loudin the awkward silence. A few mumbled responses, but no one met my eyes. Right. This is going to be fun.
I was just about to grab my volunteer badge when Maisie appeared at my elbow, holding out a small, lopsided, but recognizably pot-shaped object.
“I, uh, finished glazing the one I was working on the day we met,” she said, not quite meeting my eye. “Claire said it was one of my best. Thought you should have it.”
I took the small pot, its surface still slightly warm. It was honestly a bit of a monstrosity, but it was also the most wonderful thing I’d held all day. “Maisie, thank you,” I said, my voice thick with an emotion that surprised me. “It’s brilliant.”
“Whatever,” she mumbled, but a small smile played on her lips before she turned and scurried back to the art room. I stood there for a moment, clutching the little pot, a fragile warmth spreading through my chest. See? I told myself. This matters. This is real. They can’t take this away from me over some stupid, overblown photos.
