Page 13 of Shattered Promise

But I can’t go home yet. Not with my adrenaline still spiking, my head still buzzing from too many platitudes and too much practiced charm. So I came here.

Not for company. Not really.

Just for a drink. And maybe for the silence that only a bar at midnight can offer. Or maybe because it’s the only placeI’ve been showing up lately that doesn’t require a smile and a clipboard. The only place that still feels somewhat mine.

Beth glances up as I approach the bar. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, cheeks flushed with exertion. Her arms move quickly, efficiently, a stack of half-wiped glasses to her left and tension tightening the crease between her brows.

She startles slightly when she sees me. “Abby.” Her smile flickers—quick and bright, like a match struck in the dark. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

I slide onto a stool in the corner and slip out of my blazer, folding it across my lap. “Hey, Beth. How are you?” I offer a small smile, but my gaze catches on her hair. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but it looks a few shades lighter than I remember. “You dyed your hair.”

She tosses the towel over her shoulder and a strand slips loose, falling into her face.

I tell myself it’s just the lighting. But something in my chest shifts at the startlingly familiar shade of blonde. Too familiar.

I resist the ridiculous urge to undo my French twist—just to be sure it’s not the same.

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless as she tucks the fallen lock behind her ear. “I took your advice—but I don’t know. Still getting used to it.”

I settle back on the stool, softening my expression despite the ache in my cheeks. It costs me a little, but I dig up something real. A genuine smile, even if the edges feel a little frayed. “I think it looks great on you.”

“You think?” she asks, her brows arching as she looks at me.

“Definitely.”

Beth’s smile stretches wide, and she glances down. “Thanks, Abby. Can I get you anything? We’re out of that peaches and cream soda you like, but?—”

“I’ll take a glass of champagne, if you’ve got it.”

Beth pauses, surprise flickering across her face. “Your fancy event tonight went well, I take it?”

I glance up, caught off guard.

She lifts one shoulder, like it’s nothing. “I run The Blue Door’s socials. The algorithm serves me lots of local businesses and events."

I nod, unsure whether she follows me or just follows the nonprofit account. Probably the latter. They’d been filming content all night—tagging staff and uploading reels mid-event. My phone’s still buzzing with notifications I haven’t opened.

“It was a long one,” I say vaguely, fingers toying with the edge of a coaster. “But yeah. It went well.”

She turns away to grab my drink, and I let out a quiet breath.

Nana Jo would’ve opened a bottle of champagne for something like this. She believed in celebrating even the small wins—the ones that didn’t come with applause or flowers or catered dessert trays. The ones that were just . . . surviving another hard thing.

She returns with two flutes, setting one down in front of me and keeping the other. “It's bad luck to cheers alone.”

I smile, soft and a little surprised. We clink glasses, and I take a sip, letting the fizz cut through the heaviness in my chest. Beth drains hers in one go.

“You okay?” I ask, my brows lifting.

She exhales and places her glass back down. “Just a night. My closer called in. The duo that was supposed to play canceled. Henry’s kid has the flu and his backup’s a no-show. So it’s just me and Ashley.” Her gaze flicks around the room as she talks. It moves too fast to be casual. “But we’ll manage.” She flashes me a quick, bright smile. “We always do.”

An hour slips by as I nurse my second glass of champagne. The bar is louder now, like the closer we get to closing time, the noisier people get. Or maybe the drunker. A table near the backhas gotten increasingly rowdy, laughter rising in waves like tide surges, crashing against the easy hum of conversation.

Beth keeps moving behind the bar, her ponytail swinging as she pulls drafts and mixes drinks. Every so often, she sends me a quick glance with a tight-lipped smile.

I finish the last sip of my drink and set the empty flute down gently. My phone screen is black beside it. Battery drained sometime during the last chorus of whatever alt-country song is humming from the speaker overhead.

I should feel anxious. But all I feel is . . . relief. Like I’ve slipped underwater, and for once, no one can reach me.