46. Beth
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
BETH
S trolling through the doors of my childhood home, I mentally chastised myself for the butterflies flapping crazily in my belly. This was my mum and dad, for goodness’ sake. Maybe I was uneasy because it almost felt like I’d been lying to them since I was eighteen years old. Or maybe it was the dread plaguing me this week because Callan was acting … off .
I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was with me, but there was a wall up. He didn’t want to talk. He came home from training, we ate, we watched some TV, we had sex. We even made love. But we weren’t talking and that wasn’t us. Even if we had nothing in particular to chat about, he and I were still good with the banter. Once we had an entire twenty-minute discussion about the best flavor of Walker’s Crisps.
However, since we’d said I love you , there had been no banter. Sometimes I caught him watching me with a sad but worrisome intensity. I didn’t tell him I loved him again and he hadn’t told me. It frightened me. What it could mean.
For now, I had to put that to the back of my mind. It was difficult. I could feel that particular fear crouched there in the shadows, not willing to fully fuck off.
The front door slammed shut at my back. “It’s me!” I called.
Callan was training today for their away game tomorrow against Kingston, the other big Glasgow club. This game was the Scottish Series Cup semifinals, not the Pro League.
So I’d asked my mum and dad if we could talk alone.
“We’re in here!”
Following my mum’s voice, I found her and Dad in the kitchen.
They both got up from the dining table to hug me, their gazes searching. Concerned.
“Want a coffee?”
“I’ll get it.” I moved toward the coffee machine. “You two good?”
They sat back at the table and gestured to their mugs.
“So … what’s this about?” Dad asked without preamble.
There were those swooping nerves in my stomach again. “Let me get my coffee first.”
“Is it about Callan? Because your mother and I would really like to meet him if you two are getting serious.”
“We are serious,” I replied. “I thought it would be less intense for him if he came to a Sunday dinner. That way he’s not facing you two alone. And he’s already met Elle and Grandma Elodie and Grandpa Clark. They liked him.”
“We know.” Mum rested her chin on her palm. “If a Sunday dinner is what you want, that’s what we’ll do. What about tomorrow?”
“He has a match tomorrow, but he’s free next Sunday.”
“How convenient,” Dad murmured, visibly irritated.
“Aye, Dad, Callan rearranged the Scottish Pro League tournament just so he didn’t have to do Sunday dinner until next week.”
Mum snorted.
“You can surely wait.”
Dad grumbled under his breath before taking a sip of coffee.
“This talk isn’t about Callan? Because your dad and I have been worrying like crazy. We thought you might be pregnant or something.”
“Not pregnant.” I took my coffee over and sat down on the opposite side of the table so I could look at them both.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “You’re nervous. Why? You never have to be nervous with us.”
They appeared almost wounded by the notion.
I exhaled slowly. “I’m nervous because I feel a little like I’ve been lying to you for years.”
Mum placed a hand on Dad’s arm to halt whatever he was about to say. And instead she said, “Explain.”
Cupping my palms around my hot mug for comfort, I took another deep breath and confessed, “It started with Amanda …”
I managed to get through it all without crying. About my grief, about feeling like I failed Amanda, and how that fear of failure grew into anxiety. About having a prescription for anti-anxiety medication, the panic attacks, and how it all flared up again while growing the company and reconnecting with Callan.
When I finished, Dad leaned forward, expression anguished. “Why didn’t you tell us any of this?”
And that’s when the tears came. “Because admitting it out loud felt like I was actually failing.” The sob escaped before I could stop it. Years of keeping it all locked up, flooding out.
Dad’s chair scraped back and he rounded the table, pulling me out of my seat to hug me. So tight. I held onto him and cried.
“You are not a failure, my sweet girl.” Dad kissed the top of my head. “Never. And if you think we didn’t notice how stressed you are, you’re wrong. We noticed. We just didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. But we know now, and we are always here when and if you need to talk.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered.
The sound of Mum’s chair moving brought my head up.
She was pacing by the island, her hands in her hair. “Mum?”
Dad straightened. “Jocelyn?”
Mum waved him away, not looking at us but visibly trembling.
“Babe, don’t do that. This is not your fault.”
Mum’s fault? How could it be Mum’s fault?
She whirled around, eyes bright with tears, her expression aggrieved. “Not my fault?” She gestured to me. “My daughter thinks having panic attacks and anxiety makes her a failure. So much so she hid it from us, Braden. My kid. Took all of that and her grief on her own shoulders for almost seven years.”
“What’s going on?”
Dad gave me another squeeze before he released me, rounding the table toward Mum.
“Don’t.” She backed away from him, her gaze darting to me. Pleading with me. “I thought being a good mom meant sheltering your kids from everything that might scare them, including myself. I thought being a good mom meant putting on a front of being strong all the time.” She swiped impatiently at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “And your dad tried to tell me I didn’t have to hide it from you, and I still did and now look. Look what happened.”
“Jocelyn, don’t take this on, babe.”
“What is going on?” I repeated, slowly making my way around the table toward Mum because she was freaking me out. I hated seeing Mum in tears. She wasn’t a person prone to crying.
Dad looked ready to pounce on her as soon as she’d let him. The fact that he didn’t do it meant he was holding back for a reason.
Mum’s shoulders slumped as she met my gaze. “There’s a lot to tell you. First and foremost, I suffered PTSD around the time I met your dad. I started having panic attacks brought on by suppressed memories of my family.”
My lips parted in shock. “You?”
“Me. And not only that … I started seeing a therapist who was my therapist for a long time. She made me realize that I was also suffering PTSD and feelings of failure over the death of … my best friend.”
Stunned, I gaped at her. I knew about Mum’s best friend Dru dying in high school. I knew because she’d told me when Amanda died. She’d been horrified we shared such a terrible bond of grief.
However, she hadn’t told me she felt like she was somehow at fault for Dru’s death too.
“We had a fight at a party over a boy. It was a kegger at the river. She was drunk … she was not in her right mind, and she wouldn’t come down off this frayed rope swing that hung over the water. She fell in. I … couldn’t save her.” Mum shrugged sadly. “It took a lot of therapy and your dad to help me rationalize that situation. I should have told you about it. All of it. About the panic attacks. I … I haven’t had one in so long …”
“In ten years,” Dad supplied hoarsely. “The day Beth turned fourteen.”
Mum’s lips trembled as she asked in awe, “You remember that?”
“I remember everything, babe.” And he was done keeping his distance. He crossed the room and pulled Mum into his arms. She didn’t fight. She melted against him, her crying soft, quiet.
It unnerved me to see her like that.
Mum was always so strong, so together.
Like I pretended to be, I realized.
Goodness, we were more alike than I knew.
Dad gestured to me with his free arm, and I didn’t hesitate. I practically dove into his embrace, wrapping one arm around him and the other around Mum. She pressed a kiss to my forehead as Dad bundled us close. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“You are not a failure,” she told me, her tone fierce. “You are a strong, kind, smart, wonderful daughter, and we are so proud of you. And we are here for you whenever you need us.”
After a long moment of holding each other, we finally let go with tearful wee laughs. Dad settled us back at the table before brewing more coffee.
“Will you tell me about your panic attacks? You don’t have to right this second, but maybe at some point?” I asked Mum, afraid to push her, but thinking it might be helpful. Just knowing she knew what they felt like was a huge relief.
“Of course. The last one was because you turned the same age I was when my family died. I couldn’t get rid of the dread, like we were going to be taken from you.”
“Mum.” I hated that for her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
She covered my hand with her other. “I was pretty messed up with grief when I met your dad and Aunt Ellie. Between them and therapy, I did a lot of healing. But grief isn’t linear. Like you’re discovering for yourself. It hits when you least expect it. I’m just so sorry you’re experiencing that.”
“Was the recurrence of the panic attacks what made you finally decide to tell us?” Dad asked, setting fresh coffee down on the table.
“No. It was Callan.”
That visibly surprised my parents.
“I had a panic attack in front of him and everything came out. I told him all of it.”
Mum nodded. “You needed someone to talk to.”
“I think I needed him . But he told me that I needed to talk to you . To tell you everything that’s been going on with me. I think … I think he might be for me what Dad is for you.” I hoped this recent distance between us wasn’t second thoughts on his part.
“Really?” Mum rubbed my hand. “That serious, huh?”
“Aye.”
“Fuck,” Dad huffed, slumping into a chair.
We both looked at him, eyebrows raised.
Dad scowled. “I hate him.”
My stomach knotted. “How can you hate him? You’ve never met him. Is this about Gavin?”
“No.”
“Braden, he’s been there for our daughter when she needed someone. He encouraged her to confide in us.”
“He’s also a player whose been in and out of the tabloids for his revolving door of women.”
Mum glared. “Look who’s talking, Mr. Serial Monogamist. When we met, you slept with two other women in the time it took me to give in to your unique brand of charm.”
“They were casual. I can’t even remember their names.”
“Holly and Nadia.”
Dad grinned. “See, I really didn’t remember that. But it’s telling you do. I knew you were jealous, even then.”
Mum glared. “My point is you can’t hold having a past against the guy. We all have pasts.”
“I can hold it against him when the guy is dating my firstborn child. Beth deserves better.”
“ Our firstborn child. She deserves the person she wants.”
“I’m sorry, but when have I ever liked any of her boyfriends?”
Unfortunately, that was true. Deciding it was time to interrupt, I blurted, “But, Dad … I love him. This is different. I’m in love with him. No going back, this is it, love .”
His glower only intensified. “You’re right. That is different. I hate him even more now. And if he hurts you, I’ll fucking ruin him.”
Anger heated my skin. “Dad … he lost his family like Mum. I …” Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them. “I really want to give him a family again. To give him my family. Like you gave Mum a family again. So please, please curb the macho dad bullshit and give him a chance.”
Dad studied me intensely for a few seconds and then his expression softened ever so slightly as he looked from me to Mum. When their eyes met, I imagined a thousand memories exchanged with that one look. And my goodness, I could only hope Callan still looked at me with that much love twenty-odd years later. Dad turned back to me. “I’ll give him a chance.”
I squealed in happiness and threw myself out of my seat to wrap my arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses. “Thank you, Dad. I love you!”
He chuckled wearily, patting my back. “All right, all right. I love you too, kid.”
Releasing him, I rounded his chair only to throw my arms around Mum. “I love you.”
“I love you, baby.” Her words were hoarse, filled with emotion. “And I’m here, anytime you need to talk. Anytime. You hear?”
“I hear you.” I kissed her temple. “And I promise not to keep anything like this from you again.”
She gently pushed me away but only to hold my gaze. “You are not a failure. You didn’t fail Amanda, and you didn’t fail yourself or this family. Sometimes, we need a little help to deal with life and all it throws at us. And that’s okay.”
Emotion clogged my throat because Callan had said something similar. A weight had been
lifted when I confessed it all to my boyfriend, though not in its entirety. I knew that, because
I could feel the rest of it floating up and away. Freeing me. At least for now.