Chapter 9: Reckoning at the Bar
The air in the bar turned to glass.
Beatrice stood just inside the doorway, backlit by the streetlamp glare, a silhouette quivering with contained lightning. Her gaze didn’t wander. It drilled straight through the haze and landed on Agatha, perched in Rio’s lap, Rio’s hand a blatant claim on her thigh.
Wanda’s story about the disastrous microbiology final died in her throat. Jen slowly put her pint glass down. Alice, ever the observer, leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing like a scientist assessing a volatile reaction.
Rio’s fingers didn’t still. They continued their slow, maddening circuit on Agatha’s skin, a deliberate, tactile mockery. She didn’t even look toward the door. She kept her eyes on Agatha’s profile, watching the color drain from her face. “Well,” Rio murmured, her voice a low vibration only Agatha could feel. “The ghost of girlfriend’s past.”
Agatha’s body went rigid. The whiskey in her stomach turned to acid. This was the confrontation she’d known was inevitable, but not here. Not now, with her friends as witnesses and Rio’s scent all over her.
Beatrice started walking. The crowd seemed to part for her, sensing the storm. She moved with a brittle, jerky momentum, stopping a foot from their table. Her eyes, red-rimmed and shining with a furious hurt, scanned the scene: Agatha’s intimate angle in a stranger’s lap, the protective curl of Rio’s arm, the half-empty glasses that spoke of an established evening.
“Agatha.” Beatrice’s voice was a strained wire. “We need to talk.”
“I believe we did talk,” Agatha heard herself say. The sarcasm was a reflex, a rusty shield. “Your parting critique of my character was particularly memorable.”
“Don’t,” Beatrice snapped. She flicked a blistering glance at Rio. “Can you give us a minute?”
Rio finally tilted her head up. A slow, cool smile touched her lips. She looked utterly, infuriatingly comfortable. “She seems fine right where she is. Don’t you think, mi cielito?” The endearment was a landmine.
Agatha flinched. Beatrice’s face flushed a mottled red. Wanda made a small, nervous squeak.
“Who the hell is this?” Beatrice demanded, her finger jabbing toward Rio.
“I’m Rio.” She extended her free hand, the picture of polite menace. “You must be Beatrice. The architect of my good fortune.”
Alice choked on a sip of beer, turning it into a cough. Jen let out a low, appreciative whistle.
Beatrice ignored the hand, her focus returning to Agatha. “So this is where you went. Straight from our bed to… this.” Her gesture took in Rio’s all-black attire, her sharp cheekbones, her palpable aura of control. “Classy, Agatha. Really.”
“Our bed had been cold for a long time,” Agatha said, forcing the words out. She willed herself not to shrink, to meet Beatrice’s gaze. Rio’s steadying hand on her thigh was the only thing anchoring her to the spot. “You just didn’t notice until you were alone in it.”
“Don’t you dare rewrite history!” Beatrice’s volume drew looks from neighboring tables. “We had problems, everyone does! You didn’t even try. You just found the first… distraction that looked at you and you bailed.”
Rio laughed, a soft, dark sound. “Oh, I looked. I looked very carefully. And she wasn’t ‘bailing.’ She was swimming for shore. I just provided the lifeline.”
Agatha felt a hysterical urge to laugh. The metaphor was absurd, but it fit.
Beatrice’s composure finally cracked. Tears spilled over, cutting through her anger. It was a raw, ugly crying, devoid of grace. “I love you,” she said, the words thick and desperate. “I’m messed up, I know I am, but I love you. We can get help. We can fix it.”
The sight of her crying used to unravel Agatha. It would trigger a tidal wave of guilt and responsibility, bending her back into whatever shape was needed to make it stop. Now, she felt a distant pang, like hearing news of a natural disaster in a far-off country. Tragic, but removed.
Rio sensed the shift, the wavering. Her thumb pressed down, a point of acute, grounding pressure on Agatha’s thigh. A silent command: Stay.
“Love isn’t an apology you get to keep repeating,” Agatha said, her voice quieter now. “It’s not a reset button you hit every time you fuck up. It’s showing up. You didn’t. She did.”
Beatrice wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing her mascara. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. She looked at Rio, really looked at her for the first time—the confidence, the possessiveness, the effortless authority.
“You think she’s your savior?” Beatrice’s laugh was a brittle shard. “You have no idea what you’re stepping into. She’s a fortress. Good luck getting in. And when you do, good luck living in all that empty space.”
She turned her burning eyes back to Agatha. “You’ll get bored. You’ll miss the mess. And you’ll be alone with that brilliant, cold brain of yours. Again.”
It was the most perceptive, and the most cruel, thing Beatrice had ever said to her. It struck bone.
Before Agatha could form a reply, Rio moved. In one fluid motion, she shifted Agatha off her lap and stood up. The difference in their height was slight, but Rio’s presence seemed to expand, filling the space between tables. She didn’t get in Beatrice’s face. She simply stood, a calm, immovable object.
“The mess,” Rio said, her tone conversational, “was you. The clutter, the chaos, the constant emotional hangover. She’s not a fortress. She’s a cathedral. And you were always just scribbling on the walls.”
The bar had gone nearly silent. Even the indie rock on the speakers seemed to fade.
Beatrice stared at Rio, a muscle twitching in her jaw. She looked from Rio’s serene face to Agatha’s stunned one, to the ring of friends who were no longer hers. She saw no allies. Only witnesses to her defeat.
“Fuck you,” she whispered, the words devoid of heat. “Fuck both of you.”
She turned and walked out, her shoulders hunched against the weight of every stare. The door swung shut behind her, swallowing her whole.
The sound rushed back in—music, chatter, the hum of the refrigerator. It felt obscenely loud.
Agatha sat frozen on the bar stool, her legs trembling. Rio remained standing beside her, a hand now resting lightly on the back of her neck.
“Well,” Wanda breathed, breaking the silence. “That was… um. Intense.”
“I need another drink,” Jen declared, signaling the bartender. “A double. For Agatha. And for Rio, who just won the verbal knife-fight championship.”
Alice was watching Agatha. “You okay?”
Agatha opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She was a swirl of guilt, relief, shame, and a terrifying, soaring freedom. Rio’s fingers gently massaged the tense cord of her neck.
“She’s fine,” Rio answered for her, her voice returning to its normal, easy cadence. “Just exorcising the last bit of bad energy.” She leaned down, her lips close to Agatha’s ear. “Breathe, cielito. It’s done.”
Agatha took a shuddering breath. The air still felt charged, like after a thunderstorm. She looked at her friends—Wanda’s concerned eyes, Jen’s approving nod, Alice’s thoughtful expression—and then up at Rio. That dark, captivating gaze held no triumph, only a quiet, steady certainty.
Rio had called her a cathedral. Not a fortress. The distinction, in that moment, felt monumental.
“I think,” Agatha said, her voice finding its footing, “I’ll take that double.”