You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
You half-expect to see Betty backstage after the show too, but she doesn't come. There's a crowd when you're leaving; there always is, but you don't see her there either as you're bustled through to the waiting car.
She's probably on her way home, where a tired Kitty will climb into her arms to be carried to bed, warm, tiny and heavy with sleep, still smelling faintly of milk. You can see Betty reading a story to the little girl; something involving farm animal noises that Betty could imitate, Kitty's eyes and smile wide. You can see Gladys, having just finished the dishes, leaning against the doorway, tea-towel still in her hands as she watches the person who was everything to you read to the person who is now everything to her. You can see Betty tucking her in, half-closing the door behind her and putting her arms around Gladys. You turn your face to the window; you don't want to imagine any more. It almost feels intrusive, even if it's only your own imaginings.
You're resigned, you tell yourself, to accept this... relationship. Gladys and Betty always did work well together, whether it was on the factory floor, or hunting down a spy or a saboteur, and you assume they work together just as well when making a life together with a child. It's none of your business, really. You turned Betty down, when you were young and stupid, full of ideals and religion. You gave up your second chance when you left this city and along with that the home Betty had offered; you can't expect a third chance. That she talks civilly to you should be enough.
It isn't. Your hands remember the way hers felt in them.
You didn't come here for her, you tell yourself a few times unconvincingly. You came because your manager asked you to. Not because some part of you hoped to be reunited in any way with Betty, or anyone from the factory. You only came here for the music. For your fans.
You're escorted into an elevator, then into your room, then your driver gracefully slips away. Your tea and supper is waiting for you but you go to your suitcase and pull out the bag of tea you bought earlier. You boil the water in a saucepan over the stove, thinking how commonplace this used to be to you. There is no teapot, no strainer, so you do your best but the leaf-water is lumpy and boiling. The delicate china is warm in your hands; a little too warm, but the sensation is relieving. It's so relieving to feel something after all your emptiness.
You can't shake the feeling that it wasn't supposed to end like this. One short and slightly awkward afternoon, one quick hug outside her house, one brief conversation where you couldn't convey anything other than how important she used to be in your life.
You open the window of the hotel room; you remember this hotel, Gladys stayed here when her fiance went to war. The smell of the lake permeates the room and you're struck with memories of Sandy Shores, of tentatively asking Betty to dance with you, her shy refusal, her body pressed against yours when you gently insisted, the way she shook with laughter at something you'd said. You don't remember what was so funny now, but you remember the way her laughter felt against you, the smile that graced her face when she met your eyes again. You sit on the window-ledge, look out over the flickering city, one foot on the sill. You should shower and get ready for bed but there's something to this wallowing, this processing, that's making you feel like you're missing something important, like you're anticipating something that might, just might, happen.
When you sip the tea, it's lumpy but not unpleasant. When you go to the bathroom and catch sight of yourself in the mirror there are leaves in your teeth. You turn on the hot tap and as you undress, you turn your back to the mirror and let your eyes peruse the bare expanse of skin you usually try to ignore. You know that it's Betty you have to thank that there aren't more scars. You know you would never have escaped if not for her. You wouldn't have minded going to prison for it; most of your life you were imprisoned in one way or another. it wouldn't have been the hardship Betty imagined. Now you're free, free to run your fingers along the sharp edge of a scar that will never fade, that still sits raised and pinkens in the steam of the shower.
There were so many better choices you could have made. You were right to run away from your father, you were wrong to run away from Betty and downright heartless to do it twice. The water stings as it hits your skin, and if you close your eyes, you can almost imagine the smell of cordite, the sounds of women gossiping among casual nudity. You can almost imagine Betty next to you, back turned deliberately to you but close enough that you felt safe.
You'd never felt safe before Betty. You'd never had anyone fight for you. You never knew anyone to fight like Betty. So you fought too; fought your way through hardships to where you are now, but you wish you'd stayed where you were. With Betty. Where it was safe.
And now it's too late, and you shouldn't be thinking about Betty like this. It's disloyal to Gladys, who was always braver and bolder than you.
She was brave enough to get what she wanted. It just happened to be what you wanted too.
Author's note: Much busy. Very exhaust.