My name is Kleo, and three years ago, I was just another waitress trying to make ends meet. I worked at M’s Grill, a local restaurant that tried way too hard to be trendy but somehow always fell short.
The pay wasn’t great, but when you added in tips, I was making more money than I ever could have in my actual field.
You see, I’d gone to college for music education.
Spent four years studying voice, learning theory, and dreaming of teaching kids to love music the way I did.
But life had other plans.
Student loans piled up like dirty dishes in a busy kitchen. My mother passed away when I was 26, leaving me with a mountain of medical debt and a father who needed more care than he’d ever admit.
Dad had been diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s two years after Mom died.
He tried to hide how bad it was getting, but I saw the way his hands shook when he thought I wasn’t looking. I saw him struggle with buttons that used to be easy.
“What kind of event?”
“Live music! Liam’s gonna perform for our customers. It’s gonna be incredible.
This guy’s got serious talent.”
Fine. I’m no stranger to chaos. Working in a restaurant teaches you to roll with whatever gets thrown at you.
I figured it would be like any other night, just with background music and maybe a few more customers than usual.
A few hours later, in waltzes Liam, wearing tight leather pants and sunglasses indoors.
He had that swagger that screamed “I peaked in high school,” but was trying really hard to pretend otherwise.
He looked at me, tilted his head, and muttered, “Steph, I’m on fire tonight! I’ll sing so well they’ll all cry!”
My name isn’t Steph, but okay. Rockstar energy.
Got it.
But the charm ended fast. I was busy taping down cables and fixing chairs when I heard him snap behind me.
“Who even are you? Why aren’t you saying hello?”
I blinked and turned around.
I’d literally never met this man before in my life.
Before I could answer, he stormed off and complained to Todd.
“Your waitress gave me a look. Real attitude.”
Todd didn’t even ask for my side of the story.
“Kleo, go to the kitchen. Don’t irritate the artist.”
I swallowed it.
Like always.
A few minutes later, the concert began.
The dining room was packed. Every table was full, and people were standing along the walls.
The crowd was buzzing with excitement, phones already out and ready to record.
Todd had really talked this up, and everyone seemed genuinely excited to hear some live music.
All eyes turned to Liam as he strutted onto our makeshift stage.
And… yikes.
He was a complete mess. Right from the first song, his lyrics were slurred and barely understandable. He kept hitting wrong chords on his guitar, then would stop and restart like nothing had happened.
When he tried to play “Hotel California,” he completely forgot the second verse and tried to cover by yelling, “You all know the words!”
They did not.
The crowd started getting restless.
I watched from behind the bar as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. A few customers exchanged worried glances. One couple near the window was already reaching for their coats.
“This is painful,” I heard someone whisper.
Soon, it got worse.
Liam stumbled over his guitar cord and nearly fell off the stage. When he tried to hit a high note, his voice cracked so badly that several people actually winced.
Then the booing started.
“I paid for this?!” someone shouted from the back.
“Get him off the stage!” another voice called out.
The couple by the window stood up and walked out, shaking their heads. Two more tables followed suit.
By then, Todd’s face was turning red.
But not the embarrassed red you’d expect from someone whose friend was bombing on stage. This was the blame-someone-else red. The find-a-scapegoat red.
