Keeping good company, as Beth had to keep reminding herself, was not a skill that she had.
Example:Amelia Shepherd's proclivity for finding deadbeat bars in the back of Manhattan, all because she felt that the thrill of a speakeasy made the experience more authentic.
Authentic? Beth wasn't exactly sure whether getting E-Coli or ringworm from an unwashed glass made her life authentic, but she was fairly sure that it would make it at least a little more interesting.
The proposition of following Derek Shepherd's youngest sister around back alleys of the Big Apple was a little more exciting than the usual social calendar that Beth had fallen into–– through six months of pretending she knew what she doing at med school events and Addison's Sunday brunches, Beth was beginning to feel like a Stepford Wife.
Sure, maybe tumbling across a threshold to go schmooze a shitty bottle of beer had a chance of killing her, but wasn't boredom too?
She was fairly sure that boredom was one of the worst killers the United States had ever seen, right behind Heart Disease and Gary Ridgway, but, either way, Beth needed something exciting.
For a lack of better words: She needed to live a little.
But, unfortunately, so did her friends. And oh, did they live a lot.
"You're an asshole, you know that, right?"
It was her greeting as she threw her purse down on the table in a bar on a Thursday night and jerked her chin in a particular person's direction. The person in question just raised his eyebrows, blinking at her as she appeared with such agitation as if she was just looking for a fight–– in a way, yeah, Beth was.
She'd been looking for a fight ever since she'd gotten a very distressed phone call from one of her friends at med school, telling her that Mark Sloan had fucked and dumped her, all over text message.
"Probably," was the bachelor's deadpan response. He was barely fazed and almost looked amused, "What did I do?"
"Not what," Beth corrected him sharply, "Who."
Who? Carla, this med student who was too sweet for her own good.
