HER | ✓

⍣Fourteen⍣

Clayton woke up with the world's worst hangover. His head felt like little people spent the night banging his brain in and for a moment he looked around and he couldn't remember where he was or why his lips tasted oddly fruity. Nothing made sense but it slowly came to him.

The bar closing. Matthew driving him home. Farah and his mom helping him upstairs. The kiss.

He wrenched his eyes shut and groaned in guilt. How could he face George now? He just betrayed his brother in the worst way. And so did she. Did Farah feel guilty too? He shook his head, ran a hand down his face and sighed. Maybe if he didn't think about it then the guilt wouldn't be so bad.

Dragging his heavy body from the bed, he went downstairs in search of water and pain medication.

When he entered the kitchen everyone was already settled into their seats. Martha was serving hashbrowns to Charlotte, Harry was picking sausage rolls from the bowl and placing them on his full plate, and Farah smiled while listening to George talk about his childhood. A soft glow filtered in through the kitchen window and Clayton stood there looking at the picturesque moment. One he didn't belong in.

He took a deep breath, wishing the trickling sensation in his chest would float away. 

Martha was the first to see him.

"Good morning, Clay." She smiled. "How are feeling?"

"Just fine." He smiled back, not putting his all in it.

He filled a cup of water and threw back some ibuprofen before trudging back up the steps. He threw on a change of clothes, rushed downstairs and out the front door, letting it slam behind him on the way out. He didn't want to talk to anyone, or have breakfast. He wanted to walk to town and get his truck from the bar's parking lot.

The cold air nipped his face as he walked down the drive and turned onto the road. He buried his face further into his jacket, blocking the wind from making him colder. He had a long ways to go and focusing on the vacant distance was the only thing to help get him through. 

He didn't get far, Georges car pulled beside him as he walked, huddled deep beneath his coat.

"Are you going to stop or what?" George asked through the crack of his window.

He kept walking.

"We're not kids anymore Clayton. Get in the damn car!" George yelled.

He stopped. George stopped. He opened the car door and slid inside. 

"To the bar," Clayton muttered.

"Jesus, don't you think you did enough damage to yourself last night?"

"I need my truck," Clayton said. 

"Right, sorry." 

George put his foot on the gas and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, creating his own rhythm, like what Clayton does when he's thinking.

"Do you want to talk about what's gotten into you?" George inquired.

"No I'm good." He shot him down.

"I know I wasn't the best brother in the world but I have your back no matter what, okay?"

He didn't say anything. George's words made him feel more guilty.

"You can't tell me anything? You've been acting weird these past few days. Even mom is more concerned than normal."

"Mom's always been a worry wort," Clayton commented.