Eyes Bright, Uptight {EDITING}

//I tell my love to wreck it all; cut out all the ropes and let me fall//

Ugh.

"Jesus, Mom. Mind your own," I scolded her.

She leaned over the counter, her mean Mom face on point.

"You are my own, Claire Madeline," her voice was stern but soft. "What's going on?"

My stomach was beginning to churn, even just thinking about explaining the love triangle between myself, Matty, and George, to my mother. Though, I suppose it would be about a millon times easier than explaining it to my Dad, who insisted I get on the pill the first time a boy called my cell phone freshman year. It was Joey Davidson and he wanted to ask me for Chelsea G's number.

"Boy troubles," I admitted to my mother.

"Ah-hah," she mumbled, refreshing her cup of coffee. "When did Matty find out you're sleeping with George?"

Cringe. Cringe. Cringe.

No.

"Mother!!!" I shrieked.

Mom rolled her hazel eyes. "Oh, Jesus, Claire. Don't be so uptight," she turned around to rumble through the refrigerator and get some half-and-half.

I drummed my fingernails on the marble countertop. "I can't talk about this with you."

Mom shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"And whatever you do, do not mention this to Dad," I emphasized.

Candace shook her long dark hair. "Ha! He would either slit George's throat or kiss him on the mouth."

I got up from the barstool and put my coffee mug into the dishwasher,only to be bombarded by my mother's arms wraped around me and her lips glued to my cheek.

"It'll be okay, sweetheart," she rubbed my back. "Do you want to cure your boy-troubles with excessive shopping and margaritas way too early in the day?"

"Absolutely," I answered her.

Mother always knows best.

=

George's POV.

The LA crowd, with their deafening screams, hilariously awkward meet-and-greets and perverted posters, kept my mind off of Claire for a while. Her face was still in my brain, her laughter in my ears, the feeling of her body still keeping me warm.

Matty, on the other hand, was at my immediate focus. He was at both his best and worst last night. The passion in his voice as it rapsed and broke into the microphone. He was drunk and high before we even took the stage, and Adam and Ross continuously shot each other knowling, worried glances.

He continued drinking on stage, his words slurring a little as he played the crowd. They ate it up, screaming with delight every time he'd take a swig of the bottle. I'd never understand it.

Security was on high when Matty sat at the edge of the stage, his hair everywhere, sweat moistening his thin floral shirt. Girls were knocking each other over, trying to grab his legs and feet. I don't know if he didn't care, or if he didn't notice. He was so in the zone, so willingly out of it.

Part of me thought Matty lost himself in a world of drugs and alcohol to forget the pain he'd experienced in himself; the pain he had created in others. The other part of me thought that Matty was a special kind of tortured soul who embraced every ounce of hurt.

I was drumming to the slow sounds of "Me", my eyes on Matty as he sat cross-legged at the edge of the stage, his voice a soft, dark tune as he sang "Don't you mind, don't you mind." When the saxophone player came in with the jazzy melody, Matty shamelessly wiped the tear from his eye.