There was a strange sense of wrongness before I even opened my eyes. It wasn't just because my body felt like it hated me. It wasn't just because my head pounded as if someone were using my skull as their own personal drum.
It was because of the blankness that came with it all.
I peeled back my lids, groaning loudly as I stared up at the ceiling. There was something off about it and it took me a moment for reality to hit.
It wasn't my ceiling.
I didn't recognize the dainty, singular light or the poor quality of it, and sudden panic flooded me, making the pain in my head that much worse. I froze beneath the knitted blanket resting over me, my heart stuttering in my chest.
What happened?
Desperately I tried to think back to the following day, clawing for the memories that weren't there. Crowds . . . loud music . . . alcohol.
A lot of alcohol.
Oh no.
I lurched upright, my head shouting in protest and I flinched at the lance of pain that shot through me. I looked around, at the small, cluttered room, as foreign as the previous evening had been. Fear ran its cold fingers up my spine and I shivered. Slowly, I roved my hands over myself from under the blanket, feeling a shred of relief that at least I was clothed.
On the nightstand was a cup of water and, though still panicked, my throat ached. I took the glass gingerly in my hands, peering into it as if I expected to see some kind of discoloration. But my tongue was so dry it stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I took a small sip ensuring it tasted normal before downing half the cup.
"Good," a voice came from the doorway. "You're awake."
I looked up, just in time to see the last person I ever expected to find in the same bedroom as me.
Bellamy was leaning against the frame in a white tee and sweats, dark gaze studying my face.
I choked on my water, droplets spewing from my mouth. I set the glass down, hacking into my hand and staring back at him wide-eyed. "What are you—How—?" I was cut off by another fit of coughing. The force of it made my vision blur.
Bellamy shoved a hand in his pocket, eyeing me distastefully. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't asphyxiate in my bed."
The coughing worsened.
His bed?
I swallowed, struggling to get a grip on my lungs. "Sure," I wheezed, a hand pressed to my throat. "As soon as you tell me what it is I'm doing in it."
He shrugged glancing away from me and towards the wall like I was boring him. "You were sleeping."
"And?"
"And nothing."
"We didn't . . . ?" I couldn't even say it, too terrified by what his answer could be and my hands tightened over the too-thin blanket. I wanted to believe I wouldn't go to that level with someone I didn't know, much less him. But how was I supposed to know what drunk me would do? I had no idea what I was like without my concrete reserves.
Bellamy actually rolled his eyes, shooting me a demeaning look. "Given our very brief history together, do you honestly think that if I was interested in that, you would be the first person I'd go to for it?"
I bit my lip in thought. He had a very decent point. "So . . . we didn't . . ." I gave a small shake of my head, gesturing between us, "do anything?"
He smiled, but it was tantalizing and dripping with condensation. "Rest assured, the only thing I considered doing with you, was leaving you on the Himmon's front lawn."
"So then you, what?" I looked around the room like his books on Government would provide me with the answers. "Just took me to your apartment?"
"I took you to my apartment because it seems the Princess can't hold her liquor all that well."
His words jarred some murky recollection, of empty cups and something that tasted terrible. Realization dawned on me and I felt my cheeks flush. Right. Drinking. My grand plan to forget my daytime horrors. I looked at the blanket. "That was . . ."
Bellamy pushed off the wall and came over to me. My spine straightened and I watched him warily as he approached, stopping at my side of the bed. He bent low, until his face was close to mine; until I could see the flare of his lashes and the smatter of freckles. "Honestly, I don't care." He reached over and grabbed a handful of the blanket. In one fluid movement, he tore it off me, casting it to the corner of the room. "I don't care why you were drunk. I don't care if you're embarrassed because you're a bad drunk. I do however care that it's noon . . . and you're still in my bed."
"It's what?" I leaned forward so fast that Bellamy jolted back before our foreheads could collide against each other. A painful pressure blossomed over the back of my skull, accompanied by that banging and I hissed out a breath, forcing myself to relax. "It's noon?" I asked in a much quieter voice.
Bellamy leaned away from me, his expression annoyed. "That's what I said."
I sighed, rubbing my temples with my index fingers. My only chance was that my mom was still at work, hopefully working on someone's fistula late into the night.
I looked from my stained blouse back to Bellamy, onyx eyes still on me, flashing with displeasure. "I . . . don't suppose you have any aspirin?" I murmured.
He raised an eyebrow and his voice turned sardonic. "Do I look like a pharmacist to you?"
I couldn't think of a smart remark through the pain. "Never mind, then." I tried for standing up. Though the floor didn't bend unnaturally, my head felt like someone had replaced my brain for bricks. It was hard to lift up as I shuffled forward, wincing with every step. He walked ahead of me, snatching up my shoes and dropping them on the floor outside his bedroom.
I gazed around at the place. The walls seemed old and rickety and the band posters were yellowed with age. It was prejudice of me, but I anticipated some vulgar pictures, not ones of Jon Bon Jovi.
I lowered myself to the floor and pulled on my shoes, careful not to jostle my head too much. I cast a small glance up at Bellamy. "Shouldn't we, I don't know, talk about this?"
He walked over to a hangar and grabbed his jacket. He shrugged it on. "What's there to talk about? You were drunk, you slept here. That's it," Bellamy deadpanned. "And now that you're sober, I'd like you to leave."
I blanched, hands stilling over my shoelaces. "You're kicking me out?"
He pointed his thumb towards the door. "I'm going, which means you can't stay here. So technically, yeah."
I nodded. I wouldn't lecture him on anything right now, not when I was in his place after sleeping all night in his bed and smelling of what I could only guess was deodorant. As much as his ill-temper contradicted it, he'd done a noble thing, and I was still imposing on his privacy and what minimal hospitality he was capable of extending me.
"Okay," I said. "So then you can't talk about this now. That's fine, I—"
An irritated noise came from Bellamy as he paused in front of the door. "Let's not talk about it at all. In fact, let's agree not to talk about it. Ever. You were drunk. You stayed here. Nothing happened, other than an unfortunate rolling incident in the middle of the night that may leave you a bruise. So there's your talk. Now . . . please," the word came out strangled. "Let's go."
I swallowed back what I really wanted to say and trudged over to the front door. He swiped something off the counter and I saw a flash of familiar gold.
"Hey, are those my keys?"
"Yeah."
"Can I have them back?"
But Bellamy just opened the door and tilted his head towards it. "My bike is still at the Himmon's. You owe me a ride."
"Then shouldn't I get the keys if I'm going to be driving?"
He laughed, a low, throaty sound that reverberated deep from within his chest. "You may be sober, but you're still hungover. What do your studies say about driving in that condition?"
"My what?"
It was clear Bellamy had reached the end of his rope, because he suddenly took me by the arm and half-dragged me out of the apartment and into the hall. I grimaced at the eruption of pain that stabbed at my temples.
Bellamy looked down at me for a second, like he was trying to gauge my expression. Then he let go of me and disappeared back in his apartment, exiting a moment later. He tossed something at me from over his shoulder as he locked the door.
I saw a blur of white and I was able to catch it before it hit some other part of me, like my face. I glanced down at the label.
It was a bottle of aspirin.
***********
I knew when I saw her car in the driveway that I was dead. Maybe it was a good thing then that she worked at a place with a morgue—made disposal more practical.
I looked awkwardly over at Bellamy as he killed the engine and got out of the car. My chest clenched at the thought of my mom seeing him and for one irrational moment, I thought he planned to come into the house with me. But he just stopped in front of the car, waiting until I got out. When I did, he handed me the keys.
"Are you walking back?" I asked, feeling both surprised and a little guilty.
As if to demonstrate, Bellamy started for the sidewalk, not even bothering to look back at me as he said, "I trust you can get yourself to the front door."
And that was it. He left me standing there as he walked away at a leisurely pace, all hulking leather and clenching fists.
I blew out my breath as I faced the house again. I supposed there was little hope she hadn't noticed my empty bed, but it was noon, and she had no other reason to be home than to think I was in a ditch somewhere.
Better to get it over with.
"Where were you?" Came her demanding voice, as soon as I entered the house. My head ached at the loud shrill and I closed the door gently behind me, turning to face her in a slow circle.
"I was . . . out." Out cold for an entire night in the bed of a lawful man I didn't know, much less liked.
She eyed me speculatively, hand on her hip, the complete image of any disapproving mother. "Out? To where?"
There was little sense in lying about everything. "A party," I admitted, deciding to give her some piece of the truth. "I was at a party."
Her face wrinkled in disbelief and she walked over to me. She didn't have to walk far before the smell hit her.
"Have you been drinking?"
What could I say? The keg spilled on me? Some guy poured his cup on my head and a quart of it got in my mouth? I couldn't really fake that one, especially when she had easy access to urine and blood tests, so I nodded.
"You . . ." she seemed genuinely shocked by this, like I'd just committed some nefarious act. "Why are you doing this to yourself? The Clarke I know would never"—
"It was a one-time thing, Mom," I said a bit brazenly. "It won't happen again."
She went on as if she hadn't heard me. "This is because of Finn. Should I take you to see someone? Counselor? A . . . support group?"
I made a face at her, puckering my lips in disgust. "No. I don't need a support group."
"I think you need something, Clarke. You weren't like this after your father. But now your grades are slipping, you're being irresponsible; coming home hungover—"
"Once. This is once."
"How can I be sure of that?"
I recoiled at the insult. Really? After all I'd done, one slip up and she deemed me unreliable? "You could trust me on it, like you have everything else."
Mom shook her head. "It's been weeks. I know from Mr. Owens that you haven't been studying. Clarke, you're falling behind. When your father died"—
"Dad didn't die this time!" I suddenly shouted. "Okay? Finn. Finn died. I know you want to help but you"-
I was interrupted by her pager, buzzing on the counter. Mom eyed it, and I had the distinct feeling that even if I'd come home drunk or bleeding, she'd still manage to answer her pager and return to work in the morning. Ever the perfect doctor.
She snatched up the small device and looked at the ID. I knew it was coming before she even spoke. "We'll discuss this later."
"When?" I asked, trying and failing to mask the edge in my voice.
Mom gave me a sad look, tainted with disappointment. I imagined it was the same expression I wore, looking back at her. "Later," she repeated.
And in her eyes, that was enough.
But it wasn't in mine.
**********
Three days and a dozen aspirins later, I made my way down the school's halls, keeping my eyes peeled for one tall, brooding figure.
As much as I'd tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at me over the rest of the weekend, I felt like it would've been cruel, very Bellamy-like, to completely ignore what had taken place on Friday. Though I wanted to dismiss it, I couldn't, not with those dangerous what-if scenarios playing on loop in the back of my mind. Too many things could've happened and I hated being in debt to anyone. I didn't like another person having something to hold over my head, waiting for them to collect their favor. It left a door open for Bellamy to ask something of me, and even though he seemed like he wouldn't take me up on it, this was him I was talking about.
And I wanted that door closed.
It didn't take me long to find him, rifling through his locker at lunch and I hesitated a moment, but pushed through it. I came to a halt behind him, ignoring the instinct that told me to back slowly away.
I rose on my toes and tapped his shoulder.
Bellamy twisted his head around to look at me and when his eyes met mine, they darkened. He yanked out a book from his locker, shoving it deep in his bag.
"You've heard the expression, 'go our separate ways', right?" he asked, voice drowning in sarcasm. "I'd really like to do that, but I can't when you keep showing up."
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying anything I knew I'd later regret. I took a prepared breath, rocking on my heels. "I understand that, I only wanted to thank you for the other nigh"—
Bellamy whirled around and stepped toward me, the sudden proximity interrupting my words. He glanced around us before glaring down at me. "I told you we weren't going to speak of that. Especially here." He looked around again. "The last thing I need is for this getting out and for people misinterpreting it."
I pursed my lips. At least in this, I could understand where he was coming from. "Right. I know." I heaved a sigh, my voice turning rushed to keep him from stopping me again. "I just wanted to see if there was any way I could say thanks. You're not exactly a likable person but you aren't completely hate-able and I'd just like to do something to repay you."
He hefted his bag higher, still glowering at me. "Is that how you express your appreciation to people?"
My self-control cracked. "Usually the people I have appreciation for are a lot nicer than you," I said before I could think better of it. "But I'm trying here."
He seemed to deliberate, looking at me with a mixed expression of disdain and cynicism. "Octavia," he finally said, shoulders relaxing slightly.
"What about her?"
His expression turned caustic as he stared at me impatiently.
My eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you want me to help with Octavia? I thought you didn't want me around her."
"I don't," he agreed. "But I realized—with her help— that you weren't having the best day last week and it wasn't fair to be that . . . harsh on you." The words seemed to take physical exertion as he spoke them through gritted teeth, a line forming between his brows. "She has some kind of Winter Formal coming up and needs a dress. She doesn't want to ask Maureen and It's not like I'm any good with that stuff."
I appraised him, my lips parting in surprise. "You want me to help her find a dress?" I asked slowly. I looked down at my own wardrobe, my oversized jacket hanging loosely past my waist; at my ratty black sneakers I'd had and worn for years. I met his eyes again. "And you think I'm the person most suited for that task?"
Bellamy shook his head exasperatedly and started to move away from me. "You're the one who asked, but if you don't want to do it"-
I reached for his arm and grabbed it before he could walk away. His gaze shot back to me at the contact and I instantly dropped my hold. "No, it's fine." I waved a hand. "Dress shopping. With Octavia. That's . . . great. I'm totally on board."
He nodded at me curtly. "Good." He looked as if ready to leave again, but stopped. "Oh, and one more thing," he whispered, his tone lowering a few decimals. "I may have understood your little outburst last time. But if you hurt my sister's feelings again"—
I raised my palms to him. "Then I get demoted from friend to foe, I got it."
Bellamy smirked derisively, as if he were laughing at some joke I couldn't hear. "We aren't friends, Princess," he said, shutting his locker and turning his back on me. "Don't start getting that confused."