He doesn't do messy

Clary

Throwing down my paintbrush, I groan in frustration. I had been attempting to paint a new scenery for my latest art exhibit, but the dream I had last night just wouldn't stop infiltrating my brain with images of my past. Maybe not images, but memories. Memories of a boy with golden curls and golden eyes. My lost best friend.

I had sketched him this morning, as I sketch every dream I have, then all I could paint were his eyes. They are currently staring back at me, mocking as I cross my arms. I've been dreaming of him a lot lately. How much fun we had, all the things he's missed, how much I miss him.

Deciding this isn't going to help anything, I scoop up my green leather jacket and exit my studio. It's only early afternoon, which means Simon won't be home yet. I was supposed to stay until tonight so I could finish my painting, but inspiration is nowhere to be found.

It's only early September, but the weather has been strikingly cool. I suspect we'll even have a white Thanksgiving. Simon should still be at the museum. He's been working late for a few weeks now, working on a new exhibit and tour. It's been hard on us. The glint of my wedding ring catches my eye as I drive, my hand lightly gripping the steering wheel.

When I reach our quaint little house, I not only see Simon's car, but Isabelle's. I get all giddy inside. It's been a while since the three of us have hung out together. I get out of the car and go inside the house.

When I enter, I don't hear anything. That's strange. Usually, they would be playing board games or watching movies. I've walked in on Izzy flipping the Monopoly board more times than I could count.

Realizing I must have paint everywhere, I decide to take a shower and then look for them. I walk up the stairs, feeling tired and hungry. That needs to be fixed. I go up to the closed door of mine and Simon's bedroom when I hear distinctly female giggles. Frowning, I recognize it as Izzy's, but why would they be in our room with the door closed?

They can't-they wouldn't- I can't seem to finish any thoughts in my frazzled and anxious brain. Taking a deep breath, I stumble in through the door. What I see breaks my heart and brings tears to my eyes.

Simon and Izzy were on my bed, kissing. Simon is looking at her with these loving eyes and she's a giggling idiot. A strangled sob escapes my throat. Their heads snap over to me and their eyes widen and jaws drop. I would be comical, if I wasn't being cheated on by my husband with my best friend.

"Are you shitting me?" I say in disbelief.

"C-Clary, what are you doing here?" Isabelle asks as Simon just stares blankly. My blood boils in my veins.

"What am I doing here?" I say with mirth, "I live here, with my husband. What. Are. You. Doing. Here? WITH MY HUSBAD?" I screech, making them both flinch.

"Clary, let us explain," Simon says, standing and coming near me. I step back.

"How long?" they both know what I mean when I say this. How long have they been playing me for a fool in my own house?

"Three months," they hang their heads in shame. I stare with as much hate as I can muster, but they won't meet my eyes.

I laugh with no humor. I walk to my desk and grab my Krylon pencils, my sketchbook and head for the door. Then, I spin on my heels and walk up to Izzy.

"Look at me," I tell her voice deadly. She slowly looks up.

"You are no longer my friend," her eyes fill with tears, "You are dead to me, and don't you dare cry. I look at both of them now, "because this is your fault," then I walk out, slamming the door behind me. If they come after me, I think I would stab them in the eye with pencil, hoping they get lead poisoning.

My stomach growls up at me, and I know what I need. I get in my car, tears finally running free. I need coffee, hot and strong coffee.

Jace

Java Jones is packed. When I say packed, I mean sardines in a jar packed. I wrestle my way to the counter and order my coffee, drop of mil and two sugars, and make my way to a newly free booth in a dark corner. Perfect for my mood. I've been dreaming of Clary lately. I wonder how she's doing. If she got married to Simon, had babies, kept painting. I wish I knew.

I sit and sip my coffee, wishing I could see her just one more time. Suddenly, through the window, I see a red head. I shake mine and clamp my eyes shut. That would be just too good to be true. I open them again and see her eyes. Her hair is thrown in a messy bun with loose curls and a paint brush stuck through the top. I can't imagine her looking anymore beautiful.

When she turns slightly, waiting for her coffee, I see her eyes are puffy and red. She's been crying. Then, she catches my eyes. She blinks and looks at me confused. I smile over at her and wave. She slowly smiles as well and holds up a finger, indication she'll be over in a minute. I look down at the swirling dark liquid in my cup and mentally prepare myself. I haven't seen or spoken to her in years, and now she's popped back into my life. Soon, she's walking over with bright eyes and a wide smile.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the famous Jace Wayland," she smiles, sipping her coffee.

"Oh it is sweet-cheeks, and you must be Strawberry Shortcake come alive," I smirk. She playfully glares before shoving me into the corner of the booth so she can sit next to me. This feels natural, like we do it every day.

"So, how's the past five years treated you?" she asks. I sigh.

"We're going to need more than a coffee meeting to catch up with all that," I sigh. She nods and sips her own cup.

"So, why don't we begin with why you were crying?" I tell her, turning slightly so I can face her profile dead on.

"I- I wasn't," she stutters. At least that hasn't changed.

"I know you were. Don't forget I did know you for almost two decades," I reply, not in the mood for the 'I'm a strong feminist, and I don't feel pain' bull shark. He needed to get to know her again, and this was how.

"That is also going to be a long story," she sighs. We wait a beat before she speaks again, "Can we go somewhere?" she asks.

"You want to go to my place?" I ask her. She'd known of the Wayland manor and had come with my family on vacations there, but had never known it to be my residence. She smiles softly and nods.

"That would be perfect," she climbs out of the booth, with me following. We leave our empty mugs on the table and I walk her outside.

"I have my car, so I'll just follow," she tells me, fishing her keys out of her pockets. Another that hasn't changed was Clary never liked handbags. She either used her pockets or a book bag with everything and nothing you could possibly need.

"Sounds good, but I think you'll know the way," I wink and walk to my bike, leaving a confused Clary in my wake.

Clary

I climb into my car and sit for a moment. I feel weird going to Jace's house. He was my best friend for nearly twenty years, but when Simon came into the picture and Jace started to hang out with the football guys, we drifted apart and lost connection after graduation.

It felt natural to tease each other in the coffee place, but now we're going to his house. I feel like a stranger to him. He could be completely different now. I mentally scold myself. Jace was always too stubborn to change. Whether it was always calling me names relating to my hair or height, or even his favorite color being white. He just never cared what others thought of him, which I had to admire.

But he wasn't the sweet fifteen year old I knew. He's a grown man with a life, and after I tell him my sad, messed up story, I'm just going to barge into his life and make things messy.

And lets me honest, Jace doesn't do messy.