Chapter 2
It wasn't a particularly restful night of sleep, but Clarke got some sleep that night nonetheless. It had taken a while for everything—including her mind—to quiet down so she could nod off for a couple of hours, and a sleeping bag was definitely a poor substitute for a bed; but getting to cuddle up next to Finn didn't suck. He kept her warm and made her feel more comfortable than she would have if she'd been lying there alone.
When she woke up, however, she actually was alone. Finn had scribbled down a note on the back of the receipt from last night's pizza: Running some errands. Be back later. Love you, it read. She sincerely hoped those errands he was running included grocery shopping, because even after the pizza last night, her stomach was growling with hunger.
She got up and treaded across the hallway into the bathroom to do her morning business and brush her teeth. Her hair was a bit messy after drying in bed—or rather, in sleeping bag—last night, so she ran a comb through it and put it up in a ponytail. She made no effort to change out of her sweatpants and Finn's oversized t-shirt, though, because really, it wasn't like she had plans to go anywhere today. So it was totally fine to keep wearing what she'd slept in.
Once she finished up in the bathroom, she really wanted to head out onto the balcony and see what the city looked like in the daytime, so she went back into the bedroom, pulled the curtain covering the sliding door back, and then opened the door and stepped outside. The view . . . still wasn't great. The houses across the street still left a lot to be desired, and air still didn't smell the freshest. But as she gripped the balcony and looked down at the street, she saw kids scampering to school this morning, a woman jogging, and a very large man walking his toy-sized dog. For some reason, seeing all of those things made her feel a little better about this neighborhood. Because none of them looked bad.
When she glanced to her left, she saw someone else, too, the only someone in New York City whose name she actually knew. Bellamy stood not that far away on his own balcony in worn out jeans and a white t-shirt, his thick, dark hair blowing in the breeze. He was smoking a cigarette and didn't seem to notice her.
"Hello," she greeted softly.
He glanced over at her, took his cigarette out of his mouth, and blew smoke into the air. "Hey," he said. And then, almost as an afterthought, he tacked on, "Clarke."
She smiled a bit, glad that he remembered her name, too. "So I guess you found a ride home from work last night."
"Yep," he said, putting out his cigarette in an ashtray he'd set on his railing. "Thanks again for gettin' me there."
"No problem." She knew helping one's neighbor was kind of a stereotypical small town thing, but . . . surely she could still do that kind of thing here, too, as long as she was careful.
"So it sounded like . . . like you and your girlfriend made up," she remarked, unable to not say anything about it.
"Yeah," he confirmed, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry about that. My bed's right up against the wall. We'll try not to-"
"Oh, no, I'm not trying to complain or anything," she said. "It's fine." Hell, if his bed was right on the other side of her bedroom wall, he'd probably hear an earful from her and Finn at some point, too. Or at least Finn. She usually managed to keep herself pretty quiet when they were doing it.
"So you're not like a regular neighbor then. You're a cool neighbor?" Bellamy concluded.
She was pretty sure he'd just referenced a line from Mean Girls, either intentionally or unintentionally, so she laughed a little and nodded. "Yes, I'm very cool." Just saying that sounded so uncool, though, that she cringed inwardly.
"Alright," he said, opening up his carton of cigarettes, he held one out, offering, "Want one?"
"Oh, no thanks," she declined. Her mother, being a doctor, had made her take a solemn oath at the ripe old age of seven to never start smoking, and given the tremendous health hazard it was, she had no desire to ever start. "You really shouldn't do that," she told him, though of course that couldn't be new information to him. "It's bad for you."
"I do a lot of things a lot of things that are bad for me," he muttered, putting the new cigarette between his lips.
"Like Bree?" she guessed.
He chuckled and didn't even bother to deny it. "Yeah, pretty much." He lit his new cigarette and kept smoking away, and Clarke really didn't want to stand around and inhale any of that, so she said, "See you later," and slipped back inside.
"See ya," he said.
She shut the door, leaving the curtain open to let the sunlight in, but a dark cloud immediately descended over her when she heard her phone ringing out from the kitchen again. And once again, it was her mother's ringtone. There was no avoiding it this time. She'd been expecting—waiting for, even—her mother's call, and after ignoring it last night, she owed it to the woman who had given birth to her to talk to her today.
She braced herself as she walked out into the hallway and into the kitchen, taking a few steadying breaths before picking up the phone. "Hi, Mom," she answered nervously.
"Clarke," her mother, Abby, said emphatically. "Thank God. You don't know how close I was to getting on a plane and flying out there. You had me so worried."
"Didn't you see my note?" Clarke asked.
"Yes, I saw your note," her mother snarled. "How nice of you to inform me that you're packing up and moving across the country on the same pieces of paper I use for my grocery lists, by the way. And it was so very considerate of you to sneak off in the middle of the night without so much as even saying goodbye."
"I'm sorry," Clarke apologized. "We just decided about a month ago that we were gonna leave and-"
"A month?" her mom cut in, her voice high-pitched with hysteria. "You've been plotting this for a month?"
"We weren't plotting anything," Clarke corrected adamantly. The goal was not to hurt anyone here, just to get a fresh start.
"Why wouldn't you even tell me?" her mother demanded.
"Because I knew you'd try to talk me out of it."
"You're damn right I would!" Abby shrieked. "You're eighteen years old, Clarke. You've never been out on your own before."
"I'm not on my own," Clarke reminded her. "I'm with Finn."
"Oh, what a comfort."
Clarke frowned. Her mom liked Finn, so she'd been expecting her to feel relieved that at least they were together. But apparently now she liked Finn a lot less.
"Where are you now?" her mother asked.
"In New York City," Clarke replied.
"Already?"
"We just made one long drive. We have an apartment. We're getting settled in. It's looking . . ." Clarke glanced around the empty space, once again noticing the mouse as its tail disappeared through the hole in the wall. "Really cozy," she lied, hoping she sounded convincing.
"When are you coming home?" her mother growled.
Home? Clarke thought. Could Arkadia even be called that anymore? No, not really. This was home now. Or . . . it would be. "We're not coming home," she informed her mother bluntly. "We came here to start over, and that's exactly what we're gonna do."
"Oh, you can't be serious," her mother grumbled. Clarke could just imagine her right now, hunched over the kitchen table, holding her head in her free hand. "Stop the indulgent behavior, Clarke, and come back here where you belong."
But that was just the thing, wasn't it? She didn't feel like she belonged there. Not anymore. And there was nothing indulgent about doing what she felt was best for herself. "I'm sorry," she apologized again. "I'm staying here."
She heard something else on the other end of the call then. Not anger or frustration, but . . . sadness. Her mom was sad. She was sniffing back tears. "Please, Clarke," she begged.
And this was exactly why Clarke had been dreading talking to her mom. Because, despite their disagreements, of which there had been many these past few months, she was still her mom. She still loved her, and she didn't want to hurt her. They'd both endured enough hurt these past few months.
Thankfully, another call interrupted the conversation. Clarke glanced down at the number on the screen and didn't recognize it at all. And it wasn't an Arkadia area code, so maybe the restaurant she'd applied at last night was calling her back. "Mom, I gotta go," she said quickly. "I'll . . . talk to you tomorrow, okay?"
"Clarke . . ."
She ended the call and switched over to the other one. "Hello?"
"Clarke Griffin?"
"Yes?" She crossed her fingers, hoping for the best.
"This is Kim. I'm the manager at Dropship. I got your application yesterday. Are you free to come in today?"
"Uh, yes, absolutely," Clarke replied eagerly. Perfect. Now she didn't have to just sit around and wait for Finn to get home.
"Great. Can you be here by 10:00?"
Clarke wasn't even sure what time it was, but if the boss wanted her there at 10:00, she'd be there at 9:50. Unless she got turned around on these crowded city streets. "Sure," she said. "I'll see you then."
"Great." The manager ended the call abruptly, and Clarke checked the time on her phone. 9:30. Time to get ready fast.
Naturally, Clarke assumed she was being called in for an interview, so she put on the nicest clothes she'd packed: a pair of black slacks and a nice white shirt with a grey jacket over it. The jacket was hot, though, especially since it was hot outside, and when she got to Dropship, it quickly became apparent to her that she hadn't had to dress up at all. The manager introduced herself quickly and didn't seem interested in sitting down for a formal interview. She told Clarke to follow her around and asked her questions in between preparing food in the back and helping clear tables in the front. It looked like the restaurant was severely understaffed.
"You ever waited tables before?" she asked Clarke.
"Um, no," Clarke admitted, "but I did work at a drive-in movie theater this summer, so I feel confident when it comes to my customer service and my people skills."
"Drive-in movie theater?" the manager cut in. "They still have those?"
"Um . . . some places, yeah." Clarke wasn't about to tell her that Arkadia was one of those places. She didn't want this woman to know that she was a small town girl in the big city for the first time. She didn't want her to think that she'd get overwhelmed and not be able to handle things here.
"When can you start?" the manager asked as she cleared plates and glasses off a disgustingly messy table.
"As soon as possible," Clarke answered.
"Today?"
Her eyebrows shot upward because . . . well, that was definitely as soon as possible. "Yeah," she said. "Yes. Just tell me what I need to do."
"I'm gonna have you stick with Emori today. She'll show you the ropes," the manager said. Then she hollered, "Emori!" and a few seconds later, a girl with long dark hair came out from the back. She looked tired and seemed to know exactly why she'd been summoned.
"You got this?" the manager asked her.
The girl—Emori—nodded wordlessly, and the manager left them alone as she carried all the dirty dishes back into the kitchen.
"Shouldn't have worn white," Emori said, motioning to Clarke's top. "It's gonna get dirty."
"I could run home and change," Clarke offered.
Emori shook her head. "We got spare uniforms in the back. Come on." She motioned for Clarke to follow her as she led her way into a room marked Employees Only. So Clarke took that to mean she was an employee now. She'd probably have to sign some stuff later to make it official, but as long as she performed decently, it seemed like the job was hers.
The uniform was super flattering on Emori, whose skin wasn't as pale as Clarke's and who didn't have as many curves to account for. But Clarke's black shirt showed way too much cleavage, and her grey skirt was too tight. Plus, they had to wear black tights, and those were just so damn uncomfortable. Emori promised her they'd get her something that fit better at some point but told her to just deal with it for today. "The cleavage won't hurt when it comes to tips," she pointed out.
No, it probably wouldn't.
Training with Emori wasn't easy. The girl had clearly been working there for years—three years, Clarke eventually found out—and she knew that place and that job like the back of her hand. She showed Clarke how to work the register so quickly that, when it came time for Clarke to try it on her own, she was completely clueless on what to do. Emori could record a customer's order in a matter of seconds, but it took Clarke about five minutes to make sure she had everything straight. And when they asked Emori questions about the items on the menu, she knew the answers, but Clarke just stood there and looked at people with this ditzy smile on her face, because she didn't know anything.
"You gotta loosen up," Emori told her. "Be more sociable. Or at least fake it like I do." She plastered a smile on her face as they approached the next table and said cheerily, "Hi, welcome to Dropship. I'm Emori. I'll be your server today. Can I start you out with something to drink?"
Clarke got a little better as the day wore on, but all in all, it was a tiring experience. Her feet and her back were aching once it was time to go home, and since she was just in training, all the tips they collected were technically Emori's. They weren't exactly huge tips, either. Some people didn't leave any money on the table at all. Cheapskates.
"Here, you earned it," Emori said, giving her half the money. "I mean, you weren't great, but . . . you'll get better."
Clarke gratefully took the cash and said, "Thank you." Now at least she had some money to spend on groceries. And that mouse trap.
Feeling like she needed to get dressed in something more comfortable before she ventured out and tried to find the nearest Walmart, Clarke went back to Mount Weather after she finished up for the day. When she walked inside, she was surprised to find her apartment looking . . . much more like an actual apartment. There was a blue couch in the living room now, along with a coffee table in front of it. And against the opposing wall was a TV. Not a fancy one by any means—it was more of a tin box than a flat-screen or anything like that, but it was on and working. And there was a desk in the corner with nothing on it yet.
"Finn?" she called.
She heard laughter coming from the bedroom, and seconds later, Finn and a man she'd only seen in Instagram pictures before came out. Cage, she recognized. The cousin. God, he was creepy looking. Dark hair, angular jaw, pale skin . . . he looked like a vampire.
"Hey, baby," Finn said, stopping to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Well, what do you think?"
"I think . . . it looks great," she said, feeling like she might whip out of her phone and take a few pictures just to send to her mom, just to prove that, yes, they could really do this.
"Hey, Clarke," Cage said, extending his hand in greeting. "Nice to finally meet you."
"Yeah, you, too," she said.
"Cage helped me out today," Finn explained. "We went to the thrift store, and then he helped me move all this stuff in."
"That couch used to be mine, by the way," Cage said. "It's comfortable."
"Oh, I'm sure we'll get plenty of use out of it," Finn joked, grinning mischievously.
"Stop," she said, playfully whacking his shoulder. Turning her focus back to Cage, she said, "Well, thank you for all the help. A little furniture makes a world of difference."
"Oh, it's not just furniture," Finn said. "We got some clothes, too. And . . ." He surveyed her outfit and noted, "So did you, apparently."
"Oh." She realized she was still dressed in the Dropship uniform and told him, "I got a job. Waitressing."
"That's great," he said, giving her another kiss, one on the lips this time.
"Seems like you guys are settling right in," Cage remarked. "Finn, I was gonna invite you out with the crew tonight, but you guys probably just wanna spend some time together."
Clarke smiled, thinking that sounded nice. They could curl up on the couch together and just watch some TV . . .
"Where you goin'?" Finn asked.
Clarke was . . . a bit taken aback. He wanted to go out again tonight? After already going out last night? After being gone all day? Didn't he want to spend any time with her?
"This bar down on 5th Street," Cage replied. "You can come, too, Clarke, but it's kind of my whole work crew. I thought it might be good for Finn to meet some of the people he's gonna be clocking all these hours with."
"Yeah, it would be," Finn agreed. Turning to Clarke, he said, "You don't mind, right?"
Did she mind? Well . . . it kind of bummed her out, but she understood that it was important for Finn to start networking with his coworkers or his colleagues or whatever they'd be called. "Well, can you stay home tomorrow night?" she asked. "I feel like, ever since we've gotten here, I barely see you."
"I know. I'm sorry," he apologized. "Tomorrow night, you and me. I'll be here."
"You promise?"
"I promise." With one more kiss, he followed Cage out the door.
"Later, Clarke," Cage called.
"Later." How much later . . . she wasn't sure. Last night had been 10:00. If there was a whole group of people going out, then tonight would probably be . . . what, at least 11:00? Maybe midnight?
She sighed heavily, determined not to be too upset about it. Today had been a good day, all in all. Exhausting, sure, but things were looking up. They had furniture now, and she had a job. The things they were needing to happen were happening quickly, and for that, she felt grateful.
When she peeked in the bedroom, she felt even more grateful. Because there was a double bed in there now, no longer just a sleeping bag. And the guys had gotten a dresser today, too. She pulled open the top drawer and saw a whole bunch of shirts for Finn, some of which had stains on them and some that smelled kind of funky. But she could fix that.
...
Fucking laundry, Bellamy thought as he traipsed down the first floor hallway with a heaping laundry basket in his arms. He hated doing laundry, hating cleaning in general. But he had to do it. Even though it was his one night off work this week, he still had plenty of things to do to keep him busy. Hopefully he could get it done fast and go out later, though, do something fun. And then he could call Bree up later and do someone fun.
When he pushed open the door to the laundry room, he noticed some familiar wavy, blonde hair. That Clarke girl stood at one of the washers, loading a whole mountain of clothes into it. Unlike him, she didn't have a laundry basket, though, so she just had all the clothes piled on top of the adjacent dryer.
"Hey," he greeted.
Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him a bit and echoed, "Hey," in response.
Damn, she looked kind of cute. She had on pink shorts that were . . . pretty short, and a white fitted t-shirt that showed off the gifts the good lord had given her. She reminded him of what Bree looked like when she didn't cake on so much makeup and when she didn't try so hard to dress up and look hot.
"Looks like we had the same idea," she said, inspecting every garment of clothing before she put them in the washer.
"Yep." He set his basket down on the floor and opened up the washer next to hers, but he got distracted from loading up his own laundry when he took a closer look at hers. Some of those shirts were . . . big. Way too big for her. They definitely belonged to a guy and . . . well, that was certainly a buzzkill if Clarke had a boyfriend.
"I can't believe it cost three dollars to do a load of laundry here," she remarked, dropping several pairs of socks into the washer.
"How much would it have cost in Kansas?" he asked her.
"I don't know. Like seventy-five cents."
He sighed, bending down to grab a hefty handful of his shirts and jeans out of his basket. "Yeah, everything's more expensive in the city."
"Way more expensive," she emphasized. "But oh, well. Gotta do it."
When he saw that she was about to put a red shirt in with all those paler colors, he grabbed it from her and said, "Don't do that. Unless you wanna turn everything in there pink."
Looking down at her feet, she blushed with embarrassment. "Right."
"I got a load of darks here," he said. "You can put it in mine." He dropped in the red shirt and asked, "Anything else?"
"Um . . ." She took another piece of red fabric out of her clothing pile, but this one was . . . much smaller. Silkier. Red underwear.
Laughing a little, he urged, "Go ahead." Some of the crap he was washing was Bree's anyway. It was no big deal.
"Thanks," she said, subtly dropping the panties in. "Do you have anything you need to put in mine?"
"No, I should be alright," he said, surveying his clothing. Lots of blacks and blues and darker greys. Nothing that would get turned pink. He picked up his whole basket and dumped the rest of it in, then reached up onto the shelf above the machine and grabbed some detergent. He shook it a bit to see how much was left, and it didn't seem like a lot. So he just used enough to get by, saving the rest for her.
"So how's your first full day in New York treated you?" he asked, closing the lid.
"How'd you know it was my first full day?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Lucky guess." She just had that vibe that a lot of girls had when they first came here, the innocent kind.
"It's been good," she said, sliding the rest of her clothes off the dryer and into her washer. "Got some furniture in my place now. And I got a job."
"Oh, yeah?" he said as he twisted the washer nob to all his preferred settings. "Where?"
"Right across from where you work, actually," she replied, taking the detergent from him when he handed it to her.
"Dropship?"
"Mmm-hmm." She drizzled the remainder of the detergent on top of her clothes. "Waitressing."
Starting his washer, he didn't want to burst her bubble, but . . . that really wasn't much of a job. There was a reason why so many people quit and why they were always hiring. The boss was a bitch, and the pay was crap. She wouldn't be so excited about it once she'd been there a couple days.
"My friend's girlfriend Emori works there," he said, wondering how many times he'd heard her grumble about how much she hated it.
"Oh, yeah, she was the one who trained me today."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Clarke smiled. "She was . . . nice."
"She was?" He'd known Emori for about a year now. She was stressed a lot of the time, which led her to be cranky a lot. Not usually nice, but not as unbearable as Bree could be, either.
"Well, she was sorta nice," Clarke amended. She started up her washer, too, and put the detergent back up on the shelf Bellamy had gotten it from. Even though there couldn't be much, if anything, left.
"It's kind of a crap job," Bellamy informed her. "I mean, not just Dropship, but waiting tables in general. You ever done it before?"
"No," she admitted.
"I did it for three years before I started bartending," he informed her. "It sucks. The customers are always right, except sometimes they're not always right. Sometimes they're just jackasses. And a lot of 'em don't tip."
"Yeah, I sensed that," she said. "But it's okay. It's just a temporary job. And my boyfriend, Finn . . . he has work lined up, so . . ."
Oh, he thought. Finn. Hopefully Finn had a decent job lined up, because Clarke's job wasn't going to be enough for them to get by. "What's he gonna do?" he asked.
"He's gonna work at his cousin's advertising agency," she explained. "He's a photographer, so . . . I guess he's gonna be part of the creative team or something."
"Huh." Nepotism at its finest then. Bellamy wondered what kind of job he could have been working by now if he'd known someone in this city prior to moving here.
"Yeah, it's gonna be good," Clarke predicted. "And I'm sure waitressing's not gonna be as bad as you make it sound."
"Oh, you say that now." He knew Emori would have quit her job a long time ago if she'd been able to afford it, but she couldn't, so . . . she stayed.
"Well, maybe it's not as thrilling as bartending," she said, a slight teasing tone in her voice, "but I'll be fine."
He stood there, hand on the washer as it roared and rumbled, hoping that was true. She walked out of the laundry room, and he took one quick look at her undeniable figure as it disappeared around the corner.
So his cute little neighbor girl was a waitress now. At a restaurant she'd soon come to hate. At least she was working there and not at Grounders, though. There were definitely worse jobs a girl like Clarke could have gotten.
