**The character names of The Mortal Instruments are owned by Cassandra Clare. The original content, ideas and intellectual property of this story are owned by ddpjclaf, 2011. Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission.**
Chapter Twenty-One - "I Want Everything"
***CHAPTER WARNING: Some of you may have the strong urge to throw your phone or computer out the window or into a wall. Please do not do this until at least reading to the end. ;) Also, some may need tissues . . . ***
As always, thanks to LLWB for rushing the edits for me. I *heart* you, girl!
Chapter songs:
**Through Glass – Stone Sour
**That I Would Be Good – Alanis Morissette
**So Far Away - Staind
**Somebody That I Used To Know - Gotye
**Never Saw Blue Like That – Shawn Colvin
The lights were harsh and the bed hard in the small holding cell located in the rear of the police station. As Jace had been escorted back there, he'd counted five cells total—all of which served as a temporary containment for drunks, druggies, people who were put there while police conducted some of their "investigation" to determine whether or not the charges against them stood, or if their dads refused to come bail them out.
Jace happened to be both of the latter. The phone call to his father had been enlightening, to say the least.
"You went there?" his father had asked, his voice laced with incredulousness.
"I had to," Jace said, his forehead pressed against the cinderblock wall beside the phone. "She's—"
"I told you not to cross, Morgenstern, didn't I?" his father interrupted. "But you couldn't just listen to me, could you? You let your dick lead you once and look where it got you. Now you're going to do it again? I told you to sign the damn papers and just be done with all this nonsense."
"That 'nonsense' is my girlfriend," Jace said, pausing and adding quietly, "and my son." The word son rolled off his tongue as if it weren't the most frightening word in the world. "I'm not turning my back on them. No matter what."
The line went silent for several seconds, and Jace thought maybe his father had hung up.
"Dad?"
"You're eighteen-years-old now, Jace. According to the law, you're an adult. If this is the decision you want to make, then I can't stop you." He paused. "But I don't have to support you in it or bail you out of it."
"Dad—"
And then there was nothing but dial tone.
Jace had resisted the urge to slam the handset back onto the cradle.
It wasn't exactly news to Jace that his father was a dick—this was the same man who'd pushed him so hard in practice he'd puked, the man who'd told him over and over again that his efforts were "mediocre at best" when Jace had given him everything he had—but Jace could honestly say he hadn't expected his father to completely turn his back. He knew he'd be angry, yell, call Jace several choice names and berate him for being a damn moron, but he never thought he'd leave him there. Especially when it involved Valentine Morgenstern. He thought his father would fight against Clary's father with everything he had in him, if only because it wasValentine Morgenstern. But there Jace was, cold and alone.
He sat on the edge of the putrid mattress, his head down and hands clasped between his knees. His eyes were closed as he tried to convince himself he wasn't where he was, that he didn't smell the reek of days old vomit and piss, or hear the drunk in the cell next to his moaning and retching into the seat-less, silver toilet beside the cot. When that didn't work, he reminded himself why he'd done this in the first place. For Clary. For his son. For his own sense of self worth. But every minute that passed, Jace felt the cell closing in on him, and he realized with a start that if Morgenstern got what he wanted, this could be his life for the foreseeable future.
In an unsurprising move, Morgenstern had not only filed the statutory rape complaint, as he stated he would, he'd also filed an assault complaint for the scene in the waiting room. He claimed Jace had come to the hospital, started a fight with him, then tried to overpower his daughter (even though it had been Morgenstern who had come at Jace and not the other way around. And the shit about Clary was just, well . . . shit.) Somehow, miraculously, none of the hospital staff had "seen" anything that could contradict Morgenstern's claims, so Jace was taken into custody.
Jace couldn't help but wonder how Morgenstern had managed that. There had to have been a half dozen nurses alone in that room. Why hadn't anyone come forward with the truth? And to add insult to injury, Morgenstern had called in the press to witness Jace being escorted out of the hospital. The flashes from their cameras had nearly blinded him, and more than one microphone had been thrust into his face as hospital security passed him off to the police. It seemed Morgenstern would stop at nothing to flout Jace's transgressions to everyone everywhere.
The scene in the waiting room came back to him: the feel of Morgenstern's hands in Jace's shirt, the sound of Clary's voice as she'd called from him to stop, the look on her face when the guards had torn them apart. Jace clenched his fists, the rage inside him roaring to life once more.
It wasn't Morgenstern's unfounded prejudice against Jace that had him angry—that he could handle—it was his total disregard for his own daughter. It was clear he could care less about what this was doing to her, the scrutiny she would face, the embarrassment. He had no idea what Clary had already been through, how devastating and mortifying every step of this journey had been for her so far. This, above everything else, pissed Jace off so entirely, he wanted nothing more than to live up to those assault charges. What he wouldn't give to knock the shit out of the man just one time.
Biting so hard on his bottom lip he tasted blood, Jace finally opened his eyes and let his gaze rest on the metal bars leading out into the corridor. The lights out there were a dull yellow, making the tiled floor look like it hadn't been cleaned in years. He could see the edge of the large door that opened to the police station. In his mind he knew this was only a temporary holding cell, that he would be out in a matter of hours, regardless of whether or not his father came for him, but he couldn't help feeling anxious about what was happening on the outside. Not for himself but for Clary. What was happening with her? Was she okay? What was her father saying or doing to her?
Jace didn't trust the asshole. He'd shown he had absolutely no concern for her. She was just a means to an end for him. How could her father look at her and only see that? How could he not see how amazing and caring and . . . perfect she was? How could he treat her as if she were merely a possession, something he could toss away, sacrifice, at a moment's notice?
God, he needed to get out of there. Regardless of the charges he was accused of, she needed him as much as he needed her. Yes, she was strong—stronger than him if he was being honest—but he knew he was stronger with her, and maybe, just maybe, she was stronger with him too.
Another loud retch came from the cell beside him. Jace was about to yell to the guy to man the hell up and quit puking like a baby, when he heard the squeal of the door to the cell block open, and footsteps make their way down the tiled hall. He sat up straighter, his eyes following the progression of the shadow until it turned into a man. The officer stopped outside Jace's cell, his gaze down and a ring of keys in his hand.
Jace's heart skipped in his chest.
The officer flipped through the ring until he found the key he wanted, shoved it in the lock, and turned until a resounding click echoed throughout the corridor. The door to the cell swung open wide, but Jace didn't move, too surprised to respond.
"Come on, kid," the officer said. "You've been sprung."
Jace blinked several times, his mind trying to comprehend what he'd heard. It was impossible. His father had said—
"You just gonna sit there all day or do you wanna get out of here?"
Jace stood, walking toward the door and holding out his hands so they could be recuffed.
The officer shook his head. "Nah. You're on your way out. No need for cuffs."
Jace dropped his hands and stepped into the hall, walking a foot or so in front of the officer. "But, I don't understand. My father said—"
"Look, kid," the officer said. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"
"Yeah." Jace looked back at the man as he used his enormous key ring to unlock the door leading to the station. "But I just—"
The door swung open and the officer gestured him out. "Well, then, don't."
Jace turned back toward the opening, his eyes searching for the familiar dark hair and scowl of his father, but landing on something completely different. Someone completely different.
"Wh—what are you doing here?" Jace said, stopping just in front of the door to the cells.
The figure stood from the chair in the waiting area, dark eyes rising slowly to meet Jace's. Jonathan Morgenstern took several steps toward Jace and stopped a few feet before him. His gaze never wavered as he stuck his hands in his pockets. "I just bailed your ass out, the least you could do is thank me."
"Thank you," Jace said, his jaw tense. "Now, why else are you here?"
Now Jonathan's eyes left Jace's face and he stared at the wall. "I don't like you," he said. "That's never been a secret." He glanced back at Jace. "And I think after what I learned about you and Clary, I might actually physically hate you." Jonathan swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly. "But what you did tonight . . . What you did for my sister . . ." He fidgeted, one of his hands leaving his pocket and rising to rub his jaw.
Jace stared at Jonathan, not believing he was hearing this from him.
"You stood up to my dad," Jonathan continued. "Even when he threatened you with all this." He waved his hand around at the police station. "Who would do that? Who would risk everything: their freedom, their reputation, their life, unless they . . . unless they really loved the person they were doing it for?" He swallowed again. "You really do love her, don't you? You really meant what you said?"
Jace didn't speak, couldn't speak, so he just nodded instead.
Jonathan nodded in return. "Then that's why I'm here. If you love her enough to do this, to take all the crap my father is throwing at you, then I can at least love her enough to help you out."
Jace relaxed a little. "So you're not here to beat the shit out of me then?"
Jonathan's mouth twitched, and Jace could have sworn he saw a bit of amusement flash through his eyes.
"Well, the night is still young." Jonathan swept his hand to the door. "I'm not making any promises."
.o.O.o.
"Are either of you planning to stay the night?" the nurse asked as she, yet again, hung a new IV bag and checked the flow. "If so, we can bring a cot."
Clary looked over at her parents, and just as her mother opened her mouth to speak, her father answered for the both of them. "I'll be staying. The security in this place is severely lacking and I'd like to make sure Clarissa is safe."
Safe? As if she were in some sort of real danger? Please. But the nurse didn't say anything about Clary's father's insinuation. She just nodded her head and exited the room.
"Besides," her father continued, peeking up at Clary for a second before immersing himself in the book in his lap once more, "I want to make sure you're out first thing in the morning, so we don't miss our appointment."
"Appointment?" Clary asked. "What appointment?"
"Valentine," her mother said, shaking her head slightly. "There's plenty of time for this. Shouldn't we at least discuss—"
"There's nothing to discuss, Jocelyn. The agency has agreed to see us on short notice and I'm not going to overlook their generosity."
"What are you talking about?" Clary asked again, her heart thumping faster in her chest. "What agency?"
Her parents continued to ignore her, sustaining their argument as if she weren't even in the room.
"What agency?" Clary asked again, louder, and with a hint of panic in her voice.
Her parents grew quiet and her father sighed. "The adoption agency, Clarissa."
"Wait. What? But I didn't—"
"Valentine, surely we can wait a little while for this. I mean, we just found out, emotions are high, can't we just—"
"This isn't open for discussion, Jocelyn. I've made my decision and it's final."
"But you can't!" Clary said, her voice high and squeaky. "You can't. This is my—"
"Your what?" Her father turned his hard gaze on her. "Your child? Your decision? In theory, yes, but you're my child. It's my responsibility to do things and make decisions for you when you're incapable of making responsible choices—which you have proven you're not able to do. You are sixteen-years-old, still in school, how do you expect to support and care for a child? Drop out of school? Marry that boy? There's no way in hell. That is not an option. This is the only way."
"But—"
"Valentine!" her mother said. "Please—"
Clary's father held his hand up. "We're not discussing this any further. This is the best thing for everyone involved. The faster we get this taken care of, the faster this will all be over." And with those words, the sound of a phone ringing blared. Clary's father paused and fished through his pocket, pulling out the small, black object and held it to his ear. "Morgenstern," he said. "Really? Already?" He stood and started to pace at the end of Clary's bed. "That didn't take long, did it?" Her father rubbed at his jaw. "No, that's fine. I never expected him to stay there. No way Wayland would allow that."
Stay where? Wayland wouldn't allow what? Clary wondered. What was her father talking about? She knew whatever it was had to do with Jace, but what that was she had no idea.
"At least he got a taste of what it will be like when we're done with him," her father said. "No, that's all right. I'll deal with the next phase. Thank you." And then he snapped the phone shut, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"What's going on?" Clary asked, knowing by the tight feeling in her chest that she wouldn't like the answer. "What happened? What are you going to do?"
Her father ignored Clary's questions and spun toward the door. "I've got a few more calls to make then I'll be back."
"Valentine," her mother said, flicking Clary an apologetic look as she chased Clary's father out the door.
As it clicked shut, Clary was overcome by the suffocating isolation she felt. The beep of her heart monitor still raced away, and the IV line at her side dripped in measured drops. She felt as if everything had come to a standstill. Time was not moving. People were not coming and going. She was alone. The voices of the doctors and nurses outside her door were a constant buzz, though nothing was clear enough for her to hear. But it was just as well. She didn't have space in her brain to hear them anyway.
What was happening with Jace? What did her father mean the next phase? What had he done already? Questions and fears swirled around in her mind, but there were no answers to be found. And then her thoughts shifted to what her father had said before the phone call.
An adoption agency.
Her father expected her to go to an adoption agency the next morning. Could he do that? Was that really his right as her parent? She had no idea. In the course of this whole thing, she'd let her mind wander to the possibility of giving the baby up, but she'd been nowhere near making a decision. She hadn't even thought to research any of this because she hadn't let herself really consider any of her options.
Why hadn't she?
If she were being honest, she didn't have to ask herself that question at all. She knew why. She hadn't researched anything because she'd been too busy living in denial over the whole thing.
Clary rolled onto her back, one hand pushed up into her hair and the other lingering at the edge of the swell in her stomach. Her gaze focused on the dark light above her head. Even now, in the hospital, with almost everyone important in her life knowing the situation, none of this felt real. She was still in this perpetual state of denial. Sure, she knew, logically, what was happening, but there was still this part of her that had convinced herself that if she just closed her eyes, if she refused to believe this was really her life, she would wake up and it wouldn't be. She wouldn't be sixteen and pregnant. She wouldn't be the epicenter of her family's demise. She wouldn't be the reason the boy she loved was facing jail and the lifetime stigma of being called a rapist.
Oh, God, Jace. What had her father done to him? The question repeated itself again and again in her mind. No one would tell her anything about him, about where he'd gone. Not even Jonathan. Before leaving he'd simply stated, again, "It'll be all right. Okay, Clare-bear? It'll be all right."
But it wouldn't, would it? Her father would make sure of that.
Lowering her hand to her face, she covered her eyes, feeling the tight, salt-covered skin around her now-dry eyes. She'd promised Jace she would fight for him, but how did she do that? Where did she start when she didn't even know for sure what was happening? It wasn't like anything she could say would change what had happened between them. It wouldn't change that the first time they'd had sex had been when she was fifteen. It wouldn't change the things her father had set in motion. If only the party had been a few weeks later. If only their fathers didn't have this stupid, unexplained rivalry. If only, if only, if only . . . But none of the "if onlys" in the world mattered. All they did was serve as a reminder of all the ways she had screwed up.
Clary moved her hand away from her face and looked over to the table next to her bed. She picked up her watch and glanced at the time, quarter after eight. She sighed and dropped it back to the table, her eyes falling to the small black and white picture beside it. Her chest tightened and she let her fingers run over the smooth surface for a moment before picking it up.
It was small and the paper flimsy, but the image printed onto it was larger than anything else in Clary's life. Her hands trembled as she brought the picture up to her face. When she'd first seen the image on the screen, she hadn't been able to make much out of the black, white, and gray blobs. They were shapeless, formless masses that didn't mean or look like much at all. But then the technician had stopped moving the wand, and suddenly the blobs on the screen didn't look like blobs anymore. A tiny, human profile appeared out of the gray. A profile Clary knew in the most innate way. She'd recognized the tiny, upturned nose as her own, and the pouty mouth with the top lip sticking out just a little further than the bottom as identical to the ones she knew better than her own.
And in that moment, something inside of her had changed, or maybe even died. Whether it was a part of her stubborn pride, her fear, or something else entirely, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that this tiny person, this miniature being was hers.
Hers.
Nothing had ever been truly hers before.
Even now as her eyes took in the profile, memorized the curve of his little forehead, the spaces she knew were his eyes, the blur of his hand at his chin, she could still feel that sense of . . . mine.
Ours. Hers and Jace's.
All of her father's attempts to punish them for what they'd done, for whatever had happened before either of them were even born, to try his best to rid himself of this "problem," could never take that away. This little boy would always be theirs.
That night four months earlier, when neither of them had been aware of what they were doing, when neither of them intended to, they'd made him. Together they'd made this new person. That thought used to make Clary feel nothing but fear, but now—even though the fear was still there—it also made Clary feel a sense of purpose, of responsibility.
She could still hear Jace's words in her mind.
I will fight for you.
I know you're worth it. Our son is worth it.
And he was right; he was so right.
Clary's throat tightened and her eyes stung at the realization that in all the times she thought she was being strong, that she was being smart, she had really just been being weak. She'd been protecting herself above everyone else. This whole day—other than maybe when she'd stood up to her father—she'd let her fears and weakness overcome her. She'd let herself dwell and cry and feel the hopelessness of the situation overwhelm her.
Drawing in a breath, Clary shook her head and closed her eyes, letting the hand at her side travel up and lay lightly over the bump in her stomach. Her fingers swiped over the swell, just as Jace's usually did, and she could feel the tightness of her skin, the hardness underneath.
Our son is worth it.
Jace was worth it too.
And it was with these realizations that she thought maybe she could fight. Not just for herself, not just for Jace, but for this little person who had no one else but them to fight for him.
Jace was doing it. He was fighting. He'd always been fighting. And if there was anything Clary could take from all of this it was that Jace would continue to fight. She didn't have to sit there and do as her father said. She didn't have to meet with any agency tomorrow if she didn't want to. She didn't have to do anything he told her to do with her child. This was her decision, and she'd be damned if she let her father take that away from her.
A swell of indignation crashed over her. She would not let him win. She would not let him control this. All her life he'd been in charge, his will had been done, and she had endured it because he was her father. As much of an ass as he was, and as much as she had rebelled against his stupid rules, she had all along harbored an appropriate amount of fear and respect for his role in her life.
But not anymore.
The way he was acting now, the way he'd treated her and Jace, was no longer deserving of anything. It wasn't just about her anymore, and with all her father's plans to "get rid of" her child, Clary could no longer let him call the shots. He may be her father, but she was her son's mother.
The heart monitor sped with her increased pulse, and she threw the covers back and jumped out of bed. She ambled over to her clothes and pulled her pants on under her gown. Searching the pockets for her phone, she cursed when she found them empty. Great, her father must have taken it. Clary thrust her hands into her hair and spun around, thinking . . . And then she saw the hospital phone beside her bed.
Grabbing her shirt and bag, she rushed over to it, read the instructions taped to the table next to it, which told her to press nine to get an outside line, and picked up the handset. She dialed the first person she could think of and he answered after three rings.
"Hello?"
Clary closed her eyes and supported herself against the table at the sound of his voice. "Simon?"
"Clary?"
"I—" Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. "Can you borrow your Mom's car?"
"Um, yeah, why?"
Clary could hear the television playing in the background, the sounds of bombs and guns firing told her he was probably in the midst of some video game. "Could you come pick me up?"
There was silence for a few moments. "Sure. When do you need me?"
"Now, Simon. Now," she said. "Meet me at the corner of Main and Bristol in ten minutes, okay?"
"Sure," he said, then paused. "Clary . . . are you okay?"
She drew in a shaky breath and exhaled slowly. "No. But I will be. Hurry, Simon." She placed the phone back on the cradle, staring down at the gown and the various monitors attached to her. She withdrew her finger from the pulse/ox monitor, and the beeps turned into one long sound as the green line indicating each beat of her heart went flat. She knew she had only a short amount of time before one of the nurses came to check what was going on, since they would only consider it a non-issue as long as she was only unattached long enough to use the bathroom. The trickier problem was the IV. She studied the place where it was attached to her and saw only one solution. Gritting her teeth, she peeled the tape from her skin and yanked the needle from her arm, blood spurting from the wound.
"Crap," she said, as she grabbed a towel from the table next to her bed. She'd seen one of the nurses rooting around in the top drawer for supplies, so she pulled it open, spying what she needed immediately.
Though it was hard to dress her own wound while trying to staunch the bleeding at the same time, she managed to secure a half-ways decent bandage out of gauze pads and tape. Once she finished, she ripped the hospital gown over her head, replaced her bra and shirt, and pulled her jacket out of her bag. Grabbing her backpack, she spun toward the back of the room.
Just outside her window, she could see the sway of shadowy branches outside. The best thing would have been to just walk out her hospital room and leave, but she knew the nurses would try to stop her. Technically, they couldn't force her to stay, but her father was still there somewhere in the hospital, and if he found out she was trying to leave, he'd probably use his influence to have them strap her to the bed. Not that she knew whether or not they could actually do that if she wasn't insane, but still.
There was no other choice.
Lumbering forward, she saw that even though she was on the bottom floor, the ground below was still a good five-foot drop. She chewed on her lip, wondering if this was the stupidest thing she'd ever done, but willing to do it all the same. She pushed aside the blinds and unlatched the window, sliding it up and out of the way. A blast of cold air hit her and she shivered from head to toe. Ignoring the gooseflesh covering her body, she reached out and pulled the chair her mother had been using and scrambled on top. She fiddled with the latches holding the screen in and finally pushed it out, watching as it tumbled to the ground.
Voices sounded from outside her door and Clary knew she was out of time. She climbed up onto the ledge, threw her backpack out the window, and paused, saying a small prayer to whomever was up there listening, and swung her legs over the side. She lowered herself over the edge, her toes scraping along the brick side, and just when she heard the door to her room creak open, she let herself fall.
.o.O.o.
Uncomfortable didn't even begin to describe how it felt to be stuck in a car with Jonathan Morgenstern. Tension filled the air, crackling and sparking like electricity before a storm and raising the hairs on Jace's arms. His fingers drummed against his denim-covered thigh, trying his hardest not to stiffen or give any other indication of his unease.
Jonathan seemed fine, his hands staying on the wheel and his eyes on the road, but Jace couldn't seem to shake the feeling that that could change at any moment. He didn't trust Jonathan Morgenstern for shit. There was too much history, too many years that had passed in hatred and rivalry for one act to change the feelings between them. They were taught to feel this way, conditioned, and for nothing more than to win a few stupid football games. Then there was the added fact that Jace had had sex with and knocked up Jonathan's younger sister. Yeah, that shit was not just forgiven or forgotten. Jace was pretty sure Jonathan was itching to bust Jace's face open. If he were in the opposite situation, he was pretty sure he already would have.
Jace kept that thought to the forefront of his mind and stayed alert, ready and waiting for the moment when Jonathan lost it completely.
Traffic and streetlights blurred past as Jonathan drove up the highway toward the north side of town. Jace's hand clenched into a fist the closer they came to where he lived, thoughts of seeing his father causing his anger to swell and crest.
Jonathan must have noticed Jace's tenseness because he turned toward him, then back to the road before asking, "Do you want to be dropped someplace other than home?"
"Why would I want that?" Jace asked.
"Well, by the way your leg is threatening to bust through my floorboards, I just thought I'd ask."
Jace glanced down and, sure enough, his leg was bouncing relentlessly. With some effort, he willed the movement to stop. "Home is fine."
Jonathan mumbled something under his breath and let out a condescending chuckle.
"What?" Jace asked, his tone laced with annoyance and warning. "What's so damn funny?"
Jonathan shook his head, pushed up the lever for his turn signal and took a right turn. "You. You're just . . . so damn stubborn and hostile, like you think I'm about ready to drive you to the woods and off you."
"Like you wouldn't think the same thing if you were me?" Jace glanced at Jonathan from the corner of his eye. "Besides, it's not like you haven't tried to take me out before."
Jonathan's mouth opened as if he were going to try to deny it. Jace turned his full stare on him, and Jonathan's mouth snapped shut, his jaw tightening. He shook his head. "I had a feeling she'd heard that night." He let out a breath. "She was acting so strange in the kitchen . . ."
Jace had no idea what Jonathan was talking about, but he really didn't care. "Whatever."
"Look," Jonathan offered, "I know that was a dick thing to do, a lot of the stuff we've done in the past were dick things to do, but that was then and this is now. Now we have Clary to think about."
"I have been thinking about her. This whole time."
"Sure," Jonathan muttered.
Jace drew in a breath and held it, feeling his anger boiling up to the surface once more. "You don't know shit about what I've been thinking about or not thinking about, Morgenstern!" he said. "You know what? Just forget it and pull over."
"What? Don't be stupid, we're almost there—"
"Pull over!" Jace said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Jonathan did as Jace had demanded, and once the car came to a stop, Jace shoved the door open and jumped out, slamming it shut behind him. He started down the street, his breath coming in angry white puffs as he moved away. The slam of another car door sounded behind him but Jace didn't turn to look. He couldn't. He needed to distance himself before he said or did something stupid.
"What the hell, Wayland?" Jonathan called. "Just get back in the damn car already."
Jace kept walking, the muscles in his back tightening and his hands clenching at his side.
"Wayland!"
Jace stopped and spun around. "Look, can we just stop with all this 'truce' bullshit or whatever the hell this is? It's been a long messed up night and I just don't want to deal with this shit right now, okay?" He lifted his hands then let them fall to his sides. "I appreciate the bail out and the ride, I really do, but I can't sit in that damn car and pretend we aren't who we are. I can't pretend I haven't kicked your ass at every football game I've ever played against you. I can't pretend you didn't try to physically take me out of this year's season. And I can't pretend you don't hate the fact that I've been with your sister. So let's just call it a night, okay? You've done your good deed. Clary will thank you profusely. But if you don't mind, I'm just going to say goodnight right here and now." Jace started away again.
"When are you going to get your head out of your ass and realize this isn't about you?" Jonathan called.
Jace froze and half-turned. "I never said it was."
Jonathan snorted. "Could have fooled me."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You." Jonathan waved his hand toward Jace. "You and your 'poor me, nobody understands and nobody will help me' shit."
Jace turned fully and stared at Clary's brother.
"You may be in deep shit right now, but it's your own damn fault. My father gave you a way out, gave you both a way out, but both of you were too stubborn and stupid to take it. What are you trying to gain anyway? Are you trying to hurt her worse?"
"I'm not trying to hurt her at all."
"Then why the hell do this?" Jonathan held his arms out. "Did you think getting yourself locked up and turned in for rape was going to magically help her?"
"I didn't—"
"No, you God-damn didn't!" Jonathan's face contorted into an angry scowl. "What did you think would happen, Jace? Did you think you 'martyring' yourself was going to make it all better? That it was going to somehow fix things for her? That it would make you look better after what you did?"
"That's not why I did it at all! I don't give a shit how I look." Jace's hands started to tremble and his jaw clenched. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"
"Don't I? Then why don't you enlighten me? Tell me why I watched my sister crumble in my arms. Tell me why I had to carry her limp body back to her room. Tell me why she couldn't respond to a word any of us said because she was crying so hard. Tell me, was that what you were going for? Was that what you wanted?"
Jace let out a frustrated breath and thrust a hand into his hair. "No. None of this shit was what I wanted." He looked back at Jonathan. "Don't you think I wish I could change this? That I could take this all away for her? You can think what you want about me, but I've never wanted to hurt her. I've tried so damn hard not to hurt her worse than I already have. But I can't turn my back. Maybe you could if it were you. But I can't. I owe her this."
"You owe her more heartache?" Jonathan asked, his tone disbelieving.
Jace shook his head. "I owe her my loyalty. I owe her the peace of mind that I'm not going to walk away." He met Jonathan's gaze. "You know that's her biggest fear. That everyone will leave her, don't you? She already feels like everyone has. I'm not going to be another notch added to her 'people who leave me' post."
This time Jonathan looked away, and Jace could see the guilt settling on his shoulders. He could tell Jonathan knew this about Clary, knew that she saw him as one of those people who had left her.
"I'm responsible," Jace continued, his voice low but strong. "I'm responsible for all of this, and I'm not going to let her take it all on her own. I was there that night. That kid is mine. I deserve just as much flack, just as many of the stares and pointed fingers and whispers behind my back." He swallowed. "Maybe you don't understand, and maybe you would do things differently, but I love her." Jonathan's eyes flitted back to Jace's. "And this is how I show her."
Jonathan let out a long, slow breath. "You are such a stubborn asshole."
Jace shrugged and went to turn back around, when Jonathan spoke again.
"You're right, you know."
Jace stopped and peeked over his shoulder.
"About me, about everything," Jonathan said. "I would do things differently. I would have signed that paper and walked away." He paused. "I'd like to say it's because I think you're an utter moron and I would never be that stupid, but the truth is, I'm just not that strong." He lifted his shoulders, then let them fall. "I would never be able to risk my life for anyone."
Jace studied Jonathan's face for a moment. "Yeah you would."
"No, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't."
"What do you think you're doing right now?"
Jonathan frowned.
"You just bailed me out of jail—the guy your dad put there for sleeping with your underage sister. He's going to kill your stupid ass."
Jonathan barked out a laugh, and Jace couldn't help but grin in return.
"True, true," Jonathan said, turning toward his car and waving Jace back. "Come on, asshole, my sister would never forgive me if I rescued you just to let you freeze to death."
Jace glanced to the empty road in from of him, then back to where Jonathan waited next to his car. With a sigh, he turned and walked back, sliding into the passenger seat without a word. Jonathan followed, slipping into the driver's seat with a smug grin on his face.
Jace crossed his arms over his chest and peered out the side window. God, could this night get any more damn weird?
…
When Jonathan pulled up to Jace's house ten minutes later, there was only one light shining—the one in his father's office. He climbed out of the car, murmuring a low "thanks" and stood there staring up at the window as Jonathan drove away. Anger and resentment lodged in his throat as he considered what he was going to say, what he was going to do. His feet felt like lead weights as he made his way up the stairs to the house, the snow and ice below them crunching with each step.
Once inside, he was struck by the silence. There was no television going, no noise in the kitchen, none of his father's murmured business calls echoing through the halls. It was just dead quiet.
Slowly Jace climbed the stairs, every muscle in his body aching from how tight and anxious he'd been all night. His hand gripped the wood banister as he continued to the second floor. When he reached the top, his eyes fell on the pile of luggage outside his father's bedroom door. He froze, his brows pulling together as he tried to understand what he was seeing.
Moving forward a few more steps, he stopped just in front of the pile. Across the hall, the light from his father's office shined out into the hall. Jace's eyes followed it, his gaze landing on the shelves of trophies and awards lining the wall. Without telling them to, his feet pulled him closer to the room, stopping only when he stood just inside. His father wasn't there, but Jace couldn't seem to make himself leave that spot.
There, displayed for anyone to see, were all his sports accomplishments. Every shiny trophy, every medal, every certificate of excellence, but there was something missing. Jace let his eyes fall over every other part of the room, across the desk that held his father's business necessities, computer, photos of him accepting coaching awards and some with important associates, one of Jace's mother, but nowhere—not on his desk, not on the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, not on the wall—was there a single photo of Jace. Not one.
And as Jace stood there, he realized there were no photos of him anywhere else in the entire house. A sharp pang shot through him at the awareness. He'd never really thought much about it before because the other parts of the house were more like a museum anyway, but here . . . this place was special. It was his father's favorite room, the place he kept all of his prized possessions. And Jace—the parts of him that weren't football—was nowhere to be found in it.
There was a light shuffle from the hallway, and the hairs on the back of Jace's neck stood on end. He closed his eyes and took in a breath, knowing his father was behind him.
"So, you found someone to get you out, I see."
Jace opened his eyes but didn't answer right away. He lowered his gaze to his feet, feeling the heat of anger pool in his chest and shoot outward toward his limbs. "Where are you going, Dad?"
"Emergency business trip to Miami. I'll be gone a little over a week."
"Now?" Jace asked, trying his hardest to keep the trembling out of his voice. He raised his head and let his eyes focus on the awards once more.
"Of course now. I said it was an emergency."
A shiver raced up and down Jace's spine as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He wanted to scream at his father, to ask him why he was such an insensitive bastard, why he had to go now when Jace needed him most, but what came out was, "When exactly was it that you stopped?"
His father huffed. "What are you talking about? Stopped what?"
Jace turned finally, spying his father standing just inside the door, one hand on the frame, his face impassive.
"When did you stop seeing me as your son?" His father's brows rose, but Jace continued as if he hadn't reacted at all. "I mean, look at this room." His hand swept toward the office. "You keep everything you love in here: pictures of places you've been, people you call your friends, awards you've received, Mom . . ." He let his gaze linger on his mother's picture, and then on the trophies a bit longer. "But nothing of me—other than superficial shit I've won." He walked over to the shelves and picked up one of his largest trophies, the full-sized brass-colored football on top gleaming as if it had recently been polished. His eyes lifted to his father's. "When did I stop being the little boy you took to games and showed how to throw a ball? When did I stop being him and become only these?" He held the trophy up. "Was it before or after she died? Was it something I did that made you stop? Please tell me, Dad, because I have no God-damn clue why you hate me so much."
His father looked uneasily between Jace and the trophy in his hand. After a moment, he wiped his face clean of emotion, straightened his stance, and came into the room. "Don't be melodramatic." He reached out for the trophy, his eyes a dark pool of anxiety. "Just put it back now."
Jace followed his father's gaze to the award, saw the desperation in his eyes, and felt a hot stab of rage in his heart. Just before his father's fingers closed around the base, Jace pulled the trophy back out of his reach. "Tell me when, Dad."
"Jace, this is utterly ridiculous. You're acting like a petulant child." He reached for the trophy again. "Now just give me—"
"Tell me when!" Jace drew back his arm and threw the award across the room, the top smashing against the wall and shattering into a million tiny pieces.
"Jesus, Jace! What the hell are you doing?" His father cried out and went to go to the devastated remains, when Jace grabbed his arm.
"No," Jace said, "don't look at that. Look at me. Look at me."
He begged him with his eyes to please just God-damn see.
His father stared dark and hard, and Jace could feel the coldness of it seep into his bones. He lifted his hand and placed it over Jace's, tightening his grip and squeezing until Jace had no choice but to release him. "You've always been such a spoiled rotten, entitled little brat," his father said, his voice biting.
"Wh—what?" Jace said.
"I always told your mother you were ungrateful. You've been given everything. Everything. And you've never appreciated any of it. Do you know how much your mother and I sacrificed for you? And for what?" His father gestured angrily at the splinters covering the floor in front of him. "For you to throw it all away, because you couldn't keep your damn pants on?" He shook his head in disgust. "I should never have promised her." And then his father turned away, kneeling down on the ground in front of the destroyed trophy.
"Promised who what?" Jace's chest heaved with every, disbelieving breath.
"Your mother. I never should have promised her I wouldn't send you." His father continued, his words like venom spitting past his lips. "I told Celine we should have enrolled you in military school to toughen you up a bit, get you away from her and make you behave like a man, but she refused. She liked you soft, liked you weak. She made me promise I never would, no matter what. I should have listened to my gut then. If I had maybe we wouldn't be in this mess now. Maybe I wouldn't feel so disappointed every damn time I look at you."
Jace's eyes stung, and he felt the urge to put his fist through a wall. "You wanted to send me away? I don't—"
"It's too late now." His father shook his head, ignoring Jace and trying in earnest to gather the pieces of the award. "I thought football would beat it out of you, would make you strong, but you're still the soft little boy you always were. You're still making decisions with your 'heart' and not your head. Stupid, reckless decisions."
Unable to contain the fury racing through him, Jace reached out and grabbed the back of his father's office chair and swung it around, heaving it as hard as he could into the shelves on the back wall. It hit with a loud smack, crashing through all three shelves, the wood splintering and sending every trophy, medal, and framed certificate that sat upon them cascading to the ground. The room was a cacophony of glass breaking, metal clanging, and his father's shouts. But for those few seconds as chaos showered down around him in the form of slivered glass and twisted metal, Jace had broken the chains that had been holding him down. And the weight that had crushed his chest for as long as he could remember was gone.
"Christ! What the hell is wrong with you?" his father cried.
But Jace didn't answer; he just ripped the remaining framed certificates and awards from the wall and crushed them below his heel.
"I'm weak?" Jace said, with another stomp. "I'm useless and reckless? I've done everything you've asked! Taken every shitty insult and every crushing training session just with the idiotic hope that you would look at me with at least a little bit of pride, and what did you do?" He swept his arm along the last remaining shelf, everything falling to the floor with the rest. "You stole every moment from me, literally ripped it from my hands, and placed it on your shelf, then told me I wasn't allowed to set foot in here. You took my accomplishments, my hard work, and told me it was 'subpar', weak, not worthy of any praise. And still I tried harder. But it was never enough for you, it never could have been enough. You destroyed me little by little, and all because, why?" He looked up and met his father's furious stare. "Why? To make me 'strong' like you? If you're strong and . . . and . . . whatever the hell you think it takes to be a man, then you can keep your God-damn pride and bullshit, because I don't want to be like you. I don't want to be so unfeeling and cold-hearted that my son has to nearly kill himself to get any sort of affirmation from me. You're nothing but a cruel, bullying coward. And, honestly, I feel sorry for you."
Jace's father looked as if he were going to explode. "How dare you speak to me that way? I'm still your fa—"
"Don't," Jace said. "Don't call yourself my father. You're not my father. You may have signed on the dotted line and tacked your name to mine, but you've never been my father."
Jace didn't wait to hear a response; he didn't care. He turned away and exited out into the hall. For so long he'd denied the nagging feeling that those trophies and the notoriety that came with them were all that mattered to Michael Wayland. He'd let himself believe that what Michael was doing, the way he was pushing Jace, was just the way he showed he loved him, was just the way he tried to make Jace the best he could be.
But now he knew different.
Now he knew it wasn't about him at all. It never had been.
Curses and shouts followed Jace down the stairs and through the foyer, all the way to the front door. Once it shut behind him, the silence of night fell over him and the chains he'd momentarily lost when he'd thrown that chair into a lifetime of forced accomplishment, wrapped back around him, tighter and heavier than before. His mind filled with the things the man who had raised him had shouted, the way his eyes had stared into Jace with not an ounce of feeling or remorse.
. . . spoiled rotten, entitled little brat . . .
Jace climbed in his car, his hands shaking so hard he dropped the keys three times before finally getting them into the ignition.
. . . you're still the soft little boy you always were . . .
The engine roared to life, but the sound did nothing to drown out the words. Over and over and over they echoed in his mind, telling him again and again just how little the man he'd called his father thought of him. Jace rested his forehead against the steering wheel momentarily, trying to get a grip on his own thoughts, trying to tell himself they weren't true. But they would not leave, would not give him even an iota of distance from all his accused faults and failures.
. . . stupid, reckless . . .
He drove up to the gate, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs and his breath catching in his throat. His vision blurred and he blinked it back, trying several times to enter the code to get the gate to open. When it finally did, he peeled out of the driveway, his tires squealing against the blacktop. He had no clue as to where he was going or why. All he knew was he needed to get out of there. Now. Right now.
Jace wanted to drive until he could drive no more, to dull his head and heart with blurring scenery and the hum of the motor beneath him. He wanted to run or throw or hit or scream—anything to leave behind the pain and ruin of his life, the relentless ache that pulsed and bled inside of him. But he knew deep in his heart, where the poison of his father's words festered and spread like cancer, that no matter how fast or how far he went, he never, ever could.
.o.O.o.
"Wow," Simon said, his eyes staring straight ahead, his hands clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles had long ago turned white. "Wow."
Clary swallowed and looked down at her lap, her cheeks burning with her admission. "I know I should have told you earlier, but I . . . I didn't tell anyone, Simon. Not anyone. Well, except for Izzy, but just because she was with me when I found out. And of course Jace . . ." Her words trailed off and she lifted her gaze to see him still staring unseeingly into the night. She watched the light turn, but Simon made no sign to move. "The light's green," she whispered.
It took Simon a few seconds to react, and when he did, the vehicle moved aimlessly forward once more. Silence filled the spaces around them like a third passenger in the car. Clary was more uncomfortable than she'd been in a long time. Things between her and Simon still hadn't been at one hundred percent, but she needed him to respond in some way, any way.
"Are you going to say anything?" Clary asked, her voice quiet and small, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
Simon let out a breath. "I don't know what to say. I'm . . . I don't even know."
Clary nodded and turned toward the window, watching the scenery go by and the soft flakes that had just started to fall coat everything in a thin layer of white. Part of her had expected Simon to react this way, with shock and possibly even anger, but a bigger part hoped he wouldn't. What she needed more than anything right now, was someone to be there and tell her it would all be okay, that the decision she'd made was the best one she could have made given the circumstances. But even though she needed it, there was no one who could do that for her.
No one she could get to at the moment, anyway.
Again, fear for Jace washed over her. She wanted him. Needed him. But from the pieces of conversations she'd heard while in the hospital, she figured her father had done exactly what he'd threatened and filed the rape complaint. A shudder worked its way through her body as she considered what that meant for Jace, what it meant for them, what it meant about where he was now. Clary wasn't stupid. Jonathan hadn't had to answer her questions for her to know.
God, she hated her father, hated him so much it had now become a physical, gnawing disease inside of her. And she wanted more than anything to go to Jace, to walk into the police station and plead his case to anyone that would listen. But she knew that would only do more harm than good, so with every ounce of restraint she had, she'd told Simon to stay far away from the west side of town. Although doing so made her feel like her heart was being torn from her chest.
A moment later, Clary felt warmth engulf her hand. Looking down, she saw Simon's covering her own. Her eyes pricked and her throat tightened. It had been so long since he'd touched her like that. She closed her lids and let her fingers entwine with his.
"I'm sorry," Simon said.
"What for?"
"For not being someone you could come to about this . . . about anything, really. I'm so sorry, Clary."
She glanced up and squeezed his hand. "You're here now."
Simon looked over at her and smiled a small, sad smile. "You let me off too easily. I've been a huge jerk."
"You have." Clary nodded. "But so have I." She paused. "So, you don't hate me?"
"Of course not," he said, catching her eye once more. "I was hurt and upset about everything, but you're my best friend. I could never hate you."
"Thank you," she whispered through the lump in her throat.
Simon squeezed her hand this time. "So, where do you want to go? We're kind of running out of city."
"I don't know," she said. "I just don't—"
Her words cut off and it was then she realized they'd ventured into the north side of town, the lights of the parking lot to Northwest Academy shining bright like a beacon in the dark in front of them. And, as if they were black scars through the sea of white, a set of tire tracks cut across the lot, leading to one lonely vehicle at the far end, closest to the field.
A vehicle Clary recognized.
"Pull over," she said, grasping Simon's arm.
"Ow!" he said under her grip. "Pull over? Why?"
"Just do it. Please." Her heart thumped hard in her chest and her stomach flipped. She met Simon's confused gaze. "Please."
He frowned, but pulled into the parking lot regardless, following the tracks and parking next to the empty vehicle. Clary wrestled with her seatbelt, finally getting free, and thrust open the door. She climbed out of the car, her eyes drawn to the dark field sprawling out in front of her. And there, on the usually grassy strip next to the sideline, she found what she was looking for.
The silhouette was shrouded in shadow, but she would have known it anywhere.
Simon climbed out of the car and peered over the top. Clary looked over at him and opened her mouth to speak, but he just shook his head. "Go. I'll catch you later." She hesitated, but Simon held up his hand. "Just go. I know he's who you really need right now."
She tossed him a grateful smile, then turned and started away. She half-walked, half-ran, careful to watch her step so she didn't fall. A few moments later, she stopped on the edge of the field behind where Jace stood, his body poised in a familiar stance. His hands clutched a ball to his chest and his head faced toward the target further down the sideline. She could just make out the curl of his fingers, positioned just right along the laces. It felt like forever since she'd seen him this way, in his element, doing the thing he did so effortlessly, so perfectly, that she could do nothing but watch as he drew back, the muscles of his back, shoulder, and arm moving fluidly beneath his shirt, and threw. The ball arced flawlessly through the air and slid right through the hole in the target, not even touching the sides, and hitting the backstop with a thud.
Clary took a couple of steps toward him as he picked up another ball, set his stance again, and let it go. Another perfect throw. "I forgot how amazing you were at that," she said.
Jace's shoulders stiffened and he whirled around, his face fixed in surprise. "Clary?" he said. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same, but . . ."
"I thought you were supposed to stay overnight." His voice tightened. "Is everything okay? Are you okay?"
"I am now," she said quietly, moving forward a little more, watching him do the same. When they were toe to toe, she looked up and met his eyes. She was eager to touch him, for him to touch her, but something in his gaze made her hold back. "I thought you were . . . I thought my father sent you . . ."
"I was," he said. "He did."
Clary closed her eyes against the sting growing inside them. She clenched her fists and her nails dug into her palms. But before she could say anything, Jace's hands surrounded her face.
"Don't," he whispered. "It's okay. I'm okay."
She shivered at the sensation of his skin against hers. "No it's not." Clary opened her eyes. "And no you're not." She touched his face just below his eyes, tracing the lines that had formed there. "I can see it here. You're not okay."
Jace took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, and let out a breath, the heat of it spreading over and warming her fingers. "You're right. But it has nothing to do with that." His eyes met hers. "I made my choice, and I can handle whatever they decide to do to me." His gaze faltered and he grimaced.
"But . . . ?"
He drew in another breath and stepped away from her, pushing a hand into his hair. "Nothing." He shook his head. "It's not important."
Clary stepped into him. "If it makes you look like this," she touched the frowning corners of his mouth, "then it's important to me."
Jace continued to shake his head. "It has nothing to do with any of this, with us. It's just my . . . my father. Really, it's nothing."
Clary frowned. "It seems it's the night for shitty fathers."
Jace coughed out a laugh and lowered his head. "Yeah."
Clary's face softened and she reached for his hand. "Tell me, Jace."
His shoulders rose and fell with his sigh, and he turned away from her, walking several feet away before sitting down on the snow covered bench, his hands clasped between his knees and his head down. Clary followed and sat carefully beside him.
"He's just an asshole, baby."
"What did he do?"
Jace turned his head and glanced up at her, and the pain in his eyes nearly stole her breath. "He just . . . shit . . . he just made it very clear how he felt about me not signing those papers, that's all."
"Which was . . . ?"
He shook his head.
"Please, Jace. Please tell me."
He sighed, long and deep. "He told me he wasn't going to help me at all, that it was stupid and reckless—that I've always made stupid and reckless decisions, because I'm soft and weak. And . . ." Jace drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "And then he let me know just how much he wished he'd had the balls to go against my mother's wishes and send me away when I was younger. To some sort of military school or some shit. Because maybe then I wouldn't have turned out to be such a big disappointment."
Clary stared at Jace for a moment, at the way his eyes turned dark when he spoke, and her blood boiled in her veins. "He said what?"
"Yeah, in so many words . . ." Jace looked away. The gesture made Clary's chest squeeze. "I don't know. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am weak. Maybe I—"
"No," Clary said, as she grabbed his chin, pulling his gaze back to hers. "Don't you dare believe him. You are not weak. You are . . . you're . . ."
"It's okay, Clary. You don't have to—" He tried to twist his face from her grasp, but she tightened her grip.
"Stop it. You're not weak," she repeated, her voice coming out quieter. "I don't care what he says. What you did tonight . . . the way you stood up for yourself . . . for me . . . You're so strong. So strong. God, don't you know that?"
He closed his eyes. "But he doesn't see me that way. He never has. I've never been able to make him, no matter what I do. No matter how hard I try. It's like . . . I don't know. It's just so exhausting to try and try and try and to have it make no difference."
"Then he's blind." Clary let her fingers loosen and slide up to his cheek, the light stubble scratching against her skin. "Because if he just looked . . . if he could see what I see . . . If he had seen you tonight . . . God, Jace." She drew in a breath before continuing. "I've always known what kind of boy you were. Strong, confident, beautiful. And I've loved you for all those things and more, but tonight . . . tonight I watched that strong, confident, beautiful boy become an even stronger, more confident, more beautiful man." She reached up and touched her other hand to his face, holding him tight between her palms. "You were so incredibly brave, and I was so, so proud of you." She let her gaze move from one of his eyes to the other. "And I've never been more thankful that you were the one with me against that door four months ago."
Jace's eyes stayed steady on hers. "Why?"
"Because I know without any doubt that my son has the most amazing father."
Jace let out a choked sound and his eyes grew wide. "Clary . . . "
"The way that you are, the things you say and do . . . you make me feel like . . . like maybe I can be brave like you too," she said, her voice lowering to a whisper. "You make me want to be."
"But you are, baby. You are."
She shook her head. "I'm not. I haven't been. But I'm going to try to be now." She swallowed hard. "I . . . I didn't know before." Her hands dropped from his face and her fingers fumbled at her pocket. "Maybe I didn't want to know before . . ."
Slowly, she pulled the small black and white image from her jeans and pressed it into Jace's hand. She watched as he looked down, his breath catching when he took in the same profile Clary had earlier.
"My father made an appointment with an adoption agency tomorrow, but I don't . . . I . . . I don't . . ."
"What?"
Clary bit back the fear that still threatened to close her throat. She knew the words she wanted to say, knew what she needed to say, but God if they weren't the hardest things to get out. She closed her eyes and blew out a shaky breath. "He deserves to know you, Jace." She opened her eyes once more. "And you deserve to know him." Jace raised his gaze, and Clary could see it was lined with unshed tears. "And I . . . and I want to watch you know him."
"Clary . . . Are you saying . . . Do you . . . ?" The words shook as they crossed his lips. His stare was uncertain, but Clary was sure she detected a sliver of hope as well.
She nodded, feeling her own eyes sting.
Jace reached for her, holding her face cupped in his palms as she'd had his moments before. His hands shook, but his grip was strong. "Are you sure? Really, really, really sure, because I don't think I can take another—"
"I want him, Jace." Clary touched his mouth, tracing over the lips identical to the ones in the photo trapped between her cheek and Jace's hand. "I don't know how to do this or even if I can, but I . . . I want him."
Jace lowered his head and closed his eyes; the tears that had been clinging there fell slowly over his face and onto Clary's fingers. His breath shuddered and his shoulders trembled as he pulled her into him, his arms hugging her so tight she could barely breathe.
"I don't know what's going to happen," he said, his voice strained as he tried to speak through the emotion clouding his throat. "I don't know if I'll have to go away, but I . . . I want him too. And I want you. And I want—" His words cut off, but after a few seconds, he drew in a breath and said, "Everything. God, I want everything."
Clary closed her own eyes and buried her tear-streaked face into the fabric of his shirt. Fear and uncertainty threatened to burst through her ribs, but there was something else there too. Something she hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Peace.
Peace and a glimmer of the hope she'd seen in Jace's eyes.
"Me too," she said, turning until her lips and nose met the skin of his neck. She placed a kiss there and breathed him in, clutching him tighter to her and savoring the feeling of having him and their son cocooned safely inside her arms. "I want everything too."
Please keep in mind that it is summer break, and with 4 kids, concentration and time to write is in short supply. I will update, it just may take a little longer considering.
Until Next time, XOXO ~ddpjclaf