Chapter 21

Bellamy was miserable.

He slept like crap that night, got up the next day, and went through the motions at work. Fix the hole in someone's chain-link fence. Repair someone else's broken window. Kindly explain to Diana Sydney that there was nothing he could do about her Pekingese's ingrown toenail. He was a handyman, not a vet.

Between every job, he sat in his truck and checked his phone to see if he'd heard from Clarke. Just a text, something. But there never was one. He thought about texting or calling her, but he didn't know what to say. Besides, he'd kind of been an ass to her last night, and he figured it might be best to give her some space.

He managed to give her space for one day before he got impatient and drove over to Polaris during his lunch break. He sat out in his truck for a few minutes, debating his next move, but when he finally had the common sense to look around the parking lot, he saw that her car wasn't even there. So that was a bust. He got back to work and went through the rest of his day.

That night, while his roommates dueled it out on the Xbox, Bellamy lay upstairs, feeling like he had too much space in his bed. Even without Clarke there, he stayed on the left side of that mattress. That was where he'd slept last night, and that was where he'd sleep tonight, too. He wasn't sure whether that was pathetic or not, but he didn't really care. If by some miracle she just strolled in there during the middle of the night and decided to cuddle up with him, he wanted her side to be open for her.

It didn't have to be open, he knew. He could have gone out to Dropship or TonDC, either with or without his friends, and scoped out his options. He could've brought somebody home to just . . . fuck. But he wasn't in the mood for some stupid one-night stand. Clarke may not have been his girlfriend, but for now, she was still the only girl he wanted to sleep with.

Sex wasn't even a priority in his mind once he got to the third night without Clarke, though. Just contacting her was. He broke down and sent his first text to her since they'd fought, just a simple, Hey, how are you? and then he proceeded to lie in bed for the next hour, waiting for a response. He got none. That night, he fell asleep with his cell phone still in his hand, and the first thing he did when he woke up was check his messages.

Nothing. Nothing from Clarke, anyway. He did have one from Octavia offering herself up as 'someone to talk to' if he needed it. But he didn't really wanna talk to anyone.

Word of his and Clarke's argument had definitely gotten around, and by Saturday night, Miller and Murphy were even suggesting that they hang out at Jasper and Monty's place instead. He didn't want to be the grumpy old man of the group, didn't want his downer mood to bring everyone else down, too, so he insisted that they do their normal Saturday thing at their place. When Miller asked if Clarke would be there, Bellamy hung his head and mumbled, "Probably not."

He sent her another text just to remind her that she was welcome to come by. Once again, though, he got nothing back in response.

He hated this. He hated not knowing anything about how she was doing, anything she was up to. Was she at home tonight or out with Raven and the rest of her friends? Was she sad about the way they'd left things? Mad as hell? Was she just done with him completely? This was the second time he'd lashed out at her, and he knew he'd been a bigger ass about it this time. She hadn't snooped through his personal effects; she hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't meant to get so angry with her just for being concerned. He hadn't meant for it to come to this.

The mood on Saturday was a lot more mellow than usual. Nobody asked him what had happened between him and Clarke a few days ago or what would happen now, but everybody was wondering about it, clearly. Each one of his friends made a concerted effort to talk to him about something else, almost as if they were trying to keep his mind off of her. Harper talked to him about her new job. Monty talked to him about the upcoming Winter Olympics. Jasper talked to him about pot, and Maya talked to him about Jasper. Lincoln wisely kept his distance, while Octavia got him reminiscing about the time their mother had taken them to the Museum of National History in D.C. for his birthday.

Clarke's absence was obvious, though. They all felt it regardless of not talking about it. At this point, Bellamy knew she wasn't just his friend anymore; she was their friend, too, and they missed her. At one point, as he strolled back into the kitchen to get himself another beer, he overheard Emori tell Harper, "I wish Clarke was here," but she immediately shut up about that when she saw him standing at the fridge and started talking about her sex life with Murphy instead.

He would have rather heard about Clarke than that, to be honest.

No one felt like dancing or wrestling or braving the cold temperature to go jump on the trampoline. So they popped in a movie instead. Pearl Harbor. They probably all assumed he'd do what he usually did and point out every inaccuracy in that god-awful three hours and four minutes of a film. But he wasn't really invested in watching. He zoned out, unable to even appreciate how hot Kate Beckinsale looked as a 1940s nurse. She was that movie's one saving grace, and he didn't even care. Because he was sitting on that couch alone. That was his spot, his and Clarke's spot . . . and she wasn't there.

Around the time the Evelyn and Danny characters were starting to fall for each other in the film, Murphy got up off his beanbag, stretched, put on his jacket, and headed out into the back yard wordlessly, motioning for Bellamy to follow him. Bellamy wasn't sure what this was about, but he got up, grabbed his coat, too, and headed out back with his friend.

They sat on the side of the trampoline, neither one of them saying much. Murphy didn't even look like he wanted to bounce, which was weird, because if he'd been able to, he would have bounced on that damn trampoline twenty-four hours a day. Instead, he smoked a joint and just sat there with Bellamy, almost like he'd sensed how badly he'd needed to get up off that couch.

Murphy being empathetic? Considering someone's feelings other than his own? It was cause for a damn parade.

"Is it over between you guys then?" Murphy finally asked. Bravely asked. No one else would even mention Clarke to him, like talking about her would send him into a depression or something.

"I don't know," Bellamy admitted, reluctant to say much more. Murphy wasn't typically the best person to talk to about issues of any kind. Miller was much more suited for that role.

Murphy took another puff, blowing some smoke out into the frigid air. "I like Clarke," he declared suddenly. "She got me that leg lamp. She's pretty cool."

Bellamy smiled fondly. Yeah, Clarke was very cool. She was the kind of girl he appreciated for a lot more than just sex. He loved hanging out with her, making her laugh, watching her attempt to dance. And now, he missed all of that more than he ever would have thought possible.

"I think she's one of your best friends," Murphy remarked. "You know?"

Oh, yeah. He knew. These past four days without her had made that blatantly obvious. He had his other friends, and they'd been with him through thick and thin. They were like his family. But Clarke, in three short months, had become a part of that family, and it just wasn't the same without her.

"I think she's been good for you," Murphy told him, uncharacteristically serious in that moment. "Really good."

So do I, Bellamy thought sadly. He didn't remember anything about the other night, but he did know that Clarke had been the one lying there with him, holding him while he shook uncontrollably. And she probably hadn't moved or slept for the rest of the night. As angry as he had allowed himself to become with her . . . it wasn't really that he was upset at her; he was just upset because she made it hard to keep the upsetting things buried down where they belonged.

Later that night, when everyone had either gone home or fallen asleep downstairs, Bellamy sulked up to his bedroom, lay down on the left side of the bed, and took out his phone to send Clarke another text. He wasn't sure what it would say. Maybe just Goodnight. Or Goodnight, Princess if he really wanted to lay on the charm. But all the charm in the world wasn't going to make her text him back. She must have been so frustrated with him to completely cut off their communication like this.

Longing just to hear her voice, Bellamy ended up calling Clarke instead of texting her that night, hoping it might make a difference, that maybe she'd pick up if she saw his name on her caller ID. It rang, then rang again, then rang two more times. And finally her voicemail kicked on.

"Hey, it's Clarke. You know what to do."

A shrill beep signaled the start of his message, but he didn't even know what to say. He didn't know whether to just talk like he normally would, or apologize or . . . he just didn't know.

"Clarke . . ." That was all that came out, all he could muster. He stayed on the phone, stupidly silent until another beep signaled the end of his message a minute later. And even though he hadn't said anything . . . he hoped that said it all.

...

Clarke was miserable.

Days had passed, and Bellamy wasn't any less at the forefront of her mind than he'd been the night of that panic attack. And yes, that was her unofficial diagnosis. A nocturnal panic attack. She looked up more information about it, just because he wouldn't, and she even printed it all just in case he wanted to read about it someday. Of course, that would require them to speak again, which was seeming like less and less of a possibility as the days wore on.

She got his texts. She got his nearly silent voicemail (and listened to it way too many times). It wasn't that she wanted to have to ignore him, but texting him back or giving him a call would just give him the wrong idea. She wasn't willing to pretend that their argument had never happened, nor was she willing to forget about his panic attack. And that was probably what he wanted, to just go back to the way things had been before.

She couldn't do that.

Classes still were not back in session yet, but thankfully, the museum opened its doors again. She worked a couple hours each day, even volunteering to fill in for some of her fellow employees simply because she needed the distraction from how miserable she felt. But it was a crappy distraction, because campus was pretty much dead until classes started back up. There were maybe two people who visited the museum in the two days that she worked, and most of her time was spent sitting at the front desk, thinking about what she could have said to Bellamy to get him to open up to her. Or how she could have said it.

Raven and Niylah were sympathetic, of course, and quite bummed out themselves. They liked Bellamy, considered him a friend at this point. But they made her their priority and had one girls night after another. They watched Thelma and Louise, Bridesmaids, and Clueless while eating more cookie dough ice cream than should have been legally allowed, and thankfully, Clarke was able to put on her happy face while they were around. They put her in a good mood and managed to get her to smile, because they were the best friends she could have ever asked for. Clarke wouldn't let them stay the night with her, though, even though they usually offered. Raven had Roan, and Niylah had Luna, and their lives didn't revolve around her.

When they left and it was just her in that apartment, that was when the loneliness set in. She lay in bed every night, staring at whatever new text Bellamy had sent her that day, agonizing over whether or not she should send one back. It took a lot of willpower to resist. But unless he texted her that he was ready to talk or called and said he wanted to open up about whatever it was he was holding back . . . then no, she wasn't going to respond to him.

It meant a lot that he wasn't the only one texting her. Emori, Harper, Maya . . . they all reached out to make sure she was doing okay. She assured them that she was and thanked them for checking on her. Even Murphy texted her after five days, and that shocked the hell out of her: we all miss u clarke, his message read. bellamy does too.

She missed them, all of them, and she wanted to tell him that. But she settled for a simple thanks instead.

By the sixth day, Clarke was really down in the dumps. With no work to distract her that day, she stayed in bed in her rattiest pajamas, hair piled on top her head in a messy bun, and listened to "All By Myself" by Celine Dion on repeat. She drew while eating cookies and gummy snacks and whatever other junk food she had piled on her bed. She filled up pages and pages of her sketchbook with drawings, mostly of Bellamy. Bellamy's flirtatious smile. Bellamy's hands and mouth on her breasts. Bellamy asleep with his arms around her. Even Bellamy when he was angry and arguing with her.

The one good thing about misery, she supposed, was that it inspired creativity.

Clarke had the music playing so loudly, she didn't even hear her front door open. "Oh my god," Raven gasped in astonishment when she walked into that bedroom. "This is depressing."

Clarke had no doubt she looked like an absolute mess, a pathetic mess, even. But sometimes wallowing in the misery felt better than trying to combat it.

"Okay, none of this," Raven proclaimed, crossing the room to Clarke's window. She tore back the curtains, letting the sun shine in, and Clarke squinted against it. Raven then turned off the music, pulled back the covers and instructed, "Go take a shower. You kinda stink."

Clarke groaned, dragging herself out of bed. "But I wanna shower with Bellamy," she whined as she trudged into the bathroom.

"You can't shower with him. You can shower with me," Raven volunteered cheerily.

Clarke managed a laugh. "Tempting, but no."

Even when she was upset with him, apparently she was still thirsty for him, because she touched herself a little bit while she stood under the warm spray of that showerhead. It was barely even pleasurable, though, and sex wasn't even the thing she missed most about him. So she left it alone, focused on shampooing her hair for the first time in days, and got dressed in some actual clothes afterwards.

Raven was a good friend. She put all the junk food away, made Clarke's bed for her, and fixed her a turkey sandwich for lunch. Clarke sat at her counter, devouring it, and thanked her friend for stopping by. "All By Myself" had definitely been getting old.

"God, I haven't seen you like this since you and Lexa broke up," Raven recalled. "That was bad."

"That was bad," Clarke agreed. "And that was even mutual."

"Was this not?" Raven asked, leaning against the counter.

"Well, this is different. Bellamy and I didn't break up. We were never really together," Clarke reminded her.

"Oh, you were together," Raven asserted confidently. "It doesn't matter if he wasn't technically your boyfriend or if you guys were dating or not. You were together all the time."

"I guess," Clarke admitted. In these recent months, Bellamy had become one of her closest friends. No one would ever replace Raven, but really, she spent more time with him than she did with Raven, probably more than she spent with Raven, Niylah, and Wells combined. His house had become so familiar to her, almost to the point where it felt like . . . like a home.

"Why don't you just call him?" Raven suggested. "You said he called you. And he's been texting you, right?"

"Right."

"So text him back."

She sighed heavily, shaking her head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because . . ." It was hard to explain when she'd never really gotten an explanation for the whole thing herself. "He and I both know he's holding something back; we both know there's something he won't tell me. And I can't just go back to the way things were knowing that. I can't just fall back into bed with him and forget about all this."

"Well, maybe he wants to tell you now," Raven speculated.

Clarke had thought about that, too, a lot, but in the end, she felt as if it were wishful thinking. "If he wanted to tell me, then he would find me and tell me," she said. "Until then . . ."

"Until then . . . you're just gonna sit around and mope?" Raven asked. She made a face. "Clarke . . ."

She knew it was pitiful and that Raven probably couldn't understand—the girl had dated Wick for years and barely had a bad day since they'd broken up—but Clarke wasn't quite that resilient. "No, I'm not gonna sit around and mope forever," she promised. She had her own life to lead, and if Bellamy didn't want to be a part of it anymore, then . . . well, he didn't have to be. But if he did finally change his mind and decide to open up to her, then she'd listen. She'd listen to every word he had to say.

"But you are gonna feel sad," Raven finished.

"Of course." It was impossible not to.

Raven nodded sympathetically. "Makes sense," she said. "Bellamy's a pretty good guy."

You have no idea, Clarke thought, surprised that her friend had actually used his real name this time. That meant she was being completely serious.

There was no girls night that night. With class starting back up the next day, she, Raven, and Niylah all needed to get to bed early. Clarke stayed awake, though, doing some more drawing. She drew Bellamy's anguished face this time, the way he'd looked when he told her about Roma's death. And as her pencil brought all the lines and edges of him into view, she wondered if that was what he would look like if he opened up to her some more, if that was the expression she'd see in his eyes if he told her why those fireworks set him off the way they did.

The drawing was almost finished when she heard a knock on her door. A slow, heavy knock that definitely didn't belong to Raven, Niylah, or Wells. She thought at first that maybe it was her grumpy landlord, but what reason would he have to be knocking on her door at nearly midnight?

The knock sounded again, and she slowly got out of bed, tiptoeing towards the door. No way was she just going to answer, not without knowing who was on the other side, so she decided to look through the peephole when . . .

"Clarke?"

She froze, even stopped breathing for a few seconds, and backed away from the peephole. Bellamy.

"Clarke, it's me," he said, as if she didn't already know.

Hand shaking, she reached for the doorknob, because her first instinct was to let him in. Her fingers itched with the desire to turn that knob, open the door, and see his gorgeous, freckly face for the first time in six days. Maybe this was it. Maybe he'd decided he was tired of keeping secrets, and he was going to tell her everything.

"Are you in there?" he asked patiently.

She stayed as quiet as a mouse, trying not to get her hopes up. Maybe this wasn't it. Maybe he just missed her, but nothing had changed.

"Everyone came over last night," he said, "like usual." A muffled thump led her to believe he was leaning against her door, sliding down to the floor. "It wasn't the same without you."

Careful not to make a sound, she sat down on the floor, too, resting her head against the door, feeling like she was sitting back to back with him even though there was something in between them.

"We watched Pearl Harbor," he went on. "I hate that movie."

Oh, she knew that, and hearing him complain about it even now made her have to fight the urge to laugh. She'd had the privilege of watching that movie with Bellamy once before—hearing him grumble about how the movie used twenty-first century communications technology in a 1940s aircraft was an experience everyone deserved to have at least once in their lives.

"Apollo 13," he went on. "Now there's a good movie. Very historically accurate."

She smiled, remembering watching that with him, too. He rewound and re-watched so many scenes, had some of the dialogue completely memorized.

"Or Gettysburg," he added. "But you gotta have four and half hours on hand if you wanna watch that one."

She didn't want to, but she would. For him.

"We should watch a movie you'd like sometime," he suggested. "Something about art, maybe. Like, uh . . . Frida."

She made a face. Who or what the hell was Frida? She so hadn't paid attention in her art history classes.

"I hear that one's pretty good," he said. "Or, you know, we don't even have to watch anything about art. Raven said you like Thelma and Louise. I'd watch that with you."

Clarke smiled warmly at the thought, but that movie was definitely a reserved tradition for girls night only.

He kept talking, rambling, actually, to the point where she wondered if some of her neighbors might hear him, poke their heads out into the hallway, and wonder why there was some crazy man sitting there talking to a closed door. She just sat on the other side and listened, though, while he told her about how his mom's birthday was coming up and listed off all the ideas he had of things to get her. He said he couldn't afford most of them, but it was nice to dream. She listened while he assured her that, yes, he was still trying to be nicer to Lincoln, even though it wasn't easy for him. And she listened while he pleaded with her to open the door. He wasn't an idiot. He knew she was in there.

It felt good to hear his voice. She'd really missed it.

Nearly an hour after he'd first knocked at that door, though, he let out a heavy, discouraged sigh, and she heard him get to his feet. "Well, alright," he said dejectedly. "I guess you don't wanna talk to me, huh?"

She winced, her stomach clenching. Because that wasn't true at all.

"Goodnight, Clarke," he said quietly, and then she heard him shuffle down the hall, probably feeling pretty defeated that this hadn't gone the way he'd hoped. With no reason to remain sitting on her floor any longer, she got up and sulked back to her bedroom, hoping to finish up her drawing before she fell asleep. All by herself.

...

Clarke thought she would feel relieved when second semester classes began, because she would have something to focus on. But getting up at 7:30 was not her thing, especially after staying up late the night before, and getting to campus by 8:30 was more of a chore than anything else. Her earliest class also just happened to be her Capstone Art Experience class, which would be both time-consuming and intensive.

Judging by the bags underneath her classmates' eyes and the plethora of yawns she noticed when she walked into the lecture hall, she wasn't the only one feeling tired and unmotivated that first day back. She recognized a few people from prior classes, and waved pleasantly at them when they waved at her. But there was no one in this class who was a legitimate friend or anything. So she found a seat in the back row, figuring she'd best be able to blend in back there.

Just one more semester, Clarke reminded herself as she did the whole diligent student thing and took out her notebook, a pen, and a folder in case any important papers or other materials were distributed. You can do this. She had two more classes later, but she only had one class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and her Fridays were completely free. It wasn't a horrible schedule for her final semester. She'd have plenty of leeway in balancing school with work, and even though she had to take this Capstone class, at least her final project could probably just be her Trikru exhibit.

Her Trikru exhibit. The one Bellamy had persuaded Lincoln to give her.

Bellamy . . .

She tried not to think about him, but she found herself doodling his name on the top of her notebook paper anyway. Dammit.

It was really hard not to think about him when a muscled man sat down next to her and a familiar, gravelly voice said, "Hey."

She jerked her head towards him, thinking she was seeing things. What was Bellamy doing in this classroom, in this seat, sitting right next to her smiling at her even though they hadn't seen each other in a week now?

"What're you doing here?" she asked, quickly flipping the page in her notebook so he wouldn't see his name scribbled there.

"I wanted to see you," he replied. "And Niylah told you'd be here, so . . ."

She rolled her eyes, cursing inwardly at herself for being so oblivious. "Well, that explains why she was so interested in my class schedule."

"I didn't know how else to see you," he admitted. "I stopped by your place last night, but . . ."

"I was sleeping," she lied quickly.

"Oh, you were sleeping, huh?" The way he said it made it clear he didn't believe her. "You've been getting my texts, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"And you got my voicemail?"

She snorted. "Wasn't much a voicemail. You said 'Clarke' and then nothing."

"Well, I didn't know what to say," he confessed.

"Really?" That kind of pissed her off. There was a lot he could say, possibly starting with, 'Hey, Clarke, you were right. I need to open up, so I'm gonna tell you everything.' But even now, clearly those words were not going to cross his lips.

Up at the front of the classroom, the professor began to talk, getting the class started. He looked old and stodgy and not all that interesting, the kind of professor Clarke would have to force herself to pay attention to. She thought that the beginning of class would effectively put an end to her and Bellamy's conversation, but he only sat there quietly for a few seconds before leaning over and whispering, "I don't have many jobs lined up today. You could come over after class if you want."

"I have to work," she lied.

"Then you can come over later," he suggested. "Or I could come to your place."

"Bellamy . . ." This was exactly why she hadn't opened that door last night, because he so clearly wanted to pretend like nothing had happened.

"I'm sorry, Clarke," he apologized, completely oblivious to the way students seated in the next row were craning their heads around to get a look at who was talking. "I didn't mean to get so mad. I didn't mean to call you a bitch or throw the whole Roma thing back in your face." He waited for a response, but when he got none, he twisted his whole body towards hers, blatantly ignoring the fact that he was talking over the professor and that people sitting around them could overhear. "I didn't want you to leave, Clarke," he said, sounding sort of desperate. "I hate this. I hate not being able to talk to you. I hate feeling like you hate me."

She was just opening her mouth to assure him that she didn't when the professor boomed, "Young man," from the front of the room.

Bellamy didn't even seem to realize that was him. Clarke had to swat his leg to get him to realize it was. He looked towards the front of the room, met eyes with the grumpy old man in the sweater vest, and said, "Yeah?"

The professor narrowed his eyes at him impatiently. "I'm curious to know," he growled, "what could you possibly be talking about that's more important than my introduction to the semester?"

Bellamy looked a bit caught off guard, like he wasn't used to getting in trouble in a classroom setting. "Sorry," he apologized. The heads of all the students in the room turned away from him, apparently anticipating that that would be the end of it, but the professor was relentless.

"Please, enlighten me," he urged sarcastically. "You were so eager to speak. Why don't you get up here and teach the class? Surely you have more knowledge than I do. Surely you have more wisdom to impart."

Bellamy shifted in his seat, and Clarke could tell he was starting to get upset. "I said I'm sorry," he apologized again.

"If you're not here to learn, then you have no business being here at all," the professor kept on, each word dripping with hostility. "This room is reserved for people with bright young minds who actually care about their education, and that clearly isn't you."

Oh my god, Clarke thought, her stomach knotting up. Bellamy probably had the brightest young mind out of everyone in there, and it made her uncomfortable to sit there and listen to this professor rip into him like this.

"Do you disagree?" the professor challenged.

Bellamy's jaw was clenched, a clear sign that he was trying to bite his tongue. But that probably wouldn't work much longer. He had a low tolerance for bullshit, and that was exactly what this was.

"You have two options," the professor said. "You can either stay and attempt to salvage your semester. Or you can leave, go home and sleep off the hangover I'm sure you have."

A few of the students snickered, and Clarke couldn't believe it. They thought this was funny? This man was going out of his way to humiliate Bellamy, and they thought it was funny?

Bellamy gulped, eyes downcast, and then just nodded in resignation, getting up to leave.

"A wise choice," the professor taunted as Bellamy walked out. "Please, do not come back."

There was more laughter, louder now, and Clarke just sat there helplessly, feeling guilty that she hadn't said something or done something to stick up for him. Bellamy hadn't deserved that kind of treatment from an adult who was supposed to be a professional. He'd just wanted to talk to her.

She thought about gathering up her things and walking out after him as a sign of solidarity or support or something. But he'd be pissed off now, probably no longer in the mood to talk, and she couldn't afford to make a bad impression in what would probably be the most important class in her college career. So she just sat there, trying to push him out of her mind while her ass hat of a professor droned on and on about the syllabus she no longer even cared about.

...

The only reason Bellamy stayed on campus was because the rec center had a couple punching bags, and that sounded like the perfect therapy right about now. Of course, since he wasn't a student, he had to pay to get in there. Of course.

He put on some gloves and started swinging, releasing the anger he felt towards that jackass professor, towards his jackass neighbor with those fucking fireworks, towards his jackass self for pushing Clarke away. If it hadn't cost him ten bucks to get in there, he would've come more often. Hitting that punching bag was a good way to let off some steam.

Octavia must have been teaching one of her classes today, or taking one, because she strolled on by in leggings and a workout jacket and spotted him. He kept swinging, not halting his rhythm even when she came to stand beside him.

"Haven't seen you like this for a while," she remarked.

"I'm pissed," he mumbled, alternating between quick right/left punches.

"Really? I never would have guessed." She took hold of the punching bag with both hands and steadied it. "What's wrong?"

He took off the gloves, dumping them back on the supply shelf he'd gotten them from. "I saw Clarke today."

"Ooh." She winced. "That bad, huh?"

"I fucked things up," he muttered, jabbing a smaller punching bag with his elbow. "She hates me."

"She doesn't hate you," Octavia assured him confidently. "She probably hates me, though. I shut her down when she tried to get the truth out of me."

The truth, he thought bitterly. Dammit, he hated the way that sounded. Because it wasn't like he was trying to lie to Clarke or anything; he just wasn't telling her everything. And it was easy to call that a lie by omission, but . . . he felt like this was different. Excusable.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, feeling like he'd said that a lot today. "I didn't mean for you to end up arguing with her, too."

"Bellamy, you're my brother," she said. "I've got your back no matter what."

And he was grateful for that; he really was. But he knew his insistence on keeping the past buried put a lot of pressure on her and on his friends, too. And that wasn't fair to them.

"What should I do?" he asked, needing some advice. It wasn't typical for him to ask his little sister what to do, because usually he took it upon himself to try to tell her what to do, even if she wouldn't listen. He was desperate, though, and Octavia knew him better than anybody. She wouldn't steer him wrong.

"I can't tell you what to do," she answered. "Not about this. But Bellamy . . ." She sighed heavily, pausing for a long time as though she weren't sure she wanted to say what she was about to. "If you do decide to tell her," she finally said, "it'd probably be a step in the right direction."

Yeah, he thought solemnly, it probably would be.

"But if you don't," she added, "then I understand. We all understand. But Clarke . . . probably won't understand."

No, she wouldn't. Her standoffishness today had made that clear.

"I guess it just depends," Octavia said.

"On what?"

She looked him right in the eye, completely serious. "On if you're willing to risk losing her."

He gulped, dreading the thought. No, he didn't want to lose Clarke. He'd already lost too much.

...

Fucking Walmart, Clarke thought as she stood in the checkout aisle, watching the clerk load up at least ten different sacks for what surely couldn't be more than thirty different food items. She detested this store more and more each time she went in it; by now, she was at the point where she didn't even know why she bothered coming back.

"I don't need so many . . . sacks," she said weakly, sensing that her clerk either didn't hear her or just didn't care. He put the bananas in a sack all by themselves, and she obediently loaded it into her cart.

She didn't even have to glance behind her to know that Bellamy was there. She heard him clear his throat and smelled his cologne as he approached. "If you hate this store so much," he said, "why do you keep coming here?"

"Because they have more food options," she replied, quickly condensing two sacks into one.

"You don't cook," he pointed out.

"I mean the microwavable stuff." She chanced a quick glance at him and . . . big mistake. He looked hot. He was wearing the blue t-shirt. Damn, that blue t-shirt. Plus, he had a watermelon in his arms. And that was all he had. He could have gone through the speed checkout line or the self-checkout line if he'd wanted to. But of course, he'd just happened to wander into her line. Of course.

"Nice touch," she said, gesturing to the round, green melon in his hand.

"What, am I not allowed to get this now?" he said.

"Get whatever you want."

He set the melon down on the conveyor belt, and it moved forward a foot behind Clarke's last grocery items. "I don't even like watermelon that much," he admitted. "I just get it for Miller."

"Hmm." She reached into her purse and took out her wallet, wishing the clerk would move a little quicker. It would be best to cut this conversation with Bellamy short. The longer they talked, the more tempting it was to go get in his truck and just . . .

She couldn't do that.

"So how'd that class end up goin' yesterday?" Bellamy asked her, setting a pack of gum down next to his watermelon.

"It sucked," she mumbled in response.

"I didn't get you in trouble, though, right?"

"No." She thought it was kind of sweet that he'd even ask about that, especially considering how horribly that professor had treated him.

"$138.96," the clerk told her once the last item was all sacked up.

God, I gotta get out of here, Clarke thought, too impatient to bother with her debit card—it was the chipped kind, and it literally took forever to scan. So she just pulled out a wad of cash instead, handing over seven twenty-dollar bills. "Just keep the change," she said, catching Bellamy's intent gaze out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her fork over that cash in amazement. He never walked around with that much money in his wallet. Even if his customers paid him with cash, it got spent right away, whether it was on groceries or bills or some other necessity.

"Thanks," Clarke told the clerk, trying to quickly load the last few sacks into her cart.

"I'll pay cash, too," Bellamy said as the clerk scanned his melon. "Just give me a minute." He took his wallet out of his back pocket, opened it up, and dug around inside, pulling out a couple dollar bills and some loose change.

"$6.57," the clerk said in a monotone voice after scanning his gum.

Clarke couldn't stand there and watch him scrounge around for money. It kind of broke her heart. Bellamy worked so hard, way harder than she did, honestly; and yet she was the one who still had at least fifty dollars in her wallet right now.

"I think I'm a dollar short," he told the clerk.

"Here." Clarke pulled a dollar out of her wallet and tried to hand it to him.

"No, it's fine. I got it," he said, starting to dig around his pockets.

"Bellamy, it's just a dollar."

"I don't need your money, Clarke."

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. Of course. Of course Bellamy wouldn't even take one dollar from her. He never let anyone help him. With anything. "Fine, goodbye," she said, wheeling her full cart away from the checkout counter.

"Wait, Clarke!" he called.

She didn't wait, but she did hear him say, "Forget the gum," as he hurriedly wrapped things up.

She scampered out into the parking lot as quickly as she could, trying to duck behind a couple minivans to conceal herself. But Bellamy wasn't far behind her, and he kept her in his sight as he ran after her.

"Clarke!" he called. She heard a thump, which she assumed to be him dropping his watermelon haphazardly into the bed of his pickup truck. "Hold up!"

"I'm really busy right now," she said, opening up the back door of her vehicle. She started throwing the sacks inside, not really caring if there was anything in there that would break or go splat. She just needed to be on her way, because this was two days of seeing Bellamy face to face now, and as much as she was enjoying the aesthetics of that, it was also really fucking with her emotions.

"This is kinda cool, huh," he said, sidling up next to her, immediately being all gentlemanly and lifting some of the sacks out of the cart to help her unload. "This is where we first met."

"Bellamy . . ." She spun around, snatching the bananas sack out of his hand. She tossed it into the backseat along with all her other crap and told him, "You can't do this."

"Do what?" he asked, as if he honestly had no idea.

"This. You can't be all charming and flirtatious and expect that it'll just magically fix everything."

"I'm being flirtatious?" he asked.

"Yes, with the watermelon and, 'Oh, this is where we first met.'" Even when she dropped her voice down to try to impersonate him, she couldn't get it anywhere as low as his was.

"I'm not trying to be," he assured her. "I'm just tryin' to talk to you. I didn't even know you'd be here."

Well . . . she supposed that much was probably true. Niylah didn't know her grocery shopping schedule, so she couldn't give that to him. "You should just leave, Bellamy," she said, continuing to load up her car. And then she felt bad, because that was what the awful professor had told him to do yesterday.

"Why are you so determined to be mad at me?" he flat-out asked, still lifting her sacks out of the cart to assist her.

"I'm not mad. I'm just . . ." She flapped her arms against her sides, finding it difficult to explain. "I mean, it's not fun knowing that people are keeping something from you, that your friends are keeping something from you. And we both know you are. Your mother's insinuated that much, your sister's insinuated that much. And you even admitted to it. So now it's like there's this big, fat elephant in the room, and nobody wants to talk about it except for me. It's so frustrating."

He grunted. "Trust me, Clarke, if it was so easy for us to talk about, we would've talked about it already."

"I know, which is why I'm not gonna force you to tell me anything."

"No, you're just gonna bribe me," he corrected.

"What? Bribe you?" she shrieked.

"Yeah. If I don't tell you, we're not friends anymore, right?"

"No, Bellamy . . ." That definitely wasn't what she was trying to do. But she understood why it may have come across that way. "If you decide you wanna talk to me, I'm here. But if not . . . then I can't pretend it doesn't bother me. That's all."

"That's all?"

"Yes." She really hoped he could understand that, because she didn't want to make it seem like she was giving him an ultimatum or something.

He gazed at her, his eyes conveying all of his emotion like they always did, and all of a sudden, she noticed how sad he seemed. He had this look of sorrow and longing in his eyes. "I miss you, Princess," he scraped out quietly.

Oh, god. She hadn't realized how much she missed that silly nickname until right now. "I miss you, too," she confessed, "but Bellamy-"

His lips crashed onto hers, preventing her from finishing her sentence. He kissed her pretty aggressively, hands immediately coming to rest at her sides, and for a second, she wanted to get lost in it. She wanted to forget about the frustration and the secret that he wouldn't let her in on. For a second, she even wanted to forget how he'd lain in bed and shook that night. But when she touched his chest and remembered what it had felt like to feel his heart beating so rapidly, she came to her senses again.

"No, we can't," she said, pushing him away gently. He had too many people in his life enabling to keep his past buried; she couldn't be one of them.

"Why not?" he challenged.

"Because I . . ." Her voice squeaked, alerting her to how close to tears she was. "I don't wanna kiss you right now. I wanna talk to you."

"We are talking," he pointed out.

"No, about . . ." She didn't even know what about, so she settled for, "The elephant." Because she literally had no idea what else to call it at this point. "I wish you would just let me be your friend," she said sadly, "and let me listen."

He stared down with indecision in those gorgeous dark brown eyes of his now, and she wondered when he opened his mouth if he was actually going to tell her something. Something substantial. But when his mouth closed, that was basically a signal that he was still closed-off. And maybe that was for the best. They were in the freakin' Walmart parking lot, after all.

"I have to go," she said, shutting her back door. She gripped the handle of her cart, about to go put it back, when he said, "I got it," and took it off her hands for her. He guided it across the parking lot to the cart corral, and she couldn't help but notice the way his shoulders were slumped and how his head was lowered.

Clarke got into her car, took a deep breath, and twisted the key in the ignition. She backed out of the space and took a second to look at Bellamy in her rearview mirror. He was just standing by the carts, watching her leave. He looked as sad as she felt. So that was something.