He'd like to remind you all of how brilliant he is.

He had a plan.

A damn good plan even. One of the best plans he'd come up with—y'know, besides the one that he's currently executing.

Did things go exactly to plan?

Not quite.

But that's okay, his night with Claire didn't either. It's not like he meant to come early; lots of men suffered from sexual dysfunction… he just got too ahead of himself. It pissed him the fuck off—the whole premature ejaculation thing—but it was fine. He was fine, and she was as high as a kite; didn't register a thing. She was still his, and he'd be getting that blacksmith out of the way for good.

The first step actually started with Doug, if you can believe it. He'd come into the clinic regularly for check-ups, the sphygmomanometer cuff squeezing against his humongous bicep and displaying an alarmingly high rate over the blood pressure monitor. One time, he hobbled in with a sprained ankle due to kicking a coffee table after his favourite football team didn't score a single point during an important game. His file stated that he suffered from migraines frequently whenever he lost his cool. A few obligatory questions later, and Trent determined that the man was someone with an apparent anger management issue.

Kind of like himself.

There was also Doug's daughter, the waitress. It appeared that she was the closest to Gray out of everyone else, and after prodding Claire about it, she shook her head, revealing that the two of them had a fling unbeknownst to Ann's father.

And then he remembered Elli taking care of some testing for her, keeping things discreet. He didn't think much of it at the time, figured it was something Elli could deal with, until he later rifled through her file for the truth.

The truth was always a gamble, sure—delivering her results in that envelope took balls, but it paid off. An angry religious man with a disobedient daughter, an unstable punk that everyone knew she was close to… it all simply had to work out. And if that lonely traveler, Cliff, got hit with the crossfire… well, he supposed that it would just have to happen like that.

He'd built a rapport with Doug—he's his doctor for crying out loud! He was putting a lot on the line to give out those results; he assumed that it would have to pay off. His blatant honesty helped Doug see what his daughter had been up to. And while witnessing the attack, it was evident after everything whose side he would have to be on.

Then, there was the whole engagement debacle. He'd ordered the ring from the old man before he'd left—in which he just needed to get away from this fucking hick town for a bit. There was a few girls who had been missing him back home, his family's wealth to relinquish in, loose ends to tie up.

He knows that after he marries Claire he'll uproot them to Dallas, where he ultimately has no choice but to reveal his own truth to her.

It's okay though. She's wrapped around his finger; she'll come to understand. Plus, what sort of young Catholic would divorce her first, real love? She'll just have to accept it all, as hard as it may be to come to terms with for her. She'll have to—it just isn't in the plans for her to not.

And the core for his reasoning—the inspiration for all this madness?

His sweet Claire.

Was there a reason she hadn't bled that night? He checked her hymen; it felt intact enough, not like Elli's after she'd lied to him. This was it, and he fucking wasted the opportunity.

His entire plan didn't go according to plan.

He was okay with taking a hit; a hit was fine. A hit was manageable. And, given Gray's weakened, alcoholic state, he hypothesized that after the hit, they'd both go down without a fight.

This is not what happened.

Gray knocked out one punch to his jaw—Dear Lord, that hurt.

And as he saw the anger written over his face, Trent knew that he'd instantly undermined this whole thing.

Because the punk bounced back, delivered his fist against his goddamn rhinoplasted nose. Even after shattering glass against Gray's head—the guy didn't stop. Over and over and over, he just kept going—wailing on him like he was ready to kill him.

He was lucky to have passed out near the beginning of the ordeal. It was good because everyone saw what a mentalcase the guy was.

It was bad because Trent came out of it completely scathed.

Apparently, his injuries were so severe, that Doctor Hardy had to be called.

This is the scariest part. If he could berate Elli, he would, but he can't even find the words. His throat clenches—every part of his body feels like it's being held down with thick cement. A medical mask clings to his face as he dizzily comes to.

His first thought is that this must be what all of his neglected patients feel like.

His second thought is sheer panic, induced by Hardy next to his bedside, scribbling something illegible on a clipboard.

"Oh, good," he says, nodding. He adjusts his robotic eye, like he's focusing the lens on a camera. The world around them is dark and indiscernible. "You're awake."

This is their first time meeting and he's not even fully functioning for it.

He recoils at his reflection in Hardy's head mirror, the sound from the bottom of his throat strangled and suffocated. Despite the room being dimmed for his benefit, he can make out what a swollen, disgusting mess that he's become. He doesn't even look like himself anymore.

But he also doesn't look like what he's meant to look like either.

"Refrain from speaking, son," Hardy instructs, his voice levelled and cool. "It'll do you more harm than good, what with your concussion."

And he merely nods, dumbfounded.

Hardy begins listing out all of the damage that Gray did to him.

Every medical anomaly he's now facing hinders his plans.

Hardy congratulates him on his engagement, but says that the wedding clearly cannot happen anytime soon.

This time for healing hinders the plans.

Hardy says that he'll have to go back to Forget-Me-Not Valley eventually, but should stay to monitor things here for a bit.

THIS bullshit hinders the plans.

"I cannot even fathom that Grayson was capable of doing all this," says Hardy in disbelief. "He… he has a lot of issues, after his mother died. She was just wonderful… I mean, I know you obviously didn't know her, but—"

If only you knew.

"I know him. He doesn't come from a bad family… he's not a bad kid. I-I don't know why he chose to inflict this much pain upon you."

Trent attempts to shrug, but apparently his collarbone must have also gotten dislocated in the process. He grimaces, suddenly very aware of the I.V. in his arm which begins to pulsate. The EKG machine speeds up like he's three seconds away from flatlining, but quickly returns to a steady rhythm.

That punk broke him.

"You're suffering from extreme edema, son. On top of everything else." Hardy shakes his head. "I was just saying to Elli, you don't even look like yourself anymore."

And this goddamn factor hinders the plans.

"There's swelling to both your eyelids and sockets… your nose is a damn wreck." Hardy continues listing all of this problems, gathering his things to leave the room. "Just keep the mask on, you're very susceptible to infection right now. And be sure to get some rest."

He nods, grateful for this kind of shield, this multi-usage armor of protection. If he needs to speak, it'll be with a gravelly whisper. His whole face isn't revealed, it's unrecognizable anyway. It's fine.

He's fine.

He drifts off into a deep sleep, relinquishing in the numbing medicine pumping through his sore veins.

He's not sure how much time passes when he awakens. It could be hours or it could be days; he has no concept of the clock at the moment. His skin is bone-chillingly cold, the perimeter around the I.V. frozen to the touch.

But he instantly warms up because there, at his bedside, is his future, virginal bride. She's hunched over in a chair, her eyes half-lidded and sleepy. Her cheek rests in her palm, elbow leaning against her knee. The second he reaches for her hand, she flinches upward, suddenly awake and alert.

"Hi, love," he says, tearing off his medical mask with his free hand.

Claire blinks like she's in a daze, before squeezing his hand frantically. Her eyes crinkle a bit, forcing a smile of sorts, but the rest of her face displays hardened callousness.

"Hi," she whispers. "Are you okay?" The worry in her voice is masked by distance.

This question can't help but piss him off. He scoffs bitterly at her. "I'd be better, if not for your goddamn friend."

Claire stiffens, her hand squeezing his a bit too hard. Her engagement ring indents against his skin. "He's not my friend," she mumbles.

That's what he wants to hear.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better," he says.

"Can I do anything for you?" she asks, still sounding so far away.

"No," he answers, a little too sharply.

Claire bites at her bottom lip and chews on the side of her cheek before gnawing at her nail. She's restless, stalling; clearly figuring out how to word her next sentence so that he doesn't snap on her.

"Trent…" Her voice is timid as she treads carefully. "What happened?"

"Your goddamn piece of shit 'roommate' attacked me, Claire."

"You don't think I already know that?" she says desperately.

He narrows his eyes at her bitterly. "Then what are you asking me?"

"I-I just want to know why."

This sort of question coming from her doesn't surprise him in the slightest. "Because he's fucked in the head," he snaps. "He was definitely on something… crystal meth… something—"

"He doesn't do crystal meth," Claire says, almost snorting.

He glares at her as she shrinks back into her chair, looking down.

"Why are you trying so hard to humanize him?"

"What? No, Trent, I—"

"After all he did? He's put our future on hold, ruined all of my plans."

"Your plans?" She frowns. This is the most tired that he's ever seen her. It's not a good look for her; he can't admire her in a state like this. "Why don't you try taking it down a notch? Doctor Hardy said that you have to takes things easy."

Shaking his head, his entire peripheral starts to spin like he's in a fast-moving vehicle. He groans, lowering himself back down against his pillow. "Our plans."

Claire opens her mouth like she's about to say something, before clamping it shut into a tight line, folding and unfolding her hands nervously in her lap like she can't sit still.

"What is it?" he demands. He has to angrily repeat himself again when she doesn't respond the first time. "Hello?"

"It's nothing," Claire tells him, sighing. She looks worn out, but what could she have possibly going on? Is she lying in a hospital bed with damage permeating throughout her entire body? No.

The muscles in his jaw stiffen, sending waves of pain around his mouth and up toward his head. Everything aches, and now he's getting even more infuriated. He's about three seconds away from unleashing all of his pent-up frustration out on her. "Tell me right now."

"No, it's nothing," she murmurs. "Let's just talk about something else—or, we don't have to talk at all, actually."

"Claire."

She shakes her head quickly like she's trying to rid herself of any bad thoughts. "We'll save it for another day."

Has she found something out about him?

"If you don't spit it out right now," he warns.

"What?" Claire asks weakly. Her eyes scan his broken figure in the bed up and down. "What'll you do?"

He stops himself from clenching his sore jaw again. "Now."

The air is still between them; her unexpressed thoughts filling the room with tension. It seems like forever until she speaks. Her voice is clear, but there's a distance to it; something holding her back.

"Gray told me he didn't take the underwear," she reveals solemnly. "You did."

"… Absolutely ridiculous." He scowls. That's it? "Doug saw everything. What did he say?"

Claire frowns. "He said that he didn't see you do anything."

"Well, there you go." He almost breathes in a sigh of relief. "I can't believe you even have the audacity to doubt me."

"Gray also said that you're the reason his mom died." Claire's eyes are a cold navy blue, fixated on him like she's trying to make out a stranger before her. "Is that true?"

Well, this isn't a part of the plan either.

New Year's Eve comes and goes. Karen drinks recklessly, Rick tries to keep her steady, and Ann won't even come out of her room, despite her friends' frequent, unsuccessful pleading. Cliff stands around town square trying to make small talk with Claire, because she realizes that the two of them are equally very alone in this plaza full of people.

"Do… do you know if Ann's mad at me?" he finally asks timidly. She knew this question was coming.

Claire frowns, shaking her head as she watches Thomas unfold a lined sheet of paper containing his New Year's Eve speech. Apparently, its annual message is all about prosperity, good fortune, and moving forward in life.

Moving forward. She shivers into her coat. That would mean moving past everything first.

"No, I don't know," she says, not meaning to sound so bitchy.

Cliff looks down at the dusted snow over the tiled floor, disappointed and wilted.

She winces, inwardly scolding herself for being rude. "I'm sorry, Cliff."

"What? No, no, it's okay," he says quickly, tugging on the end of his brown ponytail. "I know you're… um—"

He doesn't even finish the sentence, because what is there to say about her? That she's stressed, she's tired, she's upset, she's filled with anger and worry and everything else in between?

That she's still getting looked at differently by everyone?

"I just wanna know if I did anything to make her upset," he mumbles, digging his hands into his pockets sadly. "She won't even look at me."

Claire stares at him, realizing that Ann hasn't been looking at her a whole lot lately either. She won't say a damn thing about what the hell's been going on.

It's not like Claire's addressing the elephant in the room either, though. All of her fears, her problems, she's just trying to pretend like they don't exist for awhile. She still can't even fathom that Gray lied to her like that, about the underwear, about Trent and his mom all combined.

... Because he did lie, right?

Duh. There's probably even more lies deep down. She feels like she never even knew the guy in the first place; he's a total stranger to her now. Has their whole dismantled friendship just been built upon lies?

Her anger is preventing her from reflecting on all that she said to him, all that she did that day.

She just tells herself that he deserved it—even though a statement like this is dishonesty on her part.

So is her inability to tell him about her engagement.

... Whatever.

She's hurt right now; hurt and alone. Alone in a crowd full of people—people who still look at her with critical eyes, people who just aren't able to fill that empty void in her heart.

Karen runs over, tripping over her own two feet and grinning lazily as she hooks her arm around Claire's shoulder. She tries to convince her to take a sip of her cognac as they count down the new year together, and within seconds, it's 2005.

Skinny flutes of champagne begin getting handed out to everyone as she spots Saibara from across the plaza. Her stomach is still in knots from the soba noodles that she forced down her throat earlier. Apparently, they're supposed to bring good luck into the new year, and she's in no position to be turning that promise down.

What a joke, though. All that they really did was make her feel sick and full.

She just nods at the old man, a gentle tilt of her head to merely acknowledge his presence.

And he looks as though he's getting ready to hobble over to her, like he's got more to say. An unintentional scowl begins to crawl across her mouth, and she notices him deflate a bit.

Look, it's not Saibara that she hates; it's his sonofabitch grandson, who thankfully hasn't shown his face around as of lately. He's probably wasted right now; passed out and faceplanted into a… is it a pile of cocaine? Is that the correct measurement for it? Whatever—he's definitely just secluded himself into his room so that he can get drunk and/or stoned out of his mind.

Disgusting. She still can't even believe that there was a point in time that existed when she didn't hate him.

"Happy New Year," Claire blandly calls out to Saibara, grabbing some packaged, cold soba noodles on the way out for Trent. He probably won't eat them, but she figures that she can at least try anyway. They could use all the luck they'll get.

She doesn't catch the old man's expression as she leaves. Because she's simply gone, and that's that.

"You haven't left your room," says Karen, poking a salt-and-vinegar Pringles chip at Ann's mouth. She frowns when she refuses to take it, her lips tightly sealed and locked. "And you're not eating. You. Of all people."

"Cliff's worried about you," Claire says absentmindedly. Her eyes are glued to the television screen catatonically as the three watch Desperate Housewives' credits roll by. This week's episode was stupid. Ann hardly even payed attention to it, but she could tell that it wasn't worth her time anyway.

"Is everything okay?" Claire asks worriedly. "You weren't even there to talk to him at New Year's."

Ann can't help but scoff at her. She told them that she had the flu, but it was her third time using that excuse in a row, and she doubts they even bought it. "Have you talked to Gray yet?"

Karen frowns, interjecting the tension that's now been created. "Has anyone? I mean… who's even seen the guy?"

Claire shoots Ann a glare, clearly annoyed. "Don't change the subject." She watches the last of the end credits scroll by with a guilty look on her face, bringing her knees into her chest like a little kid. "He came by the day after everything happened, and that was that."

Ann scowls. "I didn't know that."

"Well, I did tell you," Claire points out haughtily.

Whether she totally did or totally didn't, Ann isn't sure, because it's not like she's really directing her focus to certain shit these days. The amount of times she's been getting the orders wrong at work, having to bring the incorrect food to her dad with her head hanging low because they're still not speaking with one another is astonishing.

And Cliff—she merely passes by him like an amnesiac patient that's forgotten who he is to her anymore.

"Well, it's not like you elaborated on what happened," she says back.

"I'd rather not talk about him at the moment, if that's okay with you," Claire mumbles.

There's a long pause of silence as the T.V. switches over to Boston Legal.

Karen quickly snatches the remote, nearly knocking the container of Pringles over in the process. "Okayyy, who wants to watch Extreme Makeover Home Edition! Like, get the tissues ready people."

Ann ignores her, harsh gaze still directed toward Claire. "So, what'd he say?"

"Who, Gray?"

"Duh."

"Not much," Claire answers bitterly, running a hand through her long hair as a form of distraction. "Well, not much worth repeating."

"He didn't apologize?"

"… He did. I obviously didn't accept it."

"Obviously!" Karen exclaims, whole-heartedly agreeing. She breaks her gaze away from the television with a raise of her brows. "I wouldn't. And he completely deserved that bitch slap."

Ann stares at them. She doesn't realize just how much information she'd missed out on when continuously blowing her friends off. This is the first time they've actually all hung out in more than three weeks now. Karen told her that the whole I'm busy, I'm sick, I'm on my period excuses were getting pretty old, and pretty unbelievable in the first place.

"You hit him?"

Claire pretends to be unphased, but she looks away uncomfortably. "Don't make it seem like that's worse than everything else he did, Ann."

"That's still fucked up," she snaps. "If the roles were reversed—"

Claire gives a fake laugh. "Do not lecture me."

"It's true."

"Ann, he humiliated me! He nearly put Trent in a coma, he lied to my face multiple times—"

"Lied about what?" she asks, squinting.

Claire's jaw tightens, but she rolls her eyes in irritation. "Honestly, don't worry about it. If I tell you, I'm sure you'll somehow find a way to turn it against me so that he looks like the angel."

"Not for nothing, but I know how nasty you can get when you're pissed." Claire's not the type of person to get mad easily, it's just that when she does... like, beware, 'cause it's unsettling to say the least. At least Gray's temper is warranted, because before he opens his mouth, you know you're probably dealing with a huge asshole. But Claire is generally a really nice person. "What'd you say back to him?"

Claire just looks down at her lap like it's the most interesting thing in the world, avoiding having to answer this question.

Ann grabs the remote from Karen as she begins flipping through the shitty late-night programming on her channels, not bothering to hide her vexation. She doesn't know why she's so protective of Gray sometimes; maybe it's because they've slept together, or maybe it's due to the fact that she knows no one is ever in his corner with him. "Well, you're gonna have to forgive him at some point, and then you're gonna owe him an apology just as much."

"No," Claire snorts. Her brows are knotted in anger, and her pointy ears are blooming red. "No, honestly, just stop. I literally can't believe you're not taking my side in this."

"I'm not not taking your side," says Ann, because this is all so trivial to her. "It's just unnecessary B.S."

"That he caused," snaps Claire.

"Cool it, you're both heated," warns Karen, seizing the remote again. She effectively changes the channel from some infomercial, back to ABC. "Pay attention to Extreme Makeover."

"How'd he take your engagement?" Ann asks, because it's not like she's talked to Gray either. She won't even go near Cliff, let alone see the guy that her dad found out she slept with. Maybe she's trying to protect them both, or maybe she's just totally afraid, but regardless, she feels a lot safer in this personal bubble that consists of just her and her problems right now.

Claire says nothing in response again.

"Oh, he doesn't know yet, huh?" Ann swears. "You didn't have the balls to tell him?"

"We don't have balls—we have ovaries," Karen deadpans.

Ann glares at her. "Shut it."

"Uh, I'm older than you. You shut it."

Claire shakes her head with a scoff. "He can find out from everyone else. It's not like… I'm hiding it from him."

"Oh, bullshit, Claire," scoffs Ann. "That's bullshit and you know it. What're you so afraid of?"

These words seem to strike a nerve in her. "What are you so afraid of? You haven't left your fricken' room in weeks."

"Ann, Claire doesn't have to tell him anything," Karen says slowly, like she's treading through dangerous territory with a statement like this. "And he royally fucked up. Like, seriously, you know he did."

Oh, Ann knows he did. She knows how upset Claire is about it all, because betrayal doesn't come from your enemies—it comes from your friends. If she were in her shoes, she'd probably have reacted even worse. Like, seeing Gray with Claire's underwear in his hands, beating the fucking shit out of her fiancé? Even if it's all one big misunderstanding, it will forever look bad. And on top of the things he did, the things he said? Jesus.

She knew that brawl was bound to happen though, sooner or later. Gray can be such a hotheaded idiot sometimes; it's been brewing since that damn doctor moved into town.

"Oh, so, you're on her side," Ann mutters.

"What is with you both and sides?!" Karen asks wildly. "You guys are friends, get off each others' throats."

Claire huffs and crosses her arms, shaking her head as she looks like she's trying hard not to cry. Ann picks up the T.V. remote again, flicking the channel onto the end of the basketball game.

"Let's talk reasonably," says Karen. She holds out her hands gently as though she's trying to ease them both into the idea.

"No," they both mutter in unison.

"Jinx," she chimes.

"It's only jinx for the people who say it," says Claire wearily.

"Not the people around them," Ann mumbles.

Karen gets up from the corner of the bed to shove herself in between them, as if this close proximity is going to help. She's got the cylinder of Pringles tucked away in the crook of her arm. "Claire, you didn't tell Gray that you're getting married because you wanted to hurt him, or you were afraid of hurting him, correct?"

She just looks down. "I dunno… it's a bit of both, Kare. I didn't really want to, and… and I just couldn't."

"Why?" Ann demands, though Karen gives her a stern look and shushes her. She knows that she's taking things too far when Karen of all people has to be the one to regulate her silence.

"Ann, something's been up your ass since the fight, right?" Karen holds her hand out when she begins to protest. "Don't bother denying it."

She stares straight ahead, swallowing a lump that's lodged in her throat. "My father found out I'm not a virgin," she says absently. "He saw my STD screening and lost his shit on me."

Karen's taking a bite of the chips as she says this, before choking and coughing the remnants out of her esophagus. "Uh, okay, YIKES! When were you gonna tell us this?!"

"Oh, God," Claire whispers. "What did he say?"

"What do you think? He treated me like a whore," she spits. "Do you have any idea how that feels?"

Claire's eyes soften, and Ann instantly wishes that she had suppressed these words. Karen already told her privately just how much of an effect Gray's outburst had on the town's attitude toward her. Combined with the dress-up outfit that she was wearing during the fight, and jeez. It's all so fucked up, but the villagers have clearly already made their mind up about it all.

Karen widens her eyes though, nodding at her in agreement. "I totally get it. Remember when Anna did that prayer circle outside of the church after Mother Teresa died, and she was like, 'only those who have remained pure can attend,' and I was fifteen… and I was like, 'what's that even mean?', and she was like 'pure as in virgin', and I was like, 'but you have a daughter… how are you a virgin?' and my mom was like, 'she means it in the premarital sense,' and then—me and my big mouth—I was all like, 'fuck, guess Rick and I can't attend then, ahaha,' and my mom obviously heard and… hoo boy." She grimaces at the memory, pointing a finger gun at her head as she pulls the trigger. "I was a dead girl walking in my house."

"I remember that," Ann tells her with a frown. "My dad heard about all that happening… and he told me just how important it was to not… well, y'know."

"Why would Anna have a prayer circle that wouldn't include everyone?" Claire asks with a frown. "That doesn't even make sense… that's like the opposite of what they're supposed to achieve."

"This is before Carter came along," Ann scoffs. That family is seriously drinking some fucked up Kool-Aid, 'cause they're all goddamn basket cases. "What'd you expect? She's a judgmental cu—"

"Cut back to Extreme Makeover," Karen tells her with a wink, grabbing the remote from her once again. "There's only so many uses we're allowed for that word. Seriously."

Claire touches Ann's arm. "I'm sorry all this's been happening and we didn't know. That must've been really hard for you to go through alone."

She shrugs it off. "I just feel empty."

"Yeah, I get that," says Claire. "I understand. I've been feeling that way too."

"I'm sorry… I know you did more for Gray than anyone here, and I know how much it must suck." Her mouth falls into a frown.

Claire shrugs and looks away. "I don't even know how to feel either, to be honest."

Ann recalls the night he came to her looking for a fix, creating an even bigger misunderstanding with her father days later. No, seriously, the guy requires help.

"You have to talk to him at some point," Ann tells her.

Claire winces and shakes her head like this isn't even a possibility that she'll entertain.

"Just like you gotta talk to your dad," says Karen. "Stand up to him."

"And Cliff," Claire adds, clearly thankful for this changing of the subject. "He misses you. He thinks that he did something wrong."

Ann falls back on her bed, head hitting her pillow as she sighs. She's too tired to even function right now, let alone entertain this. "Let's just drop it, alright?"

"Can't," says Karen. "I'm too invested."

"Look, I fucked up," she tells them, rubbing her temples. Her brain is throbbing, and despite trying to be unemotional, she knows that she's on the verge of crying. "I let my guard down, and now my dad is forever gonna look at me different. I just want to be sad and alone right now, if that's alright with you guys."

Karen sighs. "Ann, I get it. Girls get shit on for literally everything… we gotta go through so much more B.S than the guys. Like, why do we get taxed for tampons and pads? Who the fuck knows. Why's it acceptable for a guy to bone as much as he wants, while we're expected to save it for that special someone? Science's greatest mystery—I get it."

"Just don't push us away for that," Claire tells her, face knotted with concernment. "Don't push Cliff away either."

Ann rolls her eyes. "I'm calling it a night."

Claire frowns. "Wait—"

"No more men," she mumbles, grabbing her quilt. She slides under her covers, undoing her red braid as she turns away from them. "No more of my dad, no more Gray, no more Cliff."

"Ann—" Karen begins.

"I'm goin' to bed, so... goodnight."

No more of her friends either, she guesses.

As they get up to exit her room sadly, she realizes just how lonely she already feels without them.

Isolated, pushing not only men away, but women too. Is this her father's end goal? To make her feel bad for literally everything? Does her reality as a young woman require doing things to ensure that everyone else doesn't see her differently, to live for other people besides herself?

To apologize for merely existing as she does?

Jeez, it's emotional rollercoaster after emotional rollercoaster.

But Ann's not right… like she's obviously wrong, right?

Claire doesn't owe Gray a goddamn thing. Not now, not ever.

Certainly not an apology; she'll be mad forever—she's already decided.

She listens to the loud vibration of an instrument when her foot accidentally catches Gray's bass that's been tucked away under her bed. He hasn't come by to pick it back up, so this is its new location for now.

She's not going to be the one to return it. And because he's actually listening to her demands of leaving her alone for good now, neither of them have even crossed each other's paths.

She wants his shit gone though, because when the toe of her slipper hits the bass, she can only swallow; pretending as though the very sound doesn't elicit a wash of memories in her head.

Trent is currently in her bathroom, scrutinizing his still-bruised face. She's retrieved her Ziplock makeshift icepack for him, dimming the lights in an attempt to help ease his headaches. He's still not fully recovered from his concussion yet.

Trent inspects the mirror with barely open, swollen purple eyes. "The hell's this?" he grumbles, when she tentatively brings the frozen dish-soap against his face.

"An icepack."

"No, it's fucking not."

"I made them—"

He removes it from her hands, impulsively launching it against her bathtub with a loud bang. It knocks over Gray's shampoo, body wash, and conditioner that's on the ledge—he still hasn't picked up those yet either.

Claire is frozen, staring with wide eyes. Maggie runs into the room, barking and growling as a result of the commotion.

"I can't fucking use that, Claire," Trent snaps, his voice menacing and low. He looks around the bathroom, glancing at the bottles he's knocked over, at the heightened shower nozzle, at Gray's aftershave cream on the counter.

"Why's his shit still here?" he demands. "Throw it in the damn garbage or something; don't even bother to give it back."

But Claire is hardly listening; she's shaking, her pulse pounding in her ears. She turns away from him, picking up Maggie to soothe her as she tries to steady her breathing.

"Why are you being so horrible to me?" she whispers, burying her face in Maggie's soft, almost-curly fur to keep herself from wobbling. "I didn't do anything."

"It's not me," Trent says uncomfortably. He always grows irate with her when she gets emotional. "It's the concussion. Irritability is one of the number one symptoms of—"

"I don't care," she mumbles, hating the way that her voice breaks with every syllable. But she's just desperate for his outbursts to stop. "You don't have to yell or throw things. I've only been trying to help you this entire time."

He begins to protest, but eventually just gives her the slightest nod; one that won't hurt his chin or face when he tries to execute it. "... You're right. Sorry. This is all his fault... not yours." He tries reaching for her arm, but Maggie snarls at him. Hesitantly, Claire scratches behind her ear to try and calm her, before putting her down.

Trent goes back to scrutinizing his reflection in her mirror disdainfully, as though all of the purplish blue, yellow bruising across his face is a map that he's trying to study and work around. With a tight grasp on the sink's handles, he turns his direction toward her, exhaling sharply. "He won't know what fucking hit him when I press charges against his ass. This isn't over. I'm serious."

The entire criminal aspect to their problem hasn't even remotely crossed her mind. The room is suddenly getting all dizzy again, like a merry-go-round that nobody is letting her get off of. "You're for sure gonna?" she asks, her voice a mere whisper in the air.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I?"

She just looks down at her slippers, her hair hanging like a curtain in front of her face as she stays silent.

"Claire?"

Her eyes dart up at him. "Ah-huh?"

"Don't you worry," Trent mutters, rubbing his head in exhaustion. He winds his arm around her back, gripping the bone of her shoulder tightly as he paces himself, leading them toward her couch. "He won't be bothering us anymore."

And her heart catches in her throat.

She showers after her fiancé leaves, removing her clothes as she steps into her bathroom. Her eyes look so dull in the mirror, her skin splotchy and her hair lifeless. She pretends like there isn't a whole slew of memories contained merely in this bathroom alone, but it's hard, because Gray's shampoo has spilled into her tub when it got knocked over, and the shower head is still as high as it was the way he left it. It smells and looks like he was just in here.

Turning the water on, Claire lets it envelope her, before getting frustrated by the lack of a direct stream on her. That damn shower head. She reaches her body out in attempt to try and lower it, stretching her arms out as best she can, getting on her tippy toes to give herself the maximum height that she's capable of, but it's no use. She can't reach it, and it's not budging anywhere.

Stuck like this until someone fixes it.

It's another week of not seeing him, and Maggie won't stop circling the couch where he slept, looking around all forlorn and sad. It's like she's forgotten that her actual owner, you know, the one who takes care of her, is still present.

Claire tries opening her cupboard door to get a brand new bag of Maggie's kibble, but something is lodged between it. With a frustrated groan, she pulls and pulls, until she realizes that it's the cereal that's been put back wrong, stuck between the hinges.

Completely aggravated, she yanks on it until it lands flat on her counter, leaving a few other packaged goods to come down with it.

She swallows. Gray could never just put shit back correctly, he always had to do things in a way that didn't make sense.

Like him—his entire being doesn't make sense.

Claire feels her fists clench, and then she's angry all over again. The nerve of him, to go and ruin everything—everything. The audacity and the rage and the anger... God, she let that prick into her life and now—

And now what?

She pretends not to see the packages of instant coffee that she bought for him.

Ignores the cereal that he stole because he doesn't know how to act.

Disregards the shortened, used candles that she lit, the night of…

Fuck.

And then she's slamming shit. Putting her spoons back with a rattle, shutting the cupboard door with such force that Maggie barks as if there's an intruder there. Gray was the intruder, he is the intruder. She let him in and look what he did, look what he caused. Look what happened. She's full of rage, she's pissed off—she's so fucking angry, muttering to herself and then swearing loudly on the opposite ends of the spectrum. She didn't even used to be this type of person who cursed, who said her feelings so candidly.

The kind who would tell Gray that he deserved all of those things, in order to hurt him in the ways that he hurt her.

He did deserve it.

Claire stares at the cereal that they shared the night he told her he tried to die once, and her hands are trembling as she throws it against her wall, Frosted Flakes flying everywhere like the shrapnel to a bomb.

He was the bomb, always ready to detonate.

But she looks at all of the chaos she caused around her, and wonders if it's maybe her too. Maybe she's just as much of a goddamn explosion.

There's a knock at her door, followed by the low creak of it opening due to her broken lock. Maggie barks again, letting her know that someone's there, but she quickly becomes too preoccupied by all of the cereal remnants on the floor.

"Hi, Carter," Claire says weakly, opening the door fully. Her voice is hoarse from the screaming. She blocks him from seeing the mess that she's created, even though he probably heard all of it with her door slightly ajar like that. She's really got to get around to fixing that lock. Embarrassment floods her face.

"Hello," says the pastor timidly. "I just came by to check in, see how you were doing."

"Yeah, no, I'm super," she says, instantly feeling bad for using her sarcasm against a minister. Has she no filter anymore either?

"I was just a bit worried, since it's been quite awhile since you've attended mass," he tells her, like she doesn't already know this. She obviously hasn't had any desire to go back and feel shunned all over again.

"Yeah," Claire repeats flatly. "I'm aware."

Carter's worried lines crease against his forehead, his thick, caterpillar-like brows getting pushed together. "Claire… I know you're having a tough time right now, what with everything." He pauses, searching her face. She knows how pissed off she must look, but when she tries to relax it, she can feel her mask coming undone and stops before she surely begins to cry in front of him. "I think some reflection may do you good. And I think that it's best to let your feelings be known… to whomever needs to know them."

Here it goes. This is why he's here?!

"Carter, please, I'm so angry right now," Claire chokes out. Tears burn back her eyelids. "Please, I can't. I don't want to do this right now. Don't ask me to—"

"You don't have to do anything that you don't feel comfortable with doing," he explains gently. "All that I am saying is that you should go talk to him."

And he doesn't even have to clarify who or what he means.

Claire scoffs. "No. No, no, absolutely not." Then, realizing that she's giving major attitude to a pastor who's only ever meant well, drops her head low. "I can't."

Why does she have to be the bigger person?! Yeah, all those Bible verses that she was forced to copy down into her religion notebooks as a kid preached that, but it shouldn't have to start with HER.

"Has Grayson reached out to you?"

The question catches her by surprise, but she manages to shake her head no. "Only the day after… everything happened. That was it."

"Well—"

"He's so full of it, Carter. He freaking lied to me, he disrespected me, he…"

"He hurt you," Carter finishes.

Claire gazes at him for a long time, before nodding, swiping at the moisture behind her eyes desperately. Her knees start to buckle; she has zero desire to be confronting these problems right now.

"And you feel torn. Because he wounded your heart."

She stares at him. Wounded her heart?

"How did you respond to everything?" he asks.

Claire blinks. He must have heard her entire private meltdown minutes ago—if he didn't already know it, he clearly is well aware now of just how bad her temper can get. "Not… nicely."

"Did you wound his heart in return?"

She snaps her vision up at him wildly. "That's not… well, yeah, I'm sure I did, but he deserved it tenfold."

"Did he?" Carter frowns. "Did you?" With a shake of his head, he presses his mouth into a tight line, his features softening sadly. "Does anyone, Claire?"

She immediately recalls telling Gray how little he meant to her, how she couldn't give less of a shit if anything ever happened to him.

How he never even mattered at all.

... God, how could she have ever said anything like that to another person?!

Pushing this guilty thought away, she simply lets her anger cloud over her judgement. "Carter, I'm sorry, but I don't need this right now."

"Proverbs 17:9 states that 'Love prospers when a fault is forgiven, but dwelling on it separates close friends.'" He looks at her with patient eyes, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Is this for fucking real?

And Claire's fuming now. Would it be bad to slam the door in this pastor's face so that she can either throw some more of her things, or just let herself fall to the ground crying?

"So, what?" she snaps, her voice breaking. "I'm just supposed to keep forgiving him? Just because he and I—"

And she pauses—her blood running cold, her head feeling light, and her body quivering immensely.

Oh, God.

Carter shakes his head again. "He needs help, Claire. You and I both know that he cannot go on much longer living like this. It's why he reacts the way that he does, why it makes him that type of person. It by no means excuses his actions, but it cannot be denied that he needs an intervention of sorts."

"Why is that my problem?" she mutters with a scowl, but her heart strings are being pulled. They're sore and she can't help it.

"It's not," says Carter. "It's his. I just know that you're one of the few people close to him."

"Yeah, well, not anymore."

And she tries to keep this callousness up as best she can, but her lower lip starts to tremble, exposing just how much she actually does care. She presses down on it with her top lip, forcing her mouth into a tight line to keep Carter from seeing how hard she's trying not to cry right now, but it's no use.

"Do you want to be separated from him?" Carter asks.

"He won't be bothering us anymore."

Despite her obvious anger, the positive memories manage to slip in through the cracks of the barricade in her mind: late night cereal with him, snowball fights, Comedy Central re-runs, self-defence training, the way he held on to her desperately throughout his panic attack.

The way that she held him back just as tightly.

"No," Claire whispers, the tears escaping, rolling their way down her cheeks like rainfall.

Apologize though? Seriously, for what?!

That's rhetorical; she knows why. For the things that she said… she was truly awful to him.

The things that she did; were those even worse?

Well, what about the things that he did?!

What are the words to even say right now? She needs to talk to him—no, talk at him—but she's worried that she'll just gape at him like a fish, that the words won't come out right, if at all.

It's been more than three weeks, what is he even thinking? What's he doing, what's running through his mind right now? Is he still apologetic, is he bitter, is he okay?

He's not okay; neither of them are.

Claire never meant that she didn't care about his life; she was just so damn angry. She hated him in that moment, and maybe parts of her still do, but then there's the other parts that just don't and why does all of this have to be so complicated?

That picture of them from her birthday is turned over on her vanity counter. It made her ill just looking at it weeks ago, and yet, she still couldn't bring herself to throw it out. She flips it over for the first time in a long time, staring at their glowing faces and genuine smiles in the photograph. She can't help it; she just starts sobbing uncontrollably again, unable to get a grip on anything in her life.

She thinks about everything that he did. God, he needs help. He needs severe help, and she knows it, and everyone around him knows it too. Did the drugs and alcohol make him say those horrible things, make him lie, make him disrespect her, make him do everything that he did? Have they altered him permanently?

Jesus Christ, his life does matter to her. Despite being furious, it's not like it could ever just not matter anymore.

Gray had regretted his words, and fuck, they stung, but she regrets everything. Did she make him feel like she'd be fine if he just up and died? Does he know that this is the farthest thing from the truth, that if he lets his depression and substance abuse consume him, take him to the other side, she'd be broken for the rest of her days?

How could she do all that?

But, how could he do all that too?! The more that she thinks about it, the more it all starts to unravel, and the more angry yet remorseful she becomes.

Sick to her stomach; that's the best way to describe how this whole ordeal has made her feel.

Hitting him though… she had no fucking right. She knows that she had no right; she's never hit anybody before in her entire life, and the second that it happened, she knew how bad she messed up. It's all messed up; the whole situation, him... her too.

Claire couldn't even tell him about the ring, couldn't even bare to have him see it. She chickened out like some coward; she couldn't even say the words—to solidify them, make them real, watch the mention of her proposal crush him before her very eyes.

So she picked other ways to crush him instead.

He must know about her engagement by now. He must have found out through everyone else but herself.

Burying her head in her hands, she realizes just how brokenhearted, how lost she really is. She waits for the tears to stop, and although it takes awhile, they thankfully run dry.

But the sadness still lingers.

Before she knows it, her coat is on and her feet are picking up the pace toward a different, familiar pathway outside her farm. Despite the fact that she has to go to Trent's soon so that he's not dealing with the effects of his concussion all alone, she needs to tend to something else first.

Saibara answers the door immediately upon her knocking, like he's hopeful that it could be someone else.

But it's just her.

"Claire," he says in disbelief. He's leaning on his cane more than she's used to seeing him do, and his hands are covered in black soot. Beneath his longer, white beard that's stained with grey ash, she catches his frown. "… Is there something you need?"

Never felt more like a stranger.

She swallows thickly. "I need to talk to Gray."

"Claire—"

"No, I'm serious, Saibara. Please, I… I dunno what I have to say to him, but whatever it is, I need to say it. I can't keep going on like this." Her voice quivers, lips twitching as she bites back a sob. "He can't either."

Saibara won't look at her. His eyes are fixated on his cane beneath him; why is he so dependent on it for keeping him structured now? "You're too late."

Claire grits her teeth and looks around like Trent could appear at any minute. Her voice drops to a hushed whisper. "Please, I know he's mad. I'm… I'm still mad too, but… I just have to talk to him."

There is a long silence between them, and Saibara is looking everywhere but at her.

"He's not here," he finally says.

Claire frowns, but her blood is running cold right now. She doesn't like his tone at all. "Okay, well, can you tell me where he is, then? Please?"

"I can't."

Her words are getting heightened and she can't help it. Because something is wrong and the old man is terrible at hiding that fact. "What do you mean you can't?"

"Because I don't know where he is," he murmurs.

Time has stopped. The snow falling around her seems to come to a halt. Her lungs aren't working anymore and her vision sways.

"What?" Claire whispers.

"I… I don't know where he is."

"You don't know?"

Saibara drags a hand over his face, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. "He's missing, Claire."

There was a note with scribbled red ink over the paper, strewn about his desk, the night after Harris questioned him almost four weeks ago.

Saibara had slept for so long the night after the interrogation. He had been up so late, he was so tired. So under pressure, and so exhausted from all of the stress.

He saw the note late that next morning. It caught his eye immediately.

Can't charge me if I'm not here. Don't come looking for me. Sorry I was a part of the shitty cards you got dealt with. —G

Saibara reread it about six times, the words hardly registering in his mind. Just kept scanning and re-scanning the messy writing, throwing on his reading glasses as though they'd help him to uncover some secret code of what it all meant. Wearily, he took the note, staggering over to Gray's room as he pushed the ajar door open with his cane.

His grandson's bed was left a mess, his drawers all opened desperately, like he had left in some sort of a frenzy.

And just like that, the boy was actually gone for real this time.