Chapter 104
Clarke had a strategy in mind when she and Bellamy sat down on the living room couch and started going through . . . everything. It was a lot, especially for him, so she tried her best to summarize some of the things she'd read for him. In terms of treatment facilities, she wanted to tell him about a wide variety of them so that he felt like he had some choice in the matter. There were places in Bethesda and Rockville and obviously D.C. that were definitely options, but Clarke really wanted to convince him to go to a certain one in Baltimore that specialized in alcohol addiction. Her strategy was to start with the less desirable places and work her way up to what she thought was the best one so that, by the they started talking about it, Bellamy was impressed by all the things the Baltimore facility offered that the others didn't. It seemed to be working, for the most part. He liked each place better than the last. Although it was safe to say that he didn't truly like any of them. He kept tapping his foot and drumming his fingers on the coffee table agitatedly. For hours, they sat on that couch, discussing things, and for hours, he looked like he was right on the verge of just breaking down.
After Clarke had summarized all the benefits of her top choice, Bellamy said, "That one doesn't sound too bad."
"Yeah, it kind of stood out to me, too," she said. "In a good way." It just seemed like a good fit, and if the numbers on their website were to be believed, their success rate was pretty high.
"And where is this at again?" he asked.
"Baltimore."
"Baltimore?" He didn't seem to like that answer. "Is it inpatient or outpatient?"
"They have both." She certainly wasn't going to tell him which type of therapy to do, but based on everything she'd researched, she had an idea about which one of those options would be better for him, too.
"So what would we do, just drive up there for every appointment?" he contemplated aloud. "I can't drive. You'd have to take me."
Some outpatient therapy was every day, though, or at least multiple times a week, often for hours at a time. Driving back and forth like that just didn't seem realistic, especially with Avery to consider.
"Or would we try to stay with your dad, or . . ." He trailed off, must have noticed the sympathetic look on her face. "What?"
She understood that his immediate desire was to stay with the family, but she needed to get him to consider the other option, too. "You're only thinking about the outpatient rehab, huh?" she said.
"Well, yeah," he responded simply. "Why, you think I should do the other one?"
In everything she'd read about how to help someone seek treatment, it had said to be firm but not too forceful, so she wasn't going to pressure him, but she was for sure going to make sure he understood how inpatient rehab might be better. "I don't wanna tell you what to do," she said. "But . . . inpatient means you get round-the-clock care."
At first, he responded dismissively. "I don't need that." But when he locked eyes with her and saw that she wasn't readily agreeing with him, he asked, "You think I need that?"
She still didn't say anything, wanting him to try to get to that realization on his own first.
"No, look, right here," he said, picking up one of the many article's she'd printed. It talked about the difference between the different therapy types. "It says you should consider inpatient therapy if it's a chronic issue. It's not chronic, not for me. It's not something I've been doing for years."
"It also says . . . if you might be a danger to yourself or others," she quietly pointed out.
"I'm not . . ." To his credit, instead of immediately arguing that he was no danger at all, he managed to stop, think about it, and reluctantly admit, "Okay, fine, I drove drunk. I'm dangerous."
"It also says inpatient might be the best option if you think you have any . . . other mental health conditions," she added carefully.
"Like what?"
"Like . . . anxiety?" It didn't seem far-fetched to her to think that maybe that was part of what was fueling his addiction.
"You think I have that, too?"
"Well, obviously I'm not a therapist." She wasn't qualified to diagnose him, so she wasn't going to try to. "But Octavia did tell me you guys talked about . . . just you having trouble catching your breath when you get stressed or feeling like your heart's beating out of control. That could be anxiety; those could be symptoms."
He dragged his hand through his hair, looking pretty damn anxious right now, as a matter of fact.
"I'm not trying to make the decision for you," she assured him. "I'm just saying . . ."
"Yeah, I know. And I get it; I get what you're saying," he acknowledged. "But isn't inpatient rehab gonna be a lot more expensive? I mean, I got some insurance with my job now, but . . . it's not gonna cover everything."
"Don't worry about it." Money wasn't even an issue on her radar right now, and she supposed that meant she was pretty privileged. "We'll figure it out."
"How? By asking your parents for help?"
"If we have to." She'd already run the numbers. They were going to have to.
"No, I don't wanna do that," he said stubbornly. "Your mom finally started liking me."
"My mom knows what's going on. I've talked to her," she informed him. "It's her money that bailed you out last night. She just wants you to get better, just like everyone else."
He sighed, the confirmation that it had in fact technically been his mother-in-law who had bailed him out seeming to weigh heavily on his conscience. "I'll pay her back," he promised. "Will you let her know that? Anyone who helps . . . I'll pay 'em back as soon as I can."
She nodded. "Okay." If that was what he wanted to do down the road, then she'd support him. "So what are you thinking?"
"About this place? I think . . ." He held out his hand, and she gave her phone to him so he could look at some of the pictures a little more. "I should probably do the inpatient," he mumbled finally, much to her relief. "But I'm scared of being away from you and Avery. How long does it take?"
"It depends." She didn't exactly love the thought of him being away, either, but it was probably harder for him to think about. She'd still have her friends, her family, and most importantly, their daughter. "It's a voluntary rehab, so it's not like they can force you to stay," she assured him. "Could be . . . a month."
"A month?" he whispered, horrified.
She shrugged. That was just the average according to the website.
"She could be crawling in a month," he said tearfully, looking towards the stairs. "She could be talking."
"It could be less than that," she said. "Sometimes people just stay for a couple weeks and then switch to outpatient."
"But what if I miss things with her?" he said fearfully. "I'm gonna miss things."
"Bellamy." Hopefully no milestones happened while he was gone. She wouldn't start walking for a few more months, at least, but the crawling and the talking stuff . . . if she was still doing the early development thing, then she'd probably be doing that in a few weeks.
"Clarke, this is really hard for me," he said, swallowing hard.
"I know. But she will be here waiting for you when you get back. And so will I," she reminded him. "You're doing this so that you don't miss out on things with this family."
He shut his eyes for a few seconds, almost as though he were envisioning something, imagining. When he opened them again, he spoke quickly, almost as if he didn't want to give himself time to change his mind. "Alright. Alright, yeah, let's, uh . . . let's go with this place," he said, words pouring out on top of each other.
Oh my god, she thought excitedly. Was it wrong to be excited about rehab? She'd actually gotten him to make a decision. Not by forcing him, either, but just by talking to him.
"What do we—what do we even do?" he inquired.
"Well, we should call tomorrow, see if they can get you in," she said.
"Tomorrow?" He locked up at the ceiling, as though he were trying to look into Avery's room. "That's so soon."
She understood why it felt that way to him, but to her, it felt like a long time coming. If she could have called and spoken with the director tonight, she would have, because as long as Bellamy was here at home, she worried that he might still talk himself out of it. She would have loved to have been able to just drive him in there tonight and get him checked him in, but that wasn't gonna happen. And the actual nice thing about that was that he had a little more time to spend at home. Before he had to leave.
"Why don't you go upstairs and sit with her?" she suggested. "Watch her sleep."
He nodded, wiped a tear off his face, and asked her, "Will you come with me?"
Of course, she thought, glad that he still wanted to spend some time with her, too. They were still a family. Things were hard right now, but they were still a family.
Avery was obviously asleep when they walked into her nursery, but Bellamy carefully lifted her up out of the crib and sat down in the rocking chair with her, holding her upright so she could rest with her head against his shoulder. He rocked her steadily, never really sleeping himself, but he had his eyes closed. Clarke brought another chair into the room, wanting to give them their space, and just cuddled up by herself under a blanket, content to watch them. Father and daughter. He loved her so much. And because he loved her so much, it was a pretty bittersweet sight to see. But it was also beautiful. And it gave her hope.
...
When Bellamy woke up, he was slumped over the side of Avery's crib, and she was lying in it. Better than be slumped over the toilet feeling nauseous, he supposed. His back and neck hurt from the way he'd been . . . kind of sitting, kind of lying there. He didn't even remember putting the baby back down in there again, so Clarke must have done it.
He heard Clarke's voice coming from the bedroom. She was on the phone with someone, and it sounded like a formal call. Had to be the Baltimore place, the place that was gonna have to be home for the next . . . couple weeks? He really wanted to work hard and be back home in a couple weeks.
When Clarke came back into the nursery and saw that he was awake, she told him "I just called. It's a go."
Logically—not that he'd been very logical lately, but logically, he knew that was good. Sometimes these places ran out of rooms and couldn't get people in right away. Emotionally, though . . . it just seemed impossible to even get up out of that rocking chair, let alone walk out of the house, let alone leave Arkadia.
He did get up, though. Brushed his teeth. Showered. Packed a bag. Clarke thought of a bunch of stuff he was missing, though, and threw another bag together. She also told his mom and his sister to come over, and . . . as hard as it was to see them right now, he was glad he'd get to say goodbye to them, too. Or what was the saying? Something about it not being goodbye, but more of a see-you-later?
"Are you ready?" Clarke asked him after they'd double-checked his luggage.
He wasn't quite sure, but he nodded anyway. "Yeah." He knew he had to do this. Unless he wanted to end up like his own dead dad.
She carried the lighter bag downstairs while he hauled the heavier one. His mom and sister were both sitting on the couch, playing with Avery, but they both stood up and got serious when they saw him.
"No one else is coming, right?" he asked.
"No. Just us," Octavia replied.
Good. He didn't want to make a big spectacle out of it.
Octavia handed Avery off to their mom, came towards him and hugged him, kind of like how she used to hug him when he'd come home from college, almost as tightly as she had when he'd finally come home to Arkadia for good. "Go get well, big brother," she said shakily.
"I will." She probably didn't know it, but it wasn't just Clarke and Avery who were his motivations. He wanted to get better for her, too. She was gonna have kids of her own someday, and he needed to be a good uncle, not a drunk one.
After hugging her, he went to do the same to his mother. "Mom . . . I'm so sorry," he apologized.
"Oh, honey . . ." She couldn't hug him as tightly since she was holding Avery, but all the love and support was still there. He felt it. "I love you so much," she whispered tearfully.
"I love you, too." Slowly, he pulled back and added, "Both of you. All of you." These four women were the most important people in his life. And they always would be. "I'm gonna get better," he promised. He held out his hands for Avery, and his mom handed her over. "I'm gonna get better, sweetheart," he whispered in her ear, kissing the top of her head. Her soft little head. Hopefully she wouldn't have a full head of hair when he came back.
"Thanks for watching her, you guys," Clarke said.
"Of course," Octavia said. She held out her hands much in the same way Bellamy just had, and although it took every ounce of strength he had and he wasn't sure he'd be able to do it, he handed her over. It felt like something was missing when he wasn't holding her anymore, some piece of himself. The very best piece.
"You ready to go?" Clarke asked him.
He shook his head. "No. But . . . let's go." He'd never be ready to leave that little girl behind. She was the most important thing that had ever existed to him in the world. And together with her mother, she was probably saving his life.
It was becoming habit for him to get into the passenger's seat instead of the driver's seat. He hated it, Clarke having to drive him around. Yet another thing he couldn't do on his own, another way that he was being a burden to her. She didn't act like she minded, though. In fact, she'd been pretty amazing last night, helping him through his decision. After the things he'd said to her, she didn't have any obligation to help him. Sure, they'd made vows to each other, but he wouldn't have blamed her if he'd pushed her past the limit of upholding them. Still, there she was, hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road as they cruised down the old highway and past the light pole he'd crashed into the other night.
"I didn't have my wedding ring on when I crashed," he blurted, looking down at the simple band on his finger.
"What?"
"Yeah, I took it off," he confessed. "Not 'cause I didn't wanna wear it, but . . . I don't know, I was just looking at it and thinking about you. And then I dropped it, and I bent down to pick it up. And I crashed." Some of the memories leading up to that moment were hazy, but not that one. He remembered just feeling the need to put that ring back on, like he wasn't quite right without it. "One of the cops found it, gave it back to me before they hauled me off," he said. "I'm not takin' it off ever again. But I know I've been a pretty shit husband, so if you wanna take yours off right now, I understand."
She frowned, looked down at her ring, and shook her head almost defiantly. "No. I never even thought about it. It's staying on."
He really wouldn't have blamed her. But he did like the sound of that. He really did. It sparked some semblance off hope inside of him, and he'd take all the hope he could get.
When they got to the clinic, the first thing they were told to do was to fill out some paperwork. Clarke pretty much did that for him since his handwriting was crap. After that, they only had to wait for about five minutes until the actual director of the whole place brought them back to his office to talk to them. First he asked about them about themselves and their family. Bellamy was happy to let Clarke do most of the talking, because he wasn't sure he could talk about Avery without just bolting out the door and going back home to her. Then the director started telling them about what kind of treatment they could expect him to receive at this facility.
"So this is our schedule for a typical day," he said, handing Bellamy a printout that had the entire day planned out hour by hour. It was like a timeline, and some activities were even squeezed in between.
"Meditation?" Bellamy said, spotting that at 7:30 a.m.
"No, that says medication," Clarke corrected.
"No, I'm looking at the one below it." He pointed it out to her. "See, meditation/yoga."
"Oh. Well, I did prenatal yoga," she said. "That was pretty fun."
"It's optional, but recommended," the director said. "Helps get you relaxed and centered for the day."
Bellamy wasn't sure he could picture himself doing yoga, and right now, with the way his mind was still spinning, he didn't think it'd be possible to meditate. But he'd probably just try it, see if it was something he responded well to. Why not, right? If there was any place he was gonna try, it was here. "Breakfast," he noted, pointing to 8:00 on the timeline. "I like that."
"You'll eat with the other patients," the director informed him, "so you'll probably be able to form some really supportive bonds while you're here."
"Yeah, I was prom king, so I'm really popular," he allowed himself to brag. His first attempt at humor in a while.
"Uh, what's CBT?" Clarke asked, skipping down to the next item on the schedule. "I feel like I read about that somewhere."
"That's cognitive behavioral therapy. That's what we use here," the director explained. "In layman's terms, it's talk therapy, probably like you'd traditionally imagine. It's used to treat a wide range of issues. You'll work with a mental health counselor to pinpoint and address the thought patterns underlying your behaviors, so that, when you go back home, you can anticipate triggers and respond to challenging situations in a healthier way."
Bellamy couldn't help but wonder if he'd be lying down on a couch, or if they'd have him look at all sorts of ink blots and ask him what he saw. Or maybe he'd be sitting in a folding chair in a circle with a bunch of addicts. Other addicts. Like him. "Is that something I'd do alone or as a group or what?" he asked.
"You'll have one session alone towards the start of each day. More than one, if the need arises," the director answered. "And if you look later on in the schedule, there's also some allotted group therapy time, and even some less conventional therapy."
"Art and music therapy," Clarke noted. "Ooh."
"She'd be good at that." If he tried to draw anything, it'd most likely come out looking like a stick figure, and he barely remembered any of the piano lesson she'd given him. He'd still try, though. He was willing to try anything.
"You'll be good at this fitness time," Clarke said, pointing to the activity after the first therapy session.
"Yeah," he agreed, hoping the gym was as nice in person as it'd looked in the pictures online. "I used to be a decent football player."
"He still is," Clarke said. "Now he's also a great coach."
Shit, he thought, doubting he could be classified as a great coach when he'd barely given any thought to them. "What's gonna happen to my team while I'm gone?"
"Miller can handle it," she assured him. "Don't worry about them right now. Just focus on yourself."
The problem with that was that he felt so damn selfish, though. The people in his life . . . they mattered to him more than anything, and it was pretty counter-intuitive to try to push them out of his mind. "Alright, looks good to me," he decided, folding up the schedule. He put it in his pocket and asked, "What's next?"
What was next turned out to be a medical exam, like the kind he would expect to have at a regular doctor's office. It wasn't the director who performed it; it was a nurse. He had to get weighed and then sit on an exam table and take his shirt off so they could get a good listen of his heartbeat. The stethoscope was cold on his skin, and he sort of hated the feel of it. Because he wasn't used to going to the doctor. It made him feel weak, even though his breathing was strong.
After they'd taken his blood pressure, temperature, and drawn some blood for mandatory testing, the nurse remarked, "I gotta say, Bellamy, you seem like quite the healthy guy."
"I am," he said as he re-buttoned is shirt. "Except for . . . you know, this."
"Right," she said. "Well, I'm gonna go ahead and drop this off in the lab, and then I'll be back, okay?"
"Thanks." He waited until she'd let the room to look over at his wife and ask, "You doin' okay?"
"Yeah," she said, standing up slowly, stretching. "What about you?"
He still didn't feel like he was doing okay, but at least he knew he wasn't gonna get his hands on any alcohol in this place. "I'm glad I'm here," he said. As much as it kind of still sucked, it did seem like it was where he needed to be.
"I'm glad, too," she said, taking a few steps toward him. She didn't get close enough for him to reach out and touch her, but she wasn't super far away, either.
"Clarke," he said quietly, "are you gonna be okay while I'm gone?"
"Yeah," she assured him. "I can take care of Avery. Don't worry."
"No, I mean . . ." He knew she could take care of their daughter. She was home with her a lot when he was at work. And the thing was, even if he hadn't decided to step in and be Avery's father, Clarke could have raised her on her own. She was strong and determined and brave, just like his mom had been. "I mean with Finn," he clarified. "I'm worried about you being around him."
"Well, I'm not gonna be," she said decisively. "Screw our arrangement. That kiss sealed the deal. I can't trust him to do what's right."
"So we're gonna take him to court then?"
"If that's what we have to do."
God, he felt like they were in a lose-lose situation. Either she kept up the arrangement, which he wasn't gonna let her do because he knew first-hand how guys could take advantage of girls, or they backed out on it and battled it out with a big, glaring strike on his fatherly résumé now. "He and his lawyer . . . they're gonna make sure they point out that I got a DUI."
"And then I'll point out how you're getting help," she responded quickly. "Let's just . . . let's just worry about that later, Bellamy. I don't even feel like I can think about any of that right now."
To be honest . . . he couldn't, either. If he let himself dwell too hard right now on the fact that he'd fucked up their case again, he'd probably lose the small feeling of hope he was trying to hold onto. There was, however, something he needed to get off his chest before she left, something that he'd just keep dwelling on if he let her go without saying it. "I'm so sorry I made it seem like you were . . ." He grimaced. "Asking for it." Given his past, what he'd seen . . . he really should have known better. There was no excuse. "I know no girl's ever asking for it," he said. "So listen, if he tries kissing you again or lays a hand on you or even so much as looks at you the wrong way, just let me know, and I'll . . . I'll fuckin' run back home, Clarke. I mean it."
"Bellamy," she whispered, taking a step closer, taking both his hands in hers. "Everything's gonna be fine. You don't have to worry about me."
That was what husbands did, though, wasn't it? They worried about their wives and did everything they could to protect them. "Then promise me you won't spend too much time worrying about me, either," he said, hating the thought of her every waking second being spent wondering if he was still doing okay, or making progress. "Just, uh . . . just focus on Avery, you know?"
She nodded, sort of like she was promising to do just that.
"I'm really gonna miss her," he said, wondering when it would hit him that he couldn't tuck her in tonight, that he couldn't wake up in the morning and hold her in his arms. Would it be right when Clarke left or after that? Maybe when he went to sleep. Yeah, it would probably hit him hardest then.
After the nurse came back into the exam room, it was finally time for him to go see the place he'd actually be living and sleeping. His room ended up being down at the end of the hall, next to a room with a whiteboard on the outside of the door that had the name Melvin written on it. Sounded like an old guy name to him, but . . . whatever. He could make friends with some old guys.
"Here you go," the nurse said, opening up the door for him. "This is your room."
He walked in, amazed by how clean and sterile everything smelled and how perfectly arranged everything looked. The walls were white, the bedspread was white, and to add in a splash of semi-color, the carpet was beige. It looked nice, but also really impersonal. Luckily, Clarke had thought to bring a lot of pictures. In fact, most of the framed photos in their house had ended up in his second bag of luggage. Once he set them out on the nightstand and dresser and table over by the window, this place would start to look a little more lived-in.
"Thanks," he told the nurse.
"I do need one more thing from you before I let you get settled in," she said.
"What?"
"Your cell phone," she replied. "For 72 hours."
He shot a panicked look at Clarke, who in turn shot a questioning one to the nurse.
"Detox," the nurse said.
Was that what he was doing right now, going through detox? He'd felt a little jittery, but nothing too bad. He supposed everyone who entered this treatment program had to do the same thing, no matter how long they'd been drinking or how serious it had become. "Okay," he said, handing it over. "Can I use it after that?"
"Of course," she said. "We do try to minimize the time that you're on any devices, though. It's best not to have distractions or outside stressors when you're here."
"Yeah, Bellamy, just focus on what you're doing," Clarke told him. "If you wanna call, then call, but don't feel like you have to."
He felt like he'd want to, though. Maybe not every day, because he knew she could probably use a break from him. But he knew he'd wanna hear her voice, maybe Zoom or something so he could see her and Avery. "I'll probably try to just check in," he said.
"Whatever's best for you. I'll make sure I always have my phone with me," she said.
God, you're a good wife, he thought, feeling like he didn't deserve any of this from her. He'd been such a jackass to her. Such a jackass.
"Lunch is in two hours," the nurse said. "I'll check in with you before then."
"Thank you." Once he'd shut the door, he peeked into the bathroom, happy to see that he had a full-sized shower. For some reason, he'd pictured just a bathtub, and he didn't take baths. Well, unless they were with Clarke, but . . . he wouldn't be doing any of that here.
"This is nice," she remarked.
"Yeah, it's like a hotel. Only . . . not."
"I think I saw the gym, too," she said, looking around as she tried to regain her sense of direction. She pointed first to her right, then back in the direction they'd come. "Down that way, I think. Looked good."
"Yeah, I'll probably work out a lot," he anticipated. "I'll be the Hulk when you see me again."
She managed to laugh a little, and even though it was just a small one, one he could barely even hear, it felt good to make her laugh again. "Do you want me to help you unpack anything?" she asked. "Or . . ."
"Clarke." He slung his heavier bag down onto the bed and said, "Don't take this wrong way, but I think you should probably just go." He gulped, looked down at his feet, because looking at her was starting to get tougher. "The longer you stay here, the harder it's gonna be for me to see you leave."
"Um . . . okay. Yeah," she said, setting his other bag down on the floor. "Yeah, I should . . . do that."
They sort of just stood there for a few seconds, neither one quite sure what to do. He wanted to hug her, maybe even kiss her if she'd let him, but it wasn't up to him to decide when he was able to do that again. It'd be her choice.
"You got this," she said, blinking back tears as she tried to smile supportively. Clearly this was hard on her, too.
I love you, Clarke, he thought when she turned and started to head towards the door. He worried that she wouldn't say it back, though, even though . . . even though he knew she still would. So instead of saying that, he said, "Bye, Princess."
She stopped for a moment, looked back at him, and once again tried to smile. Her mouth shook, though, and she couldn't keep it in place for long. By the time she was walking out the door, she had one hand over her mouth to stifle her own cries.
And just like that, he was alone. So he opened up the lightweight bag and started unpacking the photos first.
...
Clarke tried to distract herself as best she could on the drive home. She turned the music up loud and tried to sing along to some of the songs, but . . . was every song about love? Or loss? Eventually, she gave up on her regular genres and found a radio station that was blasting some old school gangster hip hop. It did little to distract her, but at least it didn't depress her, either.
When she got home, she was confused to see her mom's car out front instead of Aurora's and Octavia's. When she walked inside, she found her mom on the floor with Avery, trying to get her to crawl towards a toy. "Hey," she said, managing to sound a least a little chipper. "I hope you don't mind, but I stopped by earlier and ended up swapping spots with your in-laws."
"Oh, no, that's fine." As long as Avery had at least one qualified babysitter with her, that was all that mattered. Plus, Aurora and Octavia might have needed to go home and . . . do a little grieving of their own. Or . . . a little crying? It wasn't like Bellamy was dead. They didn't need to grieve him.
"How'd it go?" her mom asked, handing Avery her toy before she stood up and made her way towards Clarke.
"Good. Yeah. Seems like a really good place." She really wished she'd been able to help him unpack and get settled in, but she also understood why he'd asked her to leave when he had. "Uh, oh, Bellamy wanted me to let you know that he's gonna pay you back for all the money help you're giving us," she said, still not really thinking too hard about the financial aspect of all of this.
"He doesn't have to do that," her mom said.
"I know. But he wants to." Maybe he'd end up changing his mind once he got out of rehab. Maybe not. Maybe it'd just depend on how much money this all ended up costing. There was still the DUI fine, too, and all the expenses associated with that.
"How are you holding up, sweetie?" her mother asked her, gently stroking her hair. "This is . . . a lot to deal with."
It was, but . . . she was still standing. She'd even managed to get a couple hours of sleep last night due to pure exhaustion, probably. "Yeah, I'm okay," she said. "Better than I was two nights ago."
"Yeah? Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" her mom said. "I could cook, and we could watch a movie."
Although she appreciated the offer, the fact that her mom sometimes stressed her out more than she calmed her down kind of turned her off to that idea. "Actually, I think I kinda just need to be alone for a while," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I'll be fine," she insisted. "I promise." She'd been without Bellamy before. She could be apart from him again.
...
Clarke had never been so happy that she'd joined the Quiz Bowl team until two days after Christmas when the district's annual holiday tournament took place in Annapolis. With Bellamy back in town, she needed an excuse to be out of town, and getting to stay in a hotel in her state's capitol city was a lot better than having to stay with her dad's family again. Plus, Quiz Bowl was actually kind of fun. Their team was doing well, and . . . she'd kind of met someone.
His name was Dennis. Not a great name, and he wasn't built like Bellamy by any means, but he was a pretty attractive guy, and he was good company in between rounds. Plus, he wasn't even that salty that her team had beaten his and now he was in the loser's bracket.
"So how come you don't have a boyfriend?" he asked her quietly while the competition continued to play out between two non-threatening teams up on the stage. "You're pretty. You're smart."
"Just . . . haven't connected with anyone, I guess," she said. And for some reason she felt compelled to add, "Not this year."
"Well, that's the great thing about Quiz Bowl. You get to meet a bunch of other people from a bunch of other schools," he said, "and every single one of 'em's just as nerdy as you."
She laughed a little and said, "I don't know if I'd call myself a nerd, necessarily. I used to be a cheerleader."
"Really?" He looked intrigued.
"Yeah. My best friend's a cheerleader, too, and she's, like, the smartest person I know."
"Okay, so now you're pretty, you're smart, and you can dance," Dennis recapped. "I'm kinda freakin' out here. I think you might be the perfect woman."
Oh . . . she definitely wasn't. But she smiled and took the compliment anyway. Because she was trying to move the fuck on.
Ten minutes later, she found herself in a closet with Dennis, full-on making out with him even though he wasn't the world's greatest kisser. He kind of used his teeth more than he did his lips, which . . . definitely wasn't a technique Clarke was used to. But maybe some girls liked it.
He'd just started to slide his hands up under the back of her shirt—or sweater, actually, because the official Arkadia Quiz Bowl uniform was a hideous green sweater vest—when he seemed to chicken out a bit. "I'm, uh . . . I'm not really sure what I'm doing," he admitted.
Yeah, she could tell. Unaccustomed to being the more experienced one, she told him, "Just . . . just put your hands up under my shirt or something."
His eyes widened with excitement. "Really?"
"Yeah." A little making out, a little groping . . . that was probably as far as it was gonna go. She definitely wasn't having sex with him, but just getting to second base would probably be one of the top five moments of his life.
Totally unsure of what he was doing, he slid his hands up under her top and squeezed her boobs through her bra. "Oh, wow," he said, looking like he might have a stroke or something. "Those are . . . those are really nice."
God, she felt so awkward just standing there while a guy felt her up. And he wasn't even doing it well. Bellamy used to . . .
No, she thought, turning her thoughts away from him. If she was moving on, she couldn't think about what he used to do to her.
"I think I might, um . . ." Dennis's whole body shuddered, and he turned away from her to shove one hand down his pants. "Oh! Jesus!" he exclaimed. It definitely sounded like he was cumming. All from getting to touch a girl's breasts. He had no stamina.
Dammit, she thought disappointed that . . . the spark just wasn't there. He seemed like a nice enough guy and all, but . . . it just wasn't what she wanted. And it wasn't what she'd had.
Even though she'd been trying not to think about him, how could she not when she'd just made out with someone new for the first time in almost six months? "I miss you, Bellamy," she whispered quietly, utterly disappointed with the way this failed attempt at moving on had panned out. One of these days, that would stop, though, and she'd eventually get used to life without him in it.
Eventually.
...
Clarke woke up that night around 11:00. Although waking up was a generous term for what she'd done. She didn't feel like she'd completely been asleep. It was more like she'd been resting her eyes. Trying to shut her mind off to no avail. Trying not to miss her husband.
She made the mistake of looking over to Bellamy's side of the bed, and it was just so empty that it made her heart ache. If she kicked off the blankets tonight, no one was gonna be there to cover her back up again. If Avery started crying, there was no one else who could go check on her. God, she even missed his light snoring.
The sudden loneliness in that room threatened to engulf her, so she thought of what Bellamy had told her to do: focus on Avery. She got up, headed into the nursery, and much like her husband had done last night, she lifted her baby out of her crib, sat down in the rocking chair, and just held her. She rubbed her back and the back of her head and just rocked her gently, breathing in the sweet smell of her. Avery's little heart beat steadily against her own, and it calmed her. She was like . . . like a life preserver in a stormy ocean. And Clarke didn't want to let go.