Chapter 110
Although Bellamy had gotten used to waking up in rehab, in a bed by himself, the goal had always been to get home, to wake up there instead. To wake up next to Clarke. The first morning that he was able to do that again, he almost wasn't sure if it was real, or if he was just dreaming. Because when he'd been gone, he'd dreamt about her a lot.
Looking over, he saw that she was lying on her side, her back towards him, still asleep. They'd both stayed on their sides of the bed last night, no cuddling or anything like that, but hell, he'd fully anticipated sleeping down on the couch, so this was fine with him.
Sitting up slowly, trying not to disturb her, he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and dragged one hand through his messy hair. Either she hadn't actually been sleeping or just hadn't been sleeping very deeply, because she turned over onto her back, opened her eyes, and said, "Hey. How'd you sleep?"
"Not bad," he said. No other bed could compare to his own bed, that was for sure.
"So . . ." she said, "what's the first thing we do in the morning?"
"Uh, medication," he replied.
"I'll go get it." She climbed out of bed, stifling a yawn of her own as she headed into the bathroom. It was weird to think that he now had three prescriptions in the medicine cabinet. When he'd left for Baltimore, he hadn't had any.
"Should I meditate?" he joked.
She laughed. "If you want to. There's probably some app you could download."
He'd actually thought about that, but all any of those apps did was make you want to purchase shit. "No, I think that's just gonna be something I did there and not something I do here."
Emerging from the bathroom with three pills in the palm of her hand, she said, "Seriously, you can do it if you want to. Here you go."
He took the pills from her, grabbed his glass of water off the nightstand, and swallowed all of them, one right after another. Hopefully in another month or so, he'd be able to tackle the day without any meds. For now, though, he felt like they were helping.
"Okay, I'll do it with you," she said, sitting back down on the bed, facing him. "I'll meditate. Show me what to do."
"Well, I'm no expert," he said.
She moved around a bit so she was sitting cross-legged and said, "I tried this once or twice when I was pregnant. It's all about breathing, isn't it?"
"Yeah, so you just . . . you can close your eyes," he instructed, trying to mimic what the instructor had said. His deep voice wasn't exactly the most soothing, but it would have to do.
Her eyes shut, and she sat up straight, looking so eager and willing to do this with him, even if it was kinda . . . different.
"You can put your hand on your stomach," he told her. When she did that, he couldn't help but think back to putting his own hand in that same spot, back when it'd been big and round. He shut his eyes, put his hand on his stomach, too, and said, "Then you kinda just . . . breathe in." They both inhaled at the same time. "Breathe out." They did that in unison, too. "You breathe in again. And you breathe out." He wasn't sure what relaxed him more, the feel of his own deep breaths, or the sound of hers. "And you just keep doing that. Try to feel 'em in your stomach."
She kept on going, and he couldn't help but open one eye, just one, just to peek at her. Her eyes were still closed, and she seemed to be taking it completely seriously. He smiled, shut his eyes again, and got back into his own rhythm. It was nice that, even though she didn't have to do this to start her day off right, she was doing it for him.
It was obvious that Clarke had done her research. Their mornings were usually nowhere near this structured, but structure was what he needed right now. So when she'd suggested that they make breakfast together, he was all for it. Things that gave him something to do and made him feel productive just made him feel . . . better. Plus, goofing around in the kitchen with her was pretty fun. Neither one of them was ever going to be the next Master Chef, but they were getting better all the time.
"That was a good breakfast," he said as he finished off what was on his plate.
"Yeah, it was," she said, drinking the rest of her orange juice. "You know, we're not horrible cooks."
"No, we're not," he agreed. "Besides, anything's better than the food I ate for the past three weeks."
"Yeah, I have to say, that lasagna? Unimpressive."
"That was one of the better meals," he informed her.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, god, that's awful."
"Yeah, one night we had-" He was about to tell her the tale of the failed chicken fajitas when the doorbell rang.
"Why don't you go get that?" she suggested, standing up to clear their plates.
His heart started to pound a bit, because all he could think about was, What if it's Finn? He didn't know if he could see that guy and still manage to keep his cool. But it sounded like Clarke had made it pretty clear that he wasn't welcome over there anymore, so hopefully it was someone else.
There were only two other people he wanted to see just yet, and when he opened the door, there they were: his mom and his sister, who both smiled from ear to ear when they saw him.
"There's my big brother," Octavia said, throwing her arms around him so she could hug him. "You're back."
"Hey, O." It'd been really hard to go almost a month without talking to her. Hell, her sophomore year of college had started while he'd been gone.
"You look good," she commented as she pulled back.
"Yeah, I know. I'm the hot sibling," he boasted.
"Oh, shut up!"
He chuckled, glad that they could still joke around and he could still rib her about things. With his mom, it was a little different. She'd seen him at a desperate moment, a very low one, so he was serious with her. "Hey, Mom," he said, hugging her.
"Hi, honey," she said softly. "It's so good to see you again."
"Yeah, you, too." He released her from the embrace, glanced into the kitchen a Clarke, and asked her, "Did you know they were coming by?"
"Maybe," she said, smiling.
That explained why she'd told him to go answer the door then. He definitely appreciated that she hadn't invited everyone over at once. That would've been too much. He wanted to see everyone again, but he wanted to do it in small groups so he wasn't overwhelmed.
It was a nice day out, sunny and warm, so he and all his girls went out onto the beach to just spend some time together. No one talked about anything serious or anything bad. His mom and Octavia didn't ask him what rehab had been like. They just talked to him and laughed with him and occasionally threw handfuls of sand at him. Once he was sufficiently covered, he took his shirt off and went into the ocean to wash off. Clarke held Avery, who was watching him intently, reaching out like she wanted to join him. She was still too young for waves like that, but not too young for him to hold her up and let her make footprints in the wet sand. She seemed to like the feel of it between her toes.
It was fun; it was carefree. It was exactly what he'd needed on his first morning home.
...
Clarke couldn't help but notice that Bellamy seemed a little reluctant to leave home that day. She had a feeling he was nervous about showing his face out in public, so she didn't pressure him about it, even though Raven and Murphy had expressed interest in meeting them at the park that afternoon. Plus, she really wanted to put Avery in the stroller and . . . well, take a stroll.
It took until well into the afternoon for Bellamy to decided that he did want to go see his friends and accompany her on a walk with Avery. They only passed a few people on their way to the park, and those people just smiled and waved or said hi. Nobody pointed, nobody whispered. If they were gossiping, they at least were being subtle about it this time.
Still, at the park, Bellamy seemed a little bit jittery. As they approached the playground, he looked around and asked Clarke, "Do you ever feel like everyone's staring at you?"
"Oh, yeah," she answered emphatically. "That first game I went to by myself . . . it was so awkward. Lots of people were looking at me."
"Because of me?" he asked. "Sorry."
"It's okay. People are just rude." Over the past year, she'd grown rather accustomed to being a topic of conversation amongst the average Arkadian. They'd talked about her unplanned pregnancy, her secret abortion, and now, her husband's DUI. At this point, she was so over it that it didn't even bother her as much anymore.
"Well, at least the team kept winning," Bellamy said, steering Avery's stroller over towards a bench.
"Barely," she mumbled.
"Yeah, but they pulled it off." He sat down, turning the stroller to face outward so Avery could watch some of the older kids play on the jungle gym. "I don't think I'm ready to go back to work yet," he said, "but . . . maybe in a couple weeks."
That seemed like a reasonable enough timeline, but unfortunately, Clarke just wasn't sure if that would be enough time for that select group of parents who had it out for him to calm down. She took a seat on the bench with him, feeling like she had to bring it up now that he was talking about his job.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing." She stopped and immediately corrected herself. "No, not nothing. I need to tell you something."
"Oh, no," he said.
"When you were gone, the school board had a meeting. And one of the things they discussed was you," she informed him. "There were a couple parents who were raising a fuss about everything that happened. Not all of them or anything. It was mainly these two moms. But they wanted the school board to know that they had concerns about you coaching the team after . . . after getting a DUI."
He rubbed his head, questioning, "Do I still have a job?"
Thank God she was able to give him a good answer to that question, because she would have been really worried about what a bad answer would do to him. "Yeah. You still have a job," she confirmed. "And your team's gonna be really excited to have you back."
He sighed, nodded slowly, took a moment to process what she'd just revealed to him, then asked, "So what happened?"
"Well, at the meeting, those two moms got up and talked. And then Miller got up and talked. And then I did," she replied.
"You did?"
"Yeah, of course. You would've been proud of me. It was a pretty good speech. And I did some research for it and everything." She figured there was no harm in bragging herself up a little bit. She really kind of had kicked ass there. "And then after that, everybody on your team stood up. They'd all signed this petition, and they were wearing shirts to support you. And one by one, they all went up to the microphone and said they wouldn't play without you. It was actually pretty awesome to see."
His eyebrows rose upward as he took all of that in. "Whoa."
"Yeah." She doubted there were many coaches who worked with players who had not only that much respect for them, but that much loyalty. "I don't think they were gonna fire you anyway," she assured him. "But I just wanted you to know that . . . that happened."
"Damn," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I had no idea. Makes sense, though. I mean, I get where they were coming from."
"Well, I hope you don't mind that I shut them down," she said.
"No, I don't mind." He looked over at her and smiled. Didn't say anything. Just sort of gazed at her with this look of awe on his face.
"What?" she said, averting her eyes a little.
"You just . . ." Reaching over, he put his hand on top of hers. "You keep coming through for me."
The sight of his hand on hers—complete with his wedding band on his finger—was something she just couldn't look away from. Especially not when his fingers started to intertwine with hers. She wanted to reassure him that she would always come through for him, because that was what he'd done for her, and for Avery. Not just once when he'd found out she was pregnant, but twice. Because he'd forgiven her for keeping that secret, even though he hadn't been obligated to.
She wanted to say all that. But his touch made her feel like she couldn't speak. Besides, when she heard Murphy cackle and exclaim, "There he is, my bearded bro Bellamy!" as he ran through the park, the moment between them was . . . kind of over.
Bellamy stood up, bro-hugged his friend, and said, "Hey, man."
"What's up?" Murphy was grinning from ear to ear. "I actually missed you."
"I missed you, too."
"Hey, what do you think of my beard?" Murphy stroked the hair on his chin, tilting his head back to show it off. "Pretty great, right?"
"It looks good," Bellamy complimented. "I'm proud of you."
At first, Murphy just smirked, but then he got serious, sort of punched Bellamy in the arm, and mumbled, "Hey, I'm proud of you, too."
Raven, who hadn't been running through the park like her boyfriend, sidled up to them next and said, "Hey, Bellamy," reaching out to hug him.
"Hey," he said. "I heard you planned my girl's birthday party."
"Sure did."
Clarke stood up and said, "Yeah, screw grad school. Just become a party planner at this point."
"It's tempting," Raven said.
"Well, I heard it was fun, so thanks for doing that," Bellamy told her.
"No problem," she said. "Now I'm assuming you still have to get her a gift, so do you need any ideas?"
"I actually already got her something," Bellamy revealed.
"Ooh, you bought early then," Raven said. "Good job."
"Not exactly. It's a different kind of gift," he said. Casting a questioning glance Clarke's way, he asked her, "Do you want the regular kind? 'cause I could get you something."
"No, I love what you got me," she assured him.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Best gift I could've asked for." All of the other presents had been really nice, but kind of expected and generic. Gift cards, jewelry, perfume, body wash. She would get use out of everything, but it was all just material stuff. Getting the opportunity to hear what Bellamy had written, though . . . that was something unique, and it meant more to her than any other birthday gift could.
That night, they sat on the couch together again, all three of them. Bellamy was halfway lying down as Avery curled up on his chest, sleeping. Clarke sat on the other end of the couch, letting the warmth of every word he read just wash all over her. If this was their new nightly tradition, she was all for it.
"When I'm not with Clarke, it feels like part of me is gone," he read. "Missing. Just flying aimlessly in outer space. But when I'm with her . . ." He trailed off, laughing a little, and apologized, "Sorry, this is gettin' really sappy."
"It's okay. I like it," she said.
"When I'm with her," he repeated, "I feel like I'm in one piece again, like I got put back together."
Me, too, she thought. With you. The whole missing piece thing . . . she got it. She understood, because even though she thought she'd been pretty tough in the three weeks that he'd been gone, she still felt so much better now that he was back.
"What's this say?" he said, squinting his eyes as he tried to read on. "I don't know if this is my dyslexia or just my crappy handwriting. Can you read that?" He handed her his journal, pointing to a word towards the bottom of the page.
"No," she said after a couple seconds of trying to decipher it.
He took a look again and said, "Oh, wait a minute, that's a K, not a Q."
She made a face, not sure how it was possible to confuse those two letters.
"I got it now. God, my handwriting's shit," he muttered. He cleared his throat exaggeratedly and then read the rest of it. "I know that she's her own person, and I'm my own person, but when we're together and when we're happy, that's when we become us. Bellamy and Clarke. It's always been . . . Bellamy and Clarke." He closed his journal, and his eyes met hers, giving her the kind of look that probably would have made her knees feel weak if she'd been standing up. Even when he wasn't flirting, he still had this way about him that could draw her in. And he was right with what he said. It always had been the two of them.
...
The moving on plan wasn't moving anywhere fast. In fact, Clarke still felt like she was stuck in her rut. Prom would be coming up soon, and a few guys had asked her to be their date, Wells included. She hadn't said yes to anyone, and she probably wasn't going to.
The past few weeks, she'd gotten into the habit of staying at school late, just finding random things to do. Sometimes she watched the cheerleaders practice. Other times, she dropped by the library to help Monty and the other tutors with all the hooligans. Sometimes, if the art room was still open, she would just go in there and try to create something. Her advanced art class was ending the year on a painting unit, and so far, she wasn't pleased with anything she'd done in class, so she wanted to keep trying. She tried painting lakes and trees and all sorts of landscapes before finally just giving in and painting what she wanted to paint all along: her and Bellamy.
The night that she was putting the finishing touches on it, her art teacher, Mrs. Monn, came back into the room after a long meeting and said, "You're still here? Go home, Clarke. You can work on that more tomorrow."
"I don't really wanna go home," she grumbled. That house of theirs was already big enough and had a habit of feeling empty sometimes, but now that her dad wasn't in it, she just felt even more alone.
Mrs. Monn was a good teacher, completely unproblematic and probably way too nice for her own good. "Is everything okay?" she asked, slowly approaching.
"Yeah, it's fine," Clarke said, swiping the brush against her canvas to try to add a little texture to Bellamy's hair. "Except my parents are getting a divorce."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," her teacher sympathized.
"It's okay. My mom seems to think it was inevitable." The woman had barely cried in the two weeks he'd been gone. She'd talked about anything and everything but the divorce. Just last night, she'd brought up the idea that Clarke take the ACT before summer. And somehow that had morphed into a conversation about the inaccuracies of Grey's Anatomy. None of it made sense, and none of it mattered. It was just small-talk. They were avoiding the things that mattered and just filling the space between them with a whole lot of things that didn't.
"Can I see what you're working on?" Mrs. Monn asked, coming to Clarke's side to get a look at the painting.
"It's just for fun," she said, a little embarrassed to be caught painting a picture of herself with her ex-boyfriend.
"That's you, isn't it?" Mrs. Monn said. "And Bellamy. Interesting."
That was one word to use for it. Disappointing might have been another. Maybe even tragic.
"You know, I never had him in class, but I still heard all about him," Mrs. Monn said.
"Yeah, he wasn't exactly the teacher's pet." Clarke quickly signed her initials and the date in the bottom right corner, took a step back, and wondered if she was done. It was her and Bellamy on the beach, him holding her from behind, both of them smiling. She actually had the real version of that picture, a selfie she'd taken on one of their last days together, saved to her phone. She hadn't been able to delete that picture yet. Or any pictures of him.
"You know, you're very talented," Mrs. Monn remarked. "Have you considered studying art in college?"
"No, I'll probably just do something medical," she said, already resigned to following in her mom's footsteps. "No need to disappoint my parents any more than I already have." She went over to the sink and began to rinse off her hands and her paintbrush. Drawing was so much less of a hassle when it came to clean-up.
"Clarke, have you ever . . . have you ever considered sitting down with our school counselor?" Mrs. Monn asked her, phrasing the question very carefully and politely, certainly just as she'd been trained to do with students who she was concerned about. "Especially with everything going on with your parents now, it might be good for you to talk someone, get some things off your chest."
"No, that's not really my thing," Clarke answered quickly. Counselors had ways of getting people to open up, and she couldn't risk doing that when there was something she needed to keep buried.
"Well, think about it," Mrs. Monn suggested. "And just remember, it's okay to not be okay."
Clarke just continued cleaning off her paintbrush, deliberately not reacting to that. But it did actually make her feel better, because she hadn't felt okay for a long time.
...
To be able to help someone just by being there for them and loving them . . . it was a pretty special thing, and Clarke didn't take it for granted. She was glad that she was that person who could make Bellamy feel like he was back in one piece again, because everyone deserved that type of person in their lives.
"That was really nice," she told him.
"Thanks," he said, setting his journal on the floor. "It put Avery to sleep. Substitute for a bedtime story, I guess."
Clarke really hoped he would keep writing. Even if it wasn't every single day, simply doing it just once in a while would probably be good for him. Maybe she would even get a journal of her own, and then could write about her hero, the person who put her back together. She'd have to read it to him, of course, after she was done. He deserved to know just how much he meant to her.
...
Bellamy awoke with a start. His whole body jolted, and immediately, his heart began to beat fast. Try as he might to catch his breath, it just wouldn't come.
It was just a dream, he told himself, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. If he could just look around and see that he was in his room, maybe he'd be able to calm down.
Slowly, he sat up, put his hand on his stomach and tried to do what had been recommended to him, to go back to that simple meditation state where he just focused on one breath at a time, feeling it go in and all the way back out. But that didn't work, so he tried another strategy: taking stock of his whole body by wriggling his fingers, his toes, rolling his shoulders, stretching out his legs. Drawing attention to physical sensations was supposed to refocus him and get his mind off of anything that was triggering a high amount of emotional stress. That was what he'd learned. He wasn't a good student, but he'd actually listened and learned for once in his life.
So why the hell wasn't it working?
It was discouraging to feel himself panicking on his first full day home, and even more discouraging to not be able to just . . . shut it off. His doctor had warned him that this might happen, though, and that he had to be willing to reach out to other people for support. Beside him, curled up on her side and facing him tonight, was the only person he felt truly comfortable reaching out to.
"Clarke?"
She stirred a bit, moaning, "Mmm?"
He hated to wake her up, but he had to. "I'm kinda struggling right now."
As tired as she must have been, she still sat right up when he said that and asked, "What's wrong?"
"Just . . ." It was hard to talk when he couldn't catch his breath. "I had this dream."
"Alright, well, you're awake now," she said, leaning behind him to flick on the beside lamp.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, don't worry. It's okay to not be okay." She patted his pillow and said, "Lie back down."
Slowly, he leaned back, feeling a little bit better now that the lights were on and he could see everything. He was really in his bed, in his bedroom, in his home. God, he felt so stupid, though, like a little kid who needed a nightlight.
"Can I lay with you?" she asked softly.
He nodded, opening his arms up for her. She snuggled against his side, put her head on his chest, and he was sure she could feel how fast and short his breaths were coming. Maybe that was a good thing, because it was hard for him to describe it otherwise.
"Shh," she whispered, holding onto him tightly, "you're gonna be fine. I'm right here. I'm right here."
Thank God she was right there, because he needed her.
"Can you tell me what's happening?" she asked, and the way she asked it made him feel like he would be able to. There was no pressure, no expectation. She was just willing to listen.
"I don't wanna drink or anything," he assured her quickly. "It's not that." In rehab, he'd had to accept the fact that he did have some anxiety going on. There were certain things that triggered it more than others, and one of those triggers had just shown up in his nightmare. "I dreamt that . . . I dreamt that he took her," he revealed shakily. "Finn took Avery. They gave custody to him instead of us."
Instead of just dismissing that as something ridiculous, she kept her head against his chest, rubbed her hand over his heart, and simply reminded him, "It wasn't real."
"I know, but it felt real." He knew the chances of that happening were virtually non-existent. But still, he dreamed about it, and he wouldn't be surprised if he had dreams like this for months to come. "And then I woke up, and I just felt like I couldn't breathe," he said. "It's like a panic attack. It's awful."
"You're breathing right now," she pointed out. "Just keep breathing like we were this morning."
He looked down at her head, watching it rise and fall with each inhale and exhale of his chest. She was right. Without him even noticing it, his breathing had gone back to normal. How had that happened?
"I remember when I was pregnant and I was having those vivid dreams," she recalled. "They scared me. But you always made me feel better."
He remembered that, too, but he felt like what she was doing for him was above and beyond anything he'd ever done for her. Maybe it didn't seem like that to her, but . . .
"Are you feeling better?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah." He didn't want to let her go just yet, though, because her body was such a calming force next to his. "Can you just keep talking to me, though?" he said. Her voice calmed him, too.
"Sure," she said. "Okay, I got a joke for you. But it's not a dad joke. It's a mom one. You ready?"
"Yeah." A joke would do him some good right now.
"Why is a computer so smart?" she asked.
"Why?"
"Because it listens to its motherboard." She laughed, and that triggered a laugh in him, too. "Now you tell me one," she said.
"A dad joke?"
"Yeah, I know you got plenty."
He did. Almost too many to remember. "Okay," he said. "Why did the invisible man turn down the job offer?"
"I don't know," she said. "Why?"
"Because he couldn't see himself doing it."
She laughed again, a laugh that sounded full and genuine despite the fact that he'd just woken her up in the middle of the night needing help with his panic attack "Oh my god," she said. "That's bad."
"So bad it's good," he claimed. There were plenty more where that came from, and he got the sense that she was willing to stay awake all night and listen to every single one of them, if that was what it took. He didn't think it would, though. The dream had been bad, for sure, but it was fading now. Mostly thanks to her reminding him that reality was so much better.