"Says here you're banned from all Target franchises in the state of Illinois?" Harris looks up from Gray's file for a moment, then averts his gaze back down. He scans the document again, before sighing, placing the thick papers in a messy pile on the table in front of him. His deep forehead lines crease as he settles back into his chair. "How'd you manage that one?"

Gray eventually offers him a tired shrug, because he's simply loopy as fuck right now. His head surprisingly isn't throbbing as much anymore, likely as a result of all the Vicodin that he's been given.

Like father, like son.

He's basically Doctor Gregory House, minus the limp and the whole medical degree thing. But the hate for people? Oh yeah, he's got that.

"You're not gonna talk?" asks Harris.

"Not much to say," Gray mutters, rubbing his arm as he sinks back further into his seat. He returned a half hour ago from Elli catatonically stapling his head gash shut—which fucking hurt, by the way. She had mumbled something about Hardy arriving shortly, no doubt to tend to his precious prodigy's wounds by now.

Harris sighs again, reaching into his breast pocket to surprisingly pull out a packet of Marlboro. He removes one for himself, gesturing the remaining cigarettes toward Gray. "You smoke?"

Gray's not stupid; he knows this is just a way of getting him to relax so that he'll talk. He hasn't smoked in years, but he does still keep a lighter with him, almost like a reminder of his past life.

After his mom got diagnosed, apparently he came to a realization that he didn't want to go out like that. He didn't want a similar kind of uncontrolled cell growth in his lungs, not after he saw what it did to her brain.

Plus, cigarettes were stupidly expensive. If he wanted to kill himself, he'd find a faster, quicker, and cheaper way.

But none of that really matters anymore, does it?

Gray selects a cigarette and puts it between his lips, leaning his body in so that Harris can light it for him after lighting his own. Of course, his grandfather (who's pretending not to listen by his work desk) has something to say about all this.

"Elli told you this morning to avoid nicotine because it could cause blood clots with your injury, in addition to all the pain meds you're on," Saibara scolds. "Christ, Grayson."

Gray stares up at him, before taking a very long drag of his cigarette. There's no word to describe the nicotine entering his system other than nice. It's just a nice little buzz, one that he missed feeling amongst all the other highs he's spent chasing after.

"You don't think the shit that we breathe in from all of this welding ain't just as bad?" Gray remarks.

"Oh, 'cause you've been welding lately." His grandfather scoffs.

He shrugs again, taking another puff. "Would've been, if you didn't throw me out."

Saibara opens his mouth to respond with something back, before shaking his head in defeat. They haven't spoken in weeks, but it's a good thing that their first way of addressing one another is through arguing—Gray's personal favourite thing to do.

Sleeping back here is awkward enough to say the least. He just really misses Claire's lumpy couch.

"Please, Saibara," says Harris, taking a puff from his own cigarette. "I gotta talk to your grandson in private. I'll come back to speak with you later."

His grandfather just stares at the two of them, before begrudgingly grabbing his cane and making his way into his bedroom.

The door doesn't close shut fully though, so he's definitely still listening in on their conversation.

"Injury, eh?" Harris drums his sausage-like fingers on the table. An old kitchen lamp casts a dim light over them, as though they've both found themselves in one of those cliché cop-interrogation scenes. But it's just because that lightbulb is on its last leg, and badly needs to be replaced. "How'd you get that?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know," Gray says, tapping the ash from his cigarette onto his file before him. Harris looks down at it, scowling.

"I'd like to get down to the bottom of why you beat our town's medical doctor to a bloody pulp," he says sharply.

"Deserved it."

"'No remorse for actions.' I'll make a note of that."

"I'm not fuckin' sorry," snaps Gray. His pale blue eyes cut into Harris. "Jesus Christ, do you even know what he did? He fuckin' shoved Claire's underwear in my goddamn face."

"Unfortunately, Doug, our only other witness, could not confirm that."

Bull—fucking—shit. Why isn't Doug talking? He clearly saw. Now Gray's gotta go and figure shit out with him, so that he can help clear his name as a goddamn pervert.

This is in addition to all the other shit that's on his list of needing fixing.

"And regardless, Grayson, you cannot go and beat people up around town just 'cause you got a problem with them," Harris scolds.

"Fuck off," says Gray, readying himself to stand up so that he can leave. "I don't got time for this."

Harris glares at him. "Sit back down now. You're at risk for facing some pretty heavy charges," he warns. His beady little eyes, hook nose, and handlebar moustache are pissing Gray the hell off just to look at right now, but he decides to comply anyway when he hears Saibara's cane kick at the door. "I don't know if you know this, but fighting in public is illegal."

"So is a fucking guy in his late-twenties dating a goddamn minor," Gray says bitterly, after inhaling another stream of smoke.

Harris takes a seat back, the end of his cigarette burning. "Claire is eighteen now, and from what I've gathered, the two of them seem to be in a serious, committed relationship."

"Should've fuckin' clocked it from the start. He did something to her," Gray mutters. "The night of the festival. I know he did."

"You of all people is saying that? Really, Gray?" Harris frowns, his deep, 30-something-year-old smile lines creasing into his round face. He straightens up the top of his police cap, mouth settling in disappointment.

Gray stares at him, swallowing, before looking out the kitchen window, taking another drag of his cigarette. The nicotine is burning in his nostrils and lungs, but he's convinced that it's the only thing (along with the Vicodin) that's actually making shit bearable right now.

Even if Claire fuckin' hates smoking.

But that doesn't really matter anymore either, huh?

Thinking about her just makes him remember what he did to her, and then he's feeling sick to his stomach all over again. Sorry doesn't even begin to cut it. He can't believe that he said all of those things that he said. He was piss drunk and angry at her for nothing—she doesn't deserve shit like that, and he fucking hates himself for all the problems that he caused for her.

Still hates Trent more, though. That goddamn fucking bastard.

"She was seventeen-years-old when she met him," says Gray. "He was like, twenty-five." He crosses his arms, cigarette lingering between his index and middle finger. Taking a longer puff this time, he stares at Harris incredulously. "How the fuck do you not see a problem with that?"

"The age of consent in Delaware is sixteen—"

"That's fucking bullshit, Harris, 'nd you know it."

"It's not bullshit, it's the law."

"You don't see a problem with that? The fuck's the difference if she's sixteen, or seventeen, or eighteen? What's a damn-near thirty-year-old doing with a girl as young as that?"

Harris shakes his head at him, like Gray isn't making a good friggin' point right now. "You got a problem with it because of your own feelings for her, or whatnot, and—"

"I got a problem with it 'cause it's fucked."

"You do not get to decide on Claire's behalf if—"

"You don't got a problem with it 'cause your own dad likes 'em young, too. 'Member when he 'accidentally' grabbed that pop star tourist's ass, the one from the Sunshine Islands, like two Harvest festivals ago? How the fuck do you just—"

Harris grabs his shirt from across the table with his free hand, nostrils flaring beneath his thick brown moustache. "Listen here, you little punk. You're facing charges of assault and fucking battery, not to mention disturbing the peace, so I wouldn't be talking about other goddamn people right now."

Gray glares at him, unfazed, before Harris releases his hand, heaving in a deep breath. "You could have killed him."

"Y'know, I wish I fucking did," says Gray, not at all perturbed from the altercation. He just keeps smoking, complacently numb to everything around him. No wonder his dad went with Vicodin as his drug of choice.

Harris chuckles humorlessly. "Probably shouldn't be telling a cop that."

"It is what it is."

"Doctor Trent's got a grade 3 concussion right now, and when he wakes up, I can almost guarantee that he's gonna be pressing charges against your sorry-ass," says Harris, flicking the butt end of his cigarette into the trash bin next to him. "You're in the wrong here."

"You don't use a weapon in a goddamn bar fight." He points to the back of his head, where his matted, bloody hair still clings together. Despite the medication that he's on, the gash is still throbbing nonetheless. He can't believe Trent shattered a wine glass over his head, but what's more unbelievable is the fact that Gray's adrenaline kept him going for as long as it did. "You fight with your fists and you fight fucking fair."

"No," says Harris tiredly, grabbing Gray's file to dust the cigarette ash off of it. He gathers his briefcase in his hands, readying to leave, like this interrogation has been a hopeless case. "You don't fight at all."


She had asked Karen to come with her to church, and while her friend initially told her to skip it for the day, for the week even, she eventually agreed to accompanying her nonetheless. Waiting around for an answer from the clinic on Trent's condition was doing Claire zero good; she just wanted to calm down and pray in the same ways that she had always grown up doing.

"Did you hear from Ann at all?" Claire asks wearily, on the way there. She's wearing sweats, with a thick green hoodie underneath her jacket right now. This isn't exactly church attire, but she figures that she needs to cover up for the rest of her days now.

And she's still as seething mad as she was last night, by the way.

Karen frowns, her camel-coloured Timberland boots trudging forward through the frozen snow. None of the pathways have been shovelled yet, resulting in a slippery, icy mess before them. "Doug wouldn't even let me into her room. I feel like something's up."

Yeah, something is definitely freaking up.

Claire just stares straight ahead, allowing her fists to clench and then unclench beneath her gloves. A small sliver of her doesn't even want to feel at peace from Sunday morning mass right now. Her spiteful side would prefer to stay stuck between raging mad, and crying every other second—even though this has proven to be doing her zero good.

"Karen?" she mumbles, as they both use the handrail to climb the glassy steps of the church.

Karen worriedly looks over at her, stopping in her tracks as her hand freezes on the church's door handle. Claire notes that her nails are a vibrant marigold shade. It seems almost ridiculous to even look at a colour as bright and as cheerful as that right now.

"You okay, kid?" Karen asks, concernment filling her voice. "We really don't have to do this."

Claire's lower lip quivers, as a stray tear spills down her cheek for what seems like the hundredth time today. Karen just reaches over and wipes it with her thumb, offering her a small smile.

"We all love ya, y'know. Everything's gonna work out," she says reassuringly. "I promise."

"I didn't sleep with Trent," Claire whispers, a part of her feeling broken. Maybe all of her is broken. There just aren't any words right now to properly convey her torn spirit. "I didn't."

Karen pauses, before simply nodding and squeezing her hand. "Claire, you don't gotta tell me nothin', alright? You don't owe anybody an explanation on what you do, or don't do with your life. You could secretly be an ex-porn star and I wouldn't give a single shit."

Claire tries to weakly smile back, but it's pathetic and it just hurts her face. Her skin has been rubbed raw from crying all night. She decides to squeeze Karen's hand back, in an attempt to try and convince herself that she believes her. "Okay. Just know… that I didn't."

She nods again, before swinging the door to the church open.

And Claire can instantly feel every stinging set of eyes on them, on her. The townsfolk turn their heads in sync, gaping like a school of fish out of water.

She suddenly feels very small. This is a bad idea and she wants to leave right now.

Carter at the front simply waves at the two of them, like nothing has been disrupted in life at all.

... If only that were the case.

"Oh, dear," Anna murmurs, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Good thing she's covered herself up today."

Claire's toes curl in anger beneath her boots. She wishes that she could just disappear into thin air and pretend like she doesn't exist for a minute, effective immediately.

Karen angrily glares around the hostile room, making a face. "What the hell are you all looking at? Why don't you take a picture, it'll fucking last longer."

Carter's arm slowly drops, his smile fading.

Claire just squeezes Karen's hand tighter.

"No, honestly, all of you get out of your fucking glass houses and quit being assholes," snaps Karen. "Why're you condemning the person who was wronged last night?"

"Karen—" Sasha begins, mortified. Karen stops her, palm outstretched flatly.

"I mean it. And you know, it's funny how two years ago, Kai got dared to go streaking around town, and he only got a slap on the wrist for it. Some people even thought it was funny! And like, everyone still continued eating at the Snack Shack. No one said shit, and no one sure as hell shamed him for it. But the second you are all faced with a female, who didn't even do anything… like, it boggles my fucking mind—"

"Kare," Claire says weakly. "You're screaming." She has nothing left in her. Going out in public really was a terrible idea. Clearly, not even church is safe anymore.

"Well, I'm pissed!" Karen huffs, removing her faux fur-trimmed hat. Frays of her highlighted hair cling to it with static.

"Karen," Carter says at the front, his tone careful yet stern. "I counted six swear words that came out of your mouth in the last minute. Please… please, you need to refrain from doing so in the house of God, or I will have to ask you to leave."

She purses her lips and scoffs, before walking with Claire to Old Man Barley's pew near the back.

At least they'll be spared from the gossip when seated here.

... Right?

"Just remember what I said, all of you," she warns.

Sasha looks at her daughter with a mortified-yet-unsurprised expression on her face. Manna gently glances over at them, before dipping her head low, sighing.

Claire doesn't even know what to think right now. It feels like that scene in A Walk to Remember, where the virginal, religious Jamie gets slut-shamed for literally nothing in the middle of her school cafeteria.

What it really feels like is her being broken and put back together all wrong.

"Women are required to be more prim and proper," says Anna, under her breath. It's dead quiet, though, so the whole church can't help but hear her. "This is simply a fact."

Mary looks over at her mother next to her, side profile displaying sheer and utter horror.

Claire glares sharply. Her eyes feel like cutting knives. "Shut up," she finds herself snapping.

The room goes completely silent once again, the tension in the air thick and unwelcoming. Claire relives the feeling of any and all eyes on her… not that they had left in the first place, of course, but the townsfolks' stares are burning into her, and she just wants to cry.

Where did that outburst even come from? Apparently, she's not just a no-good tramp, she's one who disrupts mass now, too.

Claire didn't even ask for any of this… can't she just go to church in peace? She finds comfort in squeezing her hands into fists, the gloved fabric preventing her nails from digging into her palm's delicate skin.

Anna turns her head over her shoulder to give Claire a pitying glance, her black, permed bob swaying as her nose remains high in the air. "I'm going to pretend as though I didn't hear that. Everyone makes mistakes, Claire, and as long as you repent—"

"Mother," Mary hisses.

Karen just scoffs. "Anna, fuck off with that shit, will ya? Your husband is like, a human dispensary around town. Where else do you think I get my weed from?"

A few people gasp. This causes Anna's nostrils to flare, as her nonchalant demeanor is evidently ruined. The corner of Mary's mouth twitches like she's fighting the urge not to laugh.

Although Claire is not going to abruptly leave church now that Carter has seen her, she still wants to go home. She wants to crawl under her covers while mindlessly flipping through her television channels, until the clinic calls to let her know that Trent has woken up.

Carter frantically chimes the bell to indicate that mass is starting, his voice coming out loud and booming on his microphone. There's no way that he didn't hear all of these little outbursts, because he's looking around the entire room with disappointment scribbled all over his face. He chooses not to address any of the drama, though.

"Are there any special intentions for today's mass?" he asks, after exhaling a deep and calming breath. This is his attempt to retaining whatever sliver of peace is left in the air.

"My Aja," says Duke quietly. Manna squishes his arm next to him comfortingly.

Carter nods. "Of course."

Anna's jaw clenches ahead of her as she makes a scoffing noise. Manna just turns around to shoot her a glare.

It really is like Days of our Lives up in here.

"Doctor Trent," Anna chimes in, and a couple of voices concur with her on this. Claire can only nod in agreement, her eyes glazing over at the stained-glass window before her. She's didn't sleep at all last night and she's exhausted—the purples and blues and greens of the design are all bleeding into one another.

"Gray," says Manna. "I would like us all to say a prayer for Gray."

There is no silent, thick tension in the room this time; her request causes a goddamn uproar. Claire can't even believe her ears. She's never going to pray for that asshole again—this sounds bad right now, but she's so angry that she freaking means it.

"For Gray?!" Karen's voice is shrill. She stands up from her seat, her wet boots making a squeaking noise on the ground. "Are you joking, Manna?"

"Karen, God's sake sit down!" says Sasha at the front, rubbing her temples.

Carter frowns, clutching his Bible as he holds his hands out. "Let's all just settle down—"

"He needs salvation," Manna argues back at her. "He's a broken young man who—"

"Who beat up my fiancé," Claire snaps, cutting her off. She's always loved Manna, but right now, she's grade-A pissed at everybody around her.

The townsfolk stare. Even Carter looks to be without words.

"I knew I saw a ring on her finger last night!" exclaims Won, under his breath.

Claire wants to shrink back in her seat, to disappear, to forget the way that everyone stared at her last night, the same way they're all staring at her now. Forget how they all changed their minds about her in an instant, because of the way she looked and the words that some jerk off decided to use.

But she can't do any of that. She spoke her words, she committed to them, and similar to Gray, she cannot take them back.

So, instead, Claire slowly removes her gloves, peeling them off of her fingers even though she's trembling hard right now. She holds up her left hand for everyone to see, pointing to the diamond ring that rests on her fourth finger. Manna audibly gasps.

So much for a planned announcement.

"Trent and I are engaged. And as far as I'm concerned," Claire says bitterly, dropping her hand to cross her arms over her chest. She leans her back against the pew, scowling. The townsfolk are looking at her in the same way they looked at her when she was so scantily-clad last night—she feels like Britney Spears on full display for the paparazzi right now, but she's setting the goddamn record straight for anyone that doubts her. "Gray can… piss off."

She's also not about to swear in church, no way in H-E-double hockey sticks.

"I knew about it first," says Barley next to her, grabbing Claire's arm to wave it around as she stares at him in disbelief. "That's what the whippersnapper dentist told me!"

"Dentist?" groans Karen.

And this in turn causes its own commotion amongst the town.


This cannot be happening.

"Daddy," Ann begs, her voice trembling. "Please just listen."

Doug clutches the document as it succumbs to a crumpled, torn mess in his hands. He has since thrown out the manila envelope that housed it.

"Why do you have this?" he demands.

She desperately tries reaching for it again, to snatch it away, to prevent his eyes from re-reading and re-reading all that it says, but it's no use. Her father is a whole foot taller than her; he holds out his burly arm to stop her from even coming close to grabbing it.

Ann drops her chin in defeat, shaking her head and feigning innocence. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I—I don't know."

Doug glances down at the document again, before his eyes bore into her own. He's so calm at the surface that it's scaring her. Beneath it all, she knows how enraged he must be. "Don't you lie to me, Ann."

Embarrassed doesn't even begin to cover it; she feels violated.

"Daddy, it's private!" she says desperately, when his eyes scan the paper again. If there's one thing that she never wanted him to see, it's her annual STI screening document. "I took that test ages ago. I—I don't know why it got mailed to you."

Elli promised to never have it delivered—she always said she'd give Ann a call to pick it up when the results were ready, to avoid bullshit like this. How the hell did it get in her father's hands?!

Her words make the paper crumble beneath his fingers. Her father's neck creeps red, indicating just how infuriated he is. He hardly ever gets mad at her; he's a solid guy, cool to be around 95% of the time.

Just not in the 5% when it comes to stuff like this.

"Why would you need to take this test?" Doug asks, his tone faltering. The anger in his voice is coming out; he's putting two and two together and it scares the living daylights out of her.

This isn't some misunderstanding either; it's got her full name right there, her birthday, the day that she took the test… and everything listed that Elli checked for.

It's come back all clear, but Ann figures that this notion counts for nothing right now.

She simply trembles, hugging her arms around her body. "Daddy, please. It's just to be safe."

"Don't lie to me," he mutters.

"I'm not!"

"You're not pure anymore… is that it?"

His statement holds such impact, like the one line in a movie that'll guarantee the screenwriter an Academy Award. What the fuck even is pure? Pure is fresh snow on the ground, a flower bud blooming, an untouched diamond. Pure is not something that's supposed to be used when discussing people.

Especially not exclusively for one fucking gender of people.

This is something that only girls have to be concerned about, to keep themselves intact for their future husbands while said future potential husbands can run around and not have to worry about jack shit.

It's not fair.

Ann can't even look at him now. Staring down at the floor, tears begin to blur her vision as a sob escapes her throat. "Dad—"

"I can't believe this," says Doug bitterly, half to himself, half to her.

"I haven't been for a long time!" Ann snaps through her tears. He glowers at her, and for a second, she thinks that he's going to strike her. But his grip just loosens on the paper, and she manages to grab it out of his hands to crumple it up in her own.

She had taken this test weeks ago; she and Gray always used protection, but before him, she hadn't always been super careful. She just wanted to make sure that she was negative, in case things went further with Cliff… and regardless, she doesn't owe anyone a goddamn explanation for what she does.

"It's none of your business, Daddy! I took that test to make sure that I was being safe. It doesn't concern you!"

"Doesn't concern me?" Doug lets out a laugh, but it's not a legitimate one—he's fucking fuming. His body shakes with anger as he turns from her, beginning to slowly walk up the inn's stairs.

Ann's heart drops immediately.

"W-where are you going?" she manages to choke out.

Her father takes each step almost leisurely, like he's deliberately giving whoever he's about to go after a head start to run. "Gonna go pay that Cliff a visit."

Her entire respiratory system stops.

"Don't you dare!" she wails, clamoring after him. She almost takes a face-plant at the bottom steps from how lightning-quick her feet are moving.

"Just gonna have a little talk with him," says Doug.

"Daddy!" She grabs his arm, pulling as if this will hold him back, but it's no use.

Jesus, Cliff is only like an inch taller than her, and he's such a sweet, gentle guy. He's as good as dead if her father gets his hands on him.

Plus, he's totally innocent in this too! They haven't even gone past second base yet, because he's the one who wanted to wait. Whether all those Biblical talks with Carter had gotten to his head, or he just wasn't ready, Ann never pried. Because Cliff doesn't owe anyone a goddamn explanation either.

"Just a chit-chat," Doug mumbles.

"Daddy, you need to stop," Ann begs, trying to reach for him again. He jerks his arm back from her, and it nearly causes her to fall flat on her face once more.

Doug's glare is ice cold. He's looking at her with such disappointment and disgust that she wants to throw up.

"I'll kill him," he snaps.

"You're not listening, Cliff didn't do anything!" Ann runs up the stairs ahead of him, stopping a few steps above where Doug is, almost as a way to barricade herself.

"What?" he snaps. "This was all your idea?"

"Daddy, it wasn't Cliff," she sobs, gripping the bannister because she doesn't trust her knees to support her body. "It was never Cliff. It's—it's nobody."

His large hand runs down his face as he shakes his head. "Don't tell me there's more men, Ann. Don't break your old daddy's heart."

"This… this isn't something for you to know!" she cries. "It's none of your business!"

Doug grabs her shoulders to move her, his grip angry on her skin. "Like I fucking said, I'm just gonna go pay Cliff a visit. That's all."

Ann's about three seconds away from crumpling down the stairs. She grips the wood harder to keep herself from falling over. "I told you it wasn't Cliff!"

"Then who was it, Ann?!" he screams.

The fact that he's now fully lost his temper should scare her, but she's too busy mourning her privacy, dignity, and self-respect. "Not Cliff, okay? You need to leave him alone, it was no one!"

Her father is about to royally screw up her happiness for her, with the one person that she truly cares about—the most wholesome soul in all of this. Cliff hasn't done a damn thing wrong; she doesn't even deserve him, and now he's about three-seconds away from getting pulverized for no reason.

How can her father think that he can just take control of her life like this?!

"Give me a name then, Ann." His hands further tighten on her boney shoulders.

"No one," she sobs again.

"Give me a goddamn fucking name!"

"Not Cliff," Ann says desperately. She inwardly prays that he's already left for work by now. "It was never Cliff."

"Who then?" Doug's voice breaks a little, and the only critical thought running through her head is that if she were a boy, none of this would be happening at all. She'd be getting high-fives from her father for getting laid, maybe even be given the old wrap it to tap it speech as a form of advice. But because she's a girl, she has to succumb to him irrationally breaking down over the fact that she's had a penis inside of her.

It's not fucking fair.

"No one," she says, too quickly.

"Don't you lie to me."

"No one!"

"Give me a f—"

"You don't know him!"

"Don't you fucking lie to me."

"It's not Cliff," she sobs again. "So just leave him alone. Please."

Doug stares at her, before a realization locks in his eyes. He leans against the banister, dragging his hand up to scratch at his red beard like he's lost in a trance. "Lord."

Ann's body is quaking. She tries rubbing her sore shoulders, but she's quivering too hard. "Daddy, drop it. No more. Stop, please. Stop with all of this, alright?"

She watches him inspect a crack in the wood of one of the banister's pillars, as though it's the most interesting thing in the world right now. It's a full minute before he speaks, like he's trying to muster up the right kind of composure.

"It was the blacksmith," her father whispers.

Ann's heart has gone from below her stomach, to thumping beneath her ribcage, to now getting caught in her throat. Her face turns sheet white. "W-what?"

"Gray."

She widens her eyes, frantically holding her hands out, but she's still fucking shaking—she cannot for the life of her stop shaking. "N-n-no. No, no, God, no. It wasn't Gray."

Doug brings his vision back to her, looking both defeated and irrefutably angry, if this is even possible. "Look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn't him."

She drags her cerulean eyes to the same ones that he possess, but she's crying so hard that she can't see a damn thing in front of her. It's like she's trapped beneath a sheet of ice, gazing up at the blurry world before her. "It wasn't Gray."

Her father doesn't budge. "You're fucking lying."

"I'm not!" she weeps, rubbing at her eyes. She can't fathom this, can't even pretend to look at him anymore.

"Is that why he came to you the other day?" Doug demands angrily. "Is that what he fucking wanted? His way with you again? Is that why you two were arguing?" He snatches both of her wrists, shaking her like he's as delirious as she is right now.

"No!" Ann shrieks, trying to unsuccessfully jerk her arms away. Her father's grip is too strong though, edging on borderline painful territory. "No, no no no. Leave Gray alone, it wasn't him—"

"Swear off of your mother's life."

Ann's lip trembles. She looks up at him wildly. "Huh?"

Doug grips her harder, his burly hands digging into her fragile, freckled skin. "Swear off her life that you didn't sleep with him."

Ann manages to free her arms from him, burying her head in her hands because she's unable to do anything else. She's just fucking unable to. Waving her white flag, she flops down at the top step, knees drawn into her chest as she cries.

"You can't, huh?"

Her voice is muffled. "Daddy—"

"TO YOUR ROOM, NOW!" he snaps, voice booming. "NOW!"

"Leave him alone," sobs Ann, looking up at him again for a moment. Everything fucking hurts. "Jesus Christ."

"I'm glad this was brought to my attention," mutters Doug, taking each step methodically down the stairs. "No, really. I am."

"Dad—"

He whirls around to her, eyes currently ignited. "Your room, NOW."

Afraid of disobeying him any further, Ann runs to the door of her bedroom, before hearing her father say: "You're just like her."

She doesn't bother questioning who he's referring to; she's too overcome with tears.


Gray walks without any hesitation toward her farm, boots trudging through the thin layer of ice over the frozen snow. Each step makes a crunching noise in the ground, but it's not like he's trying to be quiet and sneak up on her. He just needs to be heard out.

She's outside with Maggie, currently throwing the last remaining contents of her shipment basket into the bin. The early evening sky settles over both of them, and they spot each other instantly. Maggie even runs toward where he's standing at the entrance of her farm, while Claire takes a millisecond to lock eyes with him, before abruptly tossing her basket to the side. Wordlessly, she whirls around, storming as far away from him as possible.

He jogs after her, ignoring Maggie—much to her dog's disappointment. "Claire, wait."

She's angrily trudging though the snow, her back still to him with her hands shoved into the pockets of her oversized jacket. That glimpse that he caught of her face is making him relive his fuck-up all over again.

"Please… fuck, please. I need you to listen," Gray says, as Claire keeps walking. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

She stops dead in her tracks, and he watches her hands remove themselves from her pockets, as her fists clench down to her sides.

"Get. Out," she mutters through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I never meant to do that. Christ, I don't know why I said all those things. I had no right to and I'm so fucking sorry."

Her hands start to shake, and then her whole body tremors like she's in a tranced rage. When Claire turns around to finally face him, her expression is unsettling. This is something he's never seen before: no human being has ever looked this angry. This furious, this upset, this fucking devastated. Her eyelids are scarlet and puffy, as though she's been crying and then rubbing her sadness away all night.

"Leave right now," she grits out.

Gray frowns. He tells himself that he loves this girl and then he goes and ruins everything with her. It's like Ann said: he always fucks a good thing up. "Please, I just—"

"I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Claire screams, her face already burning red and scrunched up like he's about to make her cry again.

"Blondie—"

"Don't you—don't you dare 'Blondie' me, Gray," she snaps, holding her gloved hand out in front of her. It's freezing; she's got no hat on, no scarf, and she's fucking shaking, but it's not from the cold. It's because of him and what he did to her. She looks like she's trying her best not to break down in front of him, but her voice is cracking nonetheless. She chokes out, "How could you?"

Is she referring to the fact that he basically called her out on the basis of nothing in front of the whole town? The underwear incident that isn't his fault? Or the fact that he knocked the shit out of her boyfriend?

"Last night, I never meant a goddamn thing. I don't know why I said that shit, why I did that to you, and I'm sorry for ever—"

"Save it. Cut your bullshit apologies, 'cause they literally mean nothing to me." Claire's enraged glare is fully on Gray right now. She's looking at him with such hostility, as if he's some kind of a stranger. Hatred seeps like a hot pool of lava from her eyes.

And she storms away from him again, but he quickly catches up to her.

"I need you to listen to me. You… fuck, Claire, please. I don't think that about you at all, and I shouldn't have said something fucked up like that ever, especially not in front of everyone. You got no idea how truly sorry I am."

"Sorry?" she mimics, like she's only now fully registering his words. "Sorry for what, Gray? For beating the shit out of…" She swallows hard. "My boyfriend?" Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she looks away for a moment, before returning her tear-streaked glare to him. "For humiliating me? For using something so personal against me?"

Gray stares back at her. He wants to wipe the tears that have gathered in the outer corners of her round eyes, like that day in her bathroom, because who knew comforting another human being could be such a beautiful and intimate act?

But he can't do any of that though. She won't even get close to him, and he's not about to go and touch her.

He just doesn't even know where to begin.

"I'm sorry for everything that I did to you."

Claire's jaw clenches, her teeth gnashing together. "And what about Trent?"

Gray intakes a sharp breath. There's really no use in pretending. "I'm not sorry for that."

Maybe this isn't what she wanted to hear, but he refuses to lie to her anymore.

She exhales through her nostrils, nodding as though she expected a response like this—not surprised in the slightest. "You fucking prick."

And she storms away from him again. He's still not used to all the swearing from her.

"Claire—"

She just keeps walking away.

"I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm not fucking sorry for what I did to him," Gray calls. The cold pinches at his face as the wind picks up and whips itself at the both of them. "And if he did anything to you that night—"

Claire can pretend all she wants that she's some kind of peacekeeper for Mineral Town, like she'll walk away from any fight just to keep civility, but either this is bullshit, or he knows exactly how to push her buttons. She whips her body around again reactively.

"You're not in my life anymore, Gray," Claire says, her tone so harsh that even Maggie cowers at the sound of it. Her dog ducks herself into the chicken coop. "That means now, you stay the hell out of my business. For good."

Her words are firm but her voice still breaks all the same. It's like Gray's dug out a part of her spirited soul and wounded it. He can't imagine all the bullshit he put her through like that.

"Blondie," Gray says, and he watches as the very mention of her nickname brings fresh tears to her eyes. He wants to fucking kick himself for what he did. "You have every right to be mad at me, you can stay mad, I fucking deserve it. I just need you to know I never meant anything I said."

Claire listens, shaking her head as she covers her gloved hand over her mouth. She stifles a sob that still can't help but escape her lips. "Why'd you do it?"

And there is no sufficient answer to this.

"… I don't know."

She turns her body away from him, wrapping her free hand around her stomach like she's going to be sick.

What possesses him to do this, Gray doesn't know: but stupidly, he tries reaching for her.

Claire angrily whirls around again, swiping away the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. The fire in them could have probably evaporated them on their own, though.

"Why did you have my underwear?" she snaps.

His face pales. Jesus, she really does believe that. "Wh—"

"WHY. DID YOU HAVE. MY—"

"I didn't," Gray fumes. "That was your fucking boyfriend. He walked in and showed it to me like a goddamn trophy for getting inside of you."

Claire's face burns. He's still being an insensitive jackass, but he's so taken aback. He can't believe that she really thinks he'd do something like that.

"You piece of shit liar. Get out of my face."

He shakes his head. "You don't believe me?"

"OF COURSE I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!" Claire screams, exasperated. She looks so small right now—despite the large, hateful presence that she's trying to give off, she's still so tiny, drowning in her oversized coat and waving her short-limbed arms like mad. Gray is towering over her, and in this moment, realizes that he would give anything in the world for things to go back to normal between the two of them. "Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie."

But he reckons that they're past the point of normal—it isn't even remotely achievable anymore.

Gray stares at her, like he's trying to make sense of the girl in front of him. If anything, she's the one acting like a total stranger.

"Why would I have it?" he asks bitterly.

She falters, but does her best to keep up her composure. Though beneath her mask is a look of uncertainty. "Because you're sick. Because you don't respect women, you clearly don't respect me at all—"

"I swear off your life that I didn't take it."

Her eyebrows stay knotted in anger though. "You don't care if I die then, huh?"

"Huh?"

"If you swear off my life while lying—"

"Jesus Christ, Claire, I'm not lying!" Gray begins to run his hand through his hair, stopping when he forgets that there's a long, stitched up gash near the back of his head. He winces, sticky blood clinging to the tips of his fingers. "I don't fuck around with that shit. I told you."

Her eyes dart down to the blood on his fingertips, before her face twists up at him in disgust. "You're sick. You… you need serious help."

"You'll never see his faults, will you?" Gray mutters. "You'll just always automatically be on his fucking side."

"Over yours? Yeah, any day." As more tears start to reveal themselves from beneath her lids, Claire shifts her gaze away from him. "I need you to go right now."

"You need to listen to me. I didn't—"

"Gray, I swear to God, if you don't leave me alone right now—"

His mind is racing. He can't keep doing this to her, but he doesn't want to lose her, but maybe he already did, but he's sorry for everything, but that probably means nothing right now, but he's got to stay and make it right because he should have never did what he did in the first place—

"Blondie," he says softly. He watches as the tears keep rolling down her face. The gust of wind nipping at them probably hurts her with the wetness streaked over her cheeks.

Maybe he should just go.

"Why are you making this so hard?!" Claire manages to sob out. "After everything you did, you can't just do what I'm asking you to do? You can't just leave me the hell alone and walk away?!"

Gray stares at her, registering her pain but inexplicably being unable to leave it off like this. Because he figures that if he exits her property without making things right, he'll likely never see her again.

And as selfish as it is, that'll kill him.

"I can't," Gray says eventually. "I-I don't want to."

"It's not always about what you want," Claire mumbles tearfully. "It's not always fucking about you. Sometimes it's about other people, and what they want, or don't want—"

And she breaks down.

Jesus fuck, what else happened to her?!

He takes an uneasy step closer, trying to be firm with his words. "Blondie, if he did anything to you, you need to tell me, or tell someone—"

"Get out of my face," she repeats through ragged breaths. Her knees buckle together, like she's lost the ability to support herself anymore. "You had no right to do that to him or to me. I love him and… and I don't regret a thing, so you need to just go."

Something happened and she's not saying anything. She's protecting Trent at every other cost, like they're fucking married or something. It pisses him the hell off.

"He doesn't love you, Claire," Gray tells her resentfully. "You gotta leave him, he doesn't give a shit about you."

Apparently, this was also the wrong thing to say, because she's positively blazing right now. Despite her saddened tears, he's once again the reason her unleashed anger is erupting through. "COMING FROM YOU, WHO DOESN'T GIVE A SINGLE SHIT ABOUT ME?!"

His mouth shifts into a frown because despite this not being true, despite this being the exact opposite of what's really going on, this is what he's shown her. He doesn't blame her for thinking this to be the case. "I know… I know, you got every right to feel that way. And I know I made you believe that, but fuck, I promise you that's the farthest thing from the truth. You have no idea… I've never told you how much—"

"Stop," she sobs. "Now. Just stop. I can't do this anymore. You don't understand, I have nothing left in me."

But he doesn't stop. He keeps going, even if it's making things worse for himself, because his nineteen-year-old mind doesn't know how to quit—or fix—anything.

"I should have never called you easy. You—you're not, Claire, and—"

"That's the only thing you feel bad about?!" she spits back. "For shaming me like that?"

"I never should have fucking said that."

"Yeah, I know you shouldn't have, you asshole." Claire whimpers, "You have no idea what you caused."

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, meaning every word. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could take it all back."

"You can't. You're not even sorry about beating Trent to a bloody pulp—"

He shakes his head and this causes her nostrils to flare further. "You're right. I'm not sorry. I'm being honest with you… and I should have always been honest with you. I mean, from now on—"

Oh, God.

Claire makes a humorless sound. Against the darkness of her jacket, and the crystal white snow, her skin is almost completely pale. Not in the beautiful, translucent way it always is; it's like she's ill and recovering from a sickness.

Her next words make his stomach lurch.

"There is no 'from now on', Gray." She closes her eyes, looking down at the ground before lifting them to his again. And they're vacant. They're lost and unavailable and empty—fucking empty. "We're through. We… whatever this was, you're out of my life."

He stares at her. "You don't mean that."

Even though he knows that she does. Claire's not one to say things that she doesn't mean.

She just stares back, looking at him as if there's nothing there. At all. "I mean that. You made that choice for yourself, this isn't on me. For no reason, you decided—"

Fuck's sake.

"It wasn't for no reason," Gray snaps.

She stays silent in disbelief.

"It wasn't for no reason," he says again, firmly, like he's even convincing himself of it. What happened to his mom does not qualify as no reason.

Claire looks like she can't even believe that he's fighting with her on this. "Yeah, it was," she argues back.

"I didn't wake up one day and just hate him out of the fucking blue."

"Y'know what, you have issues, Gray," she says coldly, waving him off. "You have some real issues. You don't have a valid reason for doing anything."

"What's your valid reason for being with him, huh?"

He watches her jaw tighten as she fixes her lips into a stretched line, shaking her head as she looks away from him.

"I never told you," says Gray, even though she's still facing away from him. He's spilling his guts—not even as an act of desperation, but to be free from it all. Because really, what does he have to lose anymore? "He was my mother's doctor. He was the doctor that treated her back in Chicago. The one who let everything slide and he's the reason that she died."

Her eyes dart back up at him, like the gears in her head have just run through what he's told her.

"So, no, Claire, it wasn't for no reason. There's a whole fucking list of reasons with that asshole. But that's the main one."

Her cheek twitches, but she swallows back any kind of surprise well enough. "That's where your grudge comes from?" she asks, her voice distant.

"Yeah," he confirms sullenly. "And I'm sorry I never told you."

She just walks away from him. "So what?"

"'So what?'"

"Medical professionals make mistakes all the time." Her features are so hardened, eyebrows drawn in as her mouth coils into a tight line. She's accidentally paralleling his expression when he looks into his own reflection in the mirror. "So what? You can't blame Trent for dismissing a problem he never considered to be a problem. Why don't you try getting over it instead of using it as an excuse to be a miserable sonofabitch?"

He stares at her. She can't be for real. "Are you… are you fucking serious right now?"

"Yeah, I am serious," Claire says, as callous as he's ever seen her. He doesn't know if she's got on a front right now, or this is just who she's become as a result of everything. "I don't really care. You always say 'she's a dead woman you never knew, why do you give a shit?' so really, why should I give a shit?"

"This isn't you, Claire," Gray says slowly. "You're not like this."

"I am," she retorts. "I don't care about anything that has to do with you. You're so full of excuses... like, just get over yourself and get over everything."

His eyes scan her face like he's looking for any shred of her that's still left. Same freckles, same full lips, same symmetrical nose, but… it can't be her anymore. This is literally impossible.

"Be heartless like him," mutters Gray, nodding. "He's really rubbing off on you."

"Heartless? Coming from you?" Claire scoffs angrily. "You wanted me to care about your life but I don't. And you thought that this would change shit, but it really doesn't. Not after everything you've done."

"You're not you anymore."

She drops her poker face, and he sees the pain written all over her with this comment, but she just pretends to shrug it off like it hasn't affected her at all.

"Get out of my face, Gray." Her cheeks deepen a scarlet hue, heated and blooming in rage. "Go to hell. You don't matter to me anymore. And you know what? Maybe you never did."

He laughs because she's grasping at straws in the same way that he did last night. "You're so full of shit."

"I'm not," Claire fumes. "I hate you and I never want to see you again and I fucking mean all that."

"Y'know what? Fine." He nods at her with forced toleration. "I don't give a shit if you don't accept my apology, or if you never talk to me again." Gray keeps his vision locked on her, and although she tries to maintain it, she hesitates and has to look away. "That's your choice, and I swear to God I'll accept it."

Claire just shakes her head at him, hugging her arms against her body once more.

"I deserve it, and you deserve better than what I did to you last night, and I get it." Gray frowns because the mess that he's made for himself has slowly been unravelled right before his very eyes. He comprehends that he's lost all that they've ever had, and although it's a knife to the gut, he doesn't blame her for removing herself from all of this bullshit. He just needs to be heard out one last time, though. "But I need you to know I would never… fucking disrespect you like that."

She turns around to face him again, mercilessly shouting: "YOU LITERALLY DID!"

"With the underwear, Claire. I'd never… go into your shit, take it, start showing people—"

Her face is entirely beet red as her teeth clench together. "Enough."

"That was your fucking boyfriend."

"You're a damn liar."

"I have nothing to lose anymore. I'm not lying to you."

"Go to hell," she spits. "Fuck off, go to hell, I don't care."

"You're just trying to hurt me, like what I did to you," he says, defeated. "So fucking have at it, Claire."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOU. WHAT PART DON'T YOU GET?!" she hollers, screwing her eyes shut tightly. Pressing her lips together, she begins to cry again, silently, and then with gentle force, like a soft whisper. "How could you?"

He hates seeing her like this. He hates being the reason for it more, though. "I was angry, I was wasted… I-I didn't mean to—"

"Then don't get wasted," she chokes out.

Gray stares at her, and it's sick to admit, but that possibility is not something that's on the table right now.

She takes note at his hesitation instantly, raising her chin up to his defiantly. Her eyes are still glazed over with fresh tears, but she's furious. So unbelievably furious. "That's not an option for you, huh? Don't pretend like your anger is separate from you, like you have zero control. You have control, you just don't use it."

"It's not that simple," he mutters.

"No, it is," she snaps back. "But if you wanna be just like your screwed up dad, congrats, you're right on his path."

And this sets him afire. They begin yelling over each other like they've always done.

"Don't talk about my dad if you don't know shit."

"You're disgusting. You had no right to go through my things—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, are you dense?! I DIDN'T."

"You just make me sick. Like, how someone can be such a horrible person, I can't even—"

"Listen to me. I told you I'd never—"

"Bullshit."

"No, not bullshit. But take his side like you always do, that's clearly working well for you."

And this bitter statement is what hits her hard.

"YOU'RE LITERALLY NOTHING TO ME, GRAY. I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU, GOT IT? NOTHING ABOUT YOUR LIFE MATTERS TO ME ANYMORE."

Claire just gradually swallows, like she didn't mean for it to come out like that. Regret is scrawled all over her features. Gray is unable to mask the hurt over his own face, but she ignores this, quickly composing herself and shrugging it off, as though her words have held zero impact in the air. Like what she made was a mere weightless statement.

He digs his hands into his pockets. "Whatever, Claire."

"Just make like your dad," she mutters, immediately looking like she wishes she had bit back these words too. But her eyes flash and that's her goal right now: to hurt him.

He tells himself it's not working.

Even though it is.

"And what?" Gray snaps. "Fry my fuckin' brain? Abandon my family?"

"Leave," she mutters.

But he says "OD?" at the same time, and this makes her choke back another sob. She shakes her head, scrunching up her face.

"I just want you gone."

The silence that follows between them is eerie to say the least.

Claire slowly makes her way to her front door, dragging her feet like they're being held down with cinder blocks.

His jaw hardens. Maybe he's not Gray anymore, but she sure as hell isn't Claire. "You know why you cling to him?"

She hesitates, but keeps walking like she's unbothered, carefully removing her gloves from inside her jacket pockets as she does. "Shut up."

"You know why you do whatever he wants?" He gets closer and closer to her.

"Shut up."

"The reason you can't go against him?"

She goes to cover her hands over her ears, but hesitates, shoving them both back in her coat. "Enough!"

"And I'm not even fucking joking when I say this."

Shaking her head, her voice becomes elevated, breaking in all sorts of places. "Stop it."

"Because your fuckin' mindset is: 'I'm gonna let this guy do whatever he wants to me, I'm gonna do whatever I can to keep him 'cause I've got some real fuckin' daddy issues—'"

WHAM!

Her open palm collides with his face, his cheek. Claire has slapped him so hard that her bare hand is shaking, twitching. His face hurts, his head hurts, and her broken expression makes his goddamn fucking heart hurt. It aches, as though someone has stomped and kicked it with cleats, shoving it out of his ribcage like an out of body experience. He's said the wrong thing again.

But he unfortunately was sober and meant this one.

She can pretend like she doesn't, but she's got just as many issues as him.

Gray readjusts his head to face forward after it's been whipped around, rubbing his cheek and staring at her. She keeps her eyes narrowed and fixed on the mark that she's left on his face, but lets out a small sob when her eyes meet his own painful ones. Her irises are a water blue storm right now, limbal rings darker than he's ever remembered them to be.

She hastily forces her left, striking hand back into the depths of her pocket.

"Don't speak for me." The tears are rolling too quickly down her cheeks, like raindrops streaking down a windowpane during a storm. "Don't you dare, don't you ever speak for me again."

And he says nothing.

Claire just closes her eyes, dips her head low, pushing the door to her house open as she shuts it without ever looking back.

Maggie sits at the front of her chicken coop, like it's finally safe for her to come out. She tilts her head at him, scampering over to tug on his leg and pull him back.

But there's an invisible barricade between him and Claire now. It's comprised of words that have signed and sealed their fate; regret is the outer layer, while the tension, stress, pain, and mourning of what once was lies inside.

It's over.

Anger and unhappiness slam into him all at once. Their friendship and good moments have been permanently erased from this world with each crumble of their relationship.

And Gray digs his hands in his pockets, effectively fulfilling her wish.

It's the least that he can do for her at this point.


You know what he doesn't need right now? A fucking drink.

But you know what he wants?

You guessed it.

Doug slowly polishes a glass behind the bar, looking up at him for a moment, upon his entrance. Gray goes against the bar counter, watching his grip on the glass tighten in his hand.

"Doug," he mutters. The smell of liquor burns in his nostrils. "Doug, what the fuck? You saw the doc pull those panties out of his pocket, why the hell'd you tell Harris you didn't?"

Doug says nothing. He looks up at him again with dark eyes, remaining silent.

Gray's fuming though. "I'm fuckin' serious. You should've told him—"

Doug slams the shot glass down, and it shatters against the bar's tiled countertop. The pieces scatter and soar around it, like a clear, glittering mess. Gray stares down at them in shock, before he feels Doug's fist reach over the bar, clenching around the collar of his shirt.

This is his second confrontation today.

Well, third.

Gray looks down at his knuckles in shock.

And instantly knows something's up.

"Did you fuck my daughter?" Doug spits out.

It feels like the breath has been forcibly removed from his lungs in an instant. "W-what?"

"Did you fuck my daughter right in my goddamn inn?"

He gasps at Doug, trying to swallow the thick lump down his throat. He's in pure and utter shock right now. "… No."

"Don't you lie to me, boy."

It's like Gray's underwater; everything is in slow-motion around him, and he cannot for the life of him find any air to breathe. No one… this kind of confrontation has never happened to him before. He's never even met the dads of the girls that he's fucked.

Besides this one.

"I shared fuckin' drinks with you," Doug snaps, his fist tightening against the cotton of Gray's t-shirt. "I opened up my home to you, I talked to you about—" He stops himself, both disgusted and appalled.

He looks as though he's getting ready to kill him. His knuckles are cracking like he's about to.

How the FUCK did he suddenly figure all this?!

"Did you fuck my daughter?!" he hollers.

Gray elbows his fist off of him, managing to break away from his grasp. He backs away slowly, like a grizzly bear has suddenly cornered him. Enraged, Doug reaches for another shot glass, throwing it at his head.

He narrowly misses. It explodes into a million little shards, like a star's supernova amongst the night sky.

Gray's eyes widen further. He needs to fucking hightail it out of there.

"Get the hell offa my property," Doug snaps, storming out from behind the bar. He starts going after him—Gray honestly half-expected him to emerge with a shotgun in tow. "BEFORE I RIP YOU A GODDAMN NEW ONE."

He shakes his head, nearly tripping over his own two feet. "Doug, listen—"

"No good like your own daddy," he says. "And I tried to help you, but…" His voice trails off as he gets closer and closer. Gray backs into the inn's entrance doors, readying his sprinted departure. He's as good as dead if Doug gets his hands on him.

"I didn't see shit. And as far as I'm concerned, you pulled out that goddamn underwear yourself."

Gray clenches his teeth, escaping out of there in a panic.

And Trent has him in a checkmate.

It's game fucking over.


He guesses that it takes five Vicodin to feel numb. Four more than the required daily dosage he's been prescribed, but it leaves him without any feeling at all. What's emptier than empty?

He doesn't know.

Fuck, he's wasting 'em, and he doubts that he'll be able to get another prescription anytime soon, but he really needs it right now.

That's always his go-to excuse for everything.

Gray wonders briefly how many it took his father to get to this point. Combined with the Prozac, was it just a few? Or, did his old man need the whole bottle to feel something, which in turn, would no-doubt render him completely numb. When does the cycle end?

When you get hooked on something, do you consciously feel what it's like to lose all feeling?

Gray is so deprived of any sensation, that he doesn't even realize he's completely dozed off in his bed.

These past 24 hours have been both gruelling and long. They're reminiscent of the night his mom died; time seemed to slip in his last moments with her, when he sat at her bedside and helplessly watched her lose her grip on this earth. She told him to be good, to stay out of trouble, to remember the late night milopita she'd make on special occasions. And then she said to both him and his dad that she loved them... and that was it. Just like that, in an instant she was gone. It was after the fact that the hours started to drag, that every minute without her felt exceptionally longer. Having to plan her funeral and wake, figuring out the whole burial situation, watching his dad shove pills down his throat like they were fucking Tic Tacs... it was all just so tedious. Exhausting. Draining.

That's how he feels right now, the exact same way: he's just fucking drained.

Everything that he did to Claire started the problem. Her words are simply what cemented the end of their story into existence.

Is this really it? The one source of light in his life is gone, and he's only got himself to blame for it.

No, he tells himself that it's fine. If they're done, they're done. Like he said: she made her bed, and she can go lie in it.

But it's his fault for being such a dickhead.

And it's hers for not giving a fuck about anything else other than her boyfriend. It's her fault for choosing to stay with a prick like that.

Gray's mind can't help but wander to deep dish pizzas with Claire, to late nights staying up together when there never seemed to be a shortage of things to talk about. Her genuine smile, her laugh, her sweet perfume: that clear bottle with the pink ribbon design wrapped around it; the one that smells like warm brown sugar and vanilla-caramel mixed with her skin.

Her navy eyes lighting up every time that she's with him.

The way they only darkened at the sight of him today.

What has he fucking done?

He's so mad at her, though. Mad at himself, but mad at her all the same. None of Trent's lies bothered her; it's like she still blindly believed him after everything. She was always going to pick him; there was no compelling reason to ever be with someone like Gray over him. Not only just after what he'd done, but in general.

Like Claire said, Gray's nothing to her now. Nothing about his existence even matters anymore.

The worst part of it all is probably the fact that she thinks he took advantage of being alone in her home, like he went through her things like some kind of a sick fuck. Gray's thought about her… obviously, but he'd never in his whole life even think about doing that. Trent probably managed to swipe her panties after he was done having sex with her.

"Do you know where your grandson harbours all of this hatred from?"

The voice is low but undeniable nonetheless. He can hardly make out how muffled it all sounds from outside his bedroom door.

There's the faint noise of a lighter clicking, igniting. It's Officer Harris.

Gray listens to his grandfather sighing. He does that a lot when he's around; Jesus, he's a goddamn burden to everyone. "He doesn't get it from his father… Joey was never an angry person… still isn't. Guess I'm to blame for his temper."

"No, I mean... why's he hate Doctor Trent so much? Where does it stem from?"

"Oh... His… well, before his mother, Tina, got sick... she saw a doctor in Chicago. He dismissed her headaches, gave her some pain medication to deal with it, and never bothered with an MRI, despite askin' him to do something each time she went in... Turns out it was a malignant tumour; and she ended up dying from it here, after Hardy told us that it had metastasized."

As if Gray wants a reminder of all this right now.

"Why are you telling me this?" Harris asks.

"Her doctor in the city was Doctor Trent," says Saibara.

There's a long pause. Gray listens as someone adjusts their seat, the creaking sound of a chair streaking across the old floors eliciting in his eardrums. "… You know this for a fact?"

"That's what my grandson said."

"But you have no way of confirming this," says Harris dubiously.

Gray seethes. Why the fuck would I lie about something like that?

"He doesn't remember his name when they met back in Chicago. But when he filled the position here, Gray recognized him right away."

"Again, you have no way of confirming whether this is true or not."

Seriously, if anyone's a fucking liar in this town, it sure as hell isn't Gray. He knew the bastard when he saw him. Sure, he looked different from what he'd remembered: darker hair, slimmer jaw, but it was one hundred percent the same guy. Those empty, blackened eyes were the dead giveaway.

Saibara sighs again deeply, coughing from inhaling the cigarette smoke that's no doubt being blown toward his face. "I don't think my grandson would lie about this. Just like he's not lying about… going through Claire's things and taking them."

"Unfortunately, Doug cannot—"

"Yeah, yeah. I already got an earful outta him. He musta found out that Gray slept with his daughter, 'nd that's why he's withholding information."

"Your grandson's been very busy getting around lately, huh?" Harris comments, ignoring his grandfather's theory.

Saibara coughs again, barely managing through his words. "He wasn't sleeping with Claire, if that's what you're insinuatin'. She's not that kinda girl."

"Really," says Harris doubtfully. Is he picturing the way that she was unusually dressed last night? Or, did he catch wind of the horrible things Gray said to her. "They were just living together platonically?"

There's that word again.

"I threw him out," says Saibara absently.

"Ah-huh... and why'd you do that?"

His grandfather doesn't bother addressing this. "Claire was his friend."

"She wasn't two-timing her future husband?"

Gray furrows his brow. Does Harris even know what he's talking about right now?

"You leave her alone. She's a sweet girl, she doesn't got a bad bone in her body."

Just a few in her hand that whacked him across the face.

But he knows that he deserved that.

"I'm tryna get the full picture here," says Harris. "Your grandson's jealous, he wanted more from Claire. She didn't reciprocate these feelings, and he thought beating up her fiancé would give him the upper hand."

Wait.

… Fiancé?

Has he heard this correctly? Gray's body goes tense and frigid as his jaw stiffens.

"I think you've got your theory all wrong," murmurs Saibara.

His skin feels as though it's being impaled with ice cubes; he's wobbly, and the room is suddenly like an igloo around him.

"What you're saying is that Gray claims Doctor Trent misdiagnosed his mother's condition back in the city, which isn't a crime in and of itself, and that's where the hate stems from. That's why he started this fight," Harris confirms.

The sentences around him are barely registering in his brain. He has to grip the door handle to prevent himself from falling over dizzily.

"He just wanted to keep him away from Claire," Saibara sighs.

"You think he's mad at you for making the ring? I mean, you gotta still make a living, right?"

Gray shuts his eyes, shaking his head. She's engaged?

Saibara scoffs. "How'd you know I made the ring?"

"Only one jeweller in town who crafts a rock as nice as you."

"... I tried to tell Gray before the doc'd even proposed… he wouldn't listen to me."

Harris muses. "Think he knows?"

"I… I'm not sure."

"Practically everyone in town's caught wind of it. It's only a matter of time before the news travels."

She didn't tell him.

Claire didn't tell him.

Gray's stomach drops as he succumbs to sinking low to the floor.

And for some reason, this is what he classifies as the final nail in their coffin. This is the point of no return; the thing that neither of them can go back from.

She was already engaged before he went and beat up Trent.

The night of the festival.

She couldn't even bring herself to tell him. She'd wanted him to find out from everyone else.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

"Don't worry, with the amount he paid, you might be able to cover what your grandson's bound to get charged with," Harris assures.

Saibara groans. "I wish I never agreed to go through with the order."

"Like I said, you still gotta make a living too. You know, considering the state of your shop right now." Harris pauses, before ruffling through some papers and continuing again. "Could he be wrong? Or is it possible he's lying?"

"Fucking hell… about what?"

"About Trent being his mother's old doctor."

Saibara sighs again. "I told you, he didn't get his name back in the city. Just that he recognized him."

"What I'm saying is that I find this all hard to believe. I thought Doctor Trent did his medical residency back in Texas, where he's from. I never once heard him mention Chicago. Hell, I don't even think his file says it."

"... I'm just telling you what Gray told me."

"I mean, I can look into it."

The sound of a briefcase closing, a chair being untucked, and a jacket getting zipped up seem like faraway noises in Gray's mind. He's nearly collapsed against his bedroom door, gasping for air. It's like that night in Claire's bathroom, when he couldn't get a grip until she came in and held him throughout his panic attack.

He cannot for the life of him fucking breathe right now.

"Does it matter?" Saibara's voice is the lowest that he's ever heard it.

The sound of the front door opening cracks through the dead silence. The shop's creaky doorknob twists.

"No," murmurs Harris. "I suppose it doesn't."

It doesn't.

The front door just closes shut, signifying Harris' departure.

And through his foggy head, Gray realizes that he's got no other choice but to make like his dad, and fucking get away.

It's what Claire wants.

But most importantly, it's what he needs right now.


"Oh, Lord," says Doctor Hardy. He surveys the damage on an unconscious Trent: nasal fracture in three different places, hematoma over the left side of his face, an edema of the jaw... Jesus Christ, that angry, young blacksmith got him good. He didn't think he'd be capable of all this.

Elli merely scribbles something down on a clipboard, looking up absently. She seems debilitated.

"What?" she mumbles, gaze drawn back to the floor, as though she's entranced by the layer of dust over it.

Hardy removes his gloves and stethoscope, calling it quits for the night. "He's almost unrecognizable."


A/N: ...

Would love to hear your guys' thoughts on all this! 😅 So sorry it's so long, I overwrite way too much like I need serious help haha. But here's the update... I mean I guess it's not exactly the update ya'll were hoping for, but I'm here! Lmao. Uhhhhhh also I made a Tumblr filled with humorous, reblogged memes if that helps? 😂 Here's the link: practicado . tumblr . com

Follow me and/or drop by to say hi, it's hard to chat on here and it'd be fun to interact with you guys more Also, don't mind the name, honestly idek haha

Everyone rn's probably like... are you sure this is a Graire fic? Do... do you even like this pairing, do you even want them together? T_T

LOL, all I can say is I think (?) I have it kinda sorta figured out. I mean, hopefully lolz. As always though, I hope you guys know that you can share any comment, question, suggestion, reaction, or feedback with me regarding the chapter :) It's great to hear from readers and it makes me happy that you guys continue to click on my story :') While I'm not happy with how things are rn in the fic either haha (I swear I'm all about peace n love in my real life folks 😂✌️❤️), I'm trying to branch out and do something a little different than what I'm used to. Hopefully you guys are still interested in everything that's going down and decide to stick around to see how it all plays out, because it would mean the world to me ❤️ Posting this chapter has made me v nervous if you can't tell lol ok I'm done rambling w/ that

So, okay, I fully acknowledge how toxic all of this chapters' content is. Gray included, he is hella not great right now. And neither is Claire tbh, bc idc how hurt someone is, noooooo oneeeee should be hitting anyone. I feel so strongly about that (as should anyone tbh) and that's that on that I also really wanted to tackle misogyny, personal privacy, slut-shaming, and gender inequality. I debated back and forth between including Ann's fight with her dad, as it was not easy to write, but I decided to include it anyway, even though there's still some unanswered things we don't know yet about it. But Karen! Like we have no choice but to stan a woke queen haha 🙌 Basically this is the chapter where all the shit goes down. Like all of it. But at least Trent wasn't in it LOL (btw... I tried to include a lot of hints in this chapter regarding him. I really hope the dots are beginning to connect because he makes me nervous haha). Okay, okay, I think I'm done. Thank you times a million for reading, and I hope that you guys are doing well as always ❤️ :) Things will be different next chapter, get ready 🙇