"Congratulations." Clarke's attorney, a stone faced woman named Ava, holds out her hand, voice clipped. Clarke takes it, smiling.
"Thanks." It turns out buying an art gallery isn't as much work as she thought it would be. Forty-five minutes and close to a million dollars later, her and Anya are the new owners of Brave Art. There's still some number she's going to have to go over, and apparently she needs an accountant now, but it's done. She did it. She bought a business.
"I'll leave you two to celebrate," Ava says, swiping her briefcase off the back of her chair and giving Anya a curt smile. Then she's gone, the sound of her stilettos sharp on the hardwood of the gallery floors. They're in an office in the upper level of the building, an area Clarke's never been in before. Unsurprisingly, the space is dotted with paintings and sculptures with a distinct West Coast feel, she can almost still smell the cedar of the floors.
"So, partners?" Clarke asks, grinning in earnest now. Anya smiles back, amused at her enthusiasm.
"I guess it's probably too late for me to change my mind."
Her joke doesn't detract from Clarke's feeling that this is something good.
.-.-.-.-.-.
She's at the bakery when she gets his text. Clarke fervently blames Octavia for discovering the little pâtisserie in the first place. The pastries are sinful, particularly the petit fours, which are small enough that she doesn't have to feel too guilty after inhaling two or three. Plus, she likes the ambience. The owner, an ancient, angry Frenchwoman named Elle Marche, does nearly everything herself, refuses to serve Clarke unless she orders in French, and then proceeds to mock her accent every time.
"Bonjour Madame Marche."
"Votre accent est toujours atroce . Quelques petits fours pour vous aujourd'hui ?" Elle gestures at the pastry case, and Clarke nods.
"Oui, trois s'il vous plait."
The woman plucks three petit fours from the display, dropping them into a tiny white box and thrusting it over the counter at Clarke. Just as she takes it, her phone vibrates in her pocket. She pays Elle, then retreats to the corner of the shop to look at the text.
We got the nomination. It's not set design.
Setting the box down in a nearby window ledge, she fires a text back.
What's it for?
He answers so quickly she almost wonders if he sent his reply before she finished hers.
Outstanding writing for a drama series.
She stares at her phone. Then, making a decision, swipes right and holds it to her ear. Elle watches her suspiciously from over the counter.
"Hello?" He answers unassumingly, as though he has no idea who it could be.
"You're fucking joking." Elle makes a scandalized noise, and Clarke holds up a hand in apology.
"Who is this?"
"Shut up," she hisses, delighted. "Are you serious?"
"I'm serious." She can hear the grin in his voice. "I mean, we're not going to win, the other nominees will be, like, Game of Thrones, but even being nominated, that's-"
"Oh my god." She's actually bouncing a little on the spot, ignoring the curious glances from other patrons. "Bellamy, that's-it's-it's-"
"Are you having a stroke?" He asks, feigning concern. He sounds smug, almost, and if he were here she would definitely hit him.
"God. Are you freaking out? I'm freaking out."
He snorts.
"Would you relax?"
"No!" She shouts, and a stream of angry French follows. "Oh-hold on." She turns to Elle, waving her hand and ducking her head apologetically. "Ahh, pardon! Pardon. Je serai tranquille."
"What was that? Where the hell are you?"
"I'm at a bakery."
"In…Quebec?"
"No, it's just run by a lovely-" she emphasizes the word loud enough that Elle can hear. "-Frenchwoman. Who's staring daggers at me for being loud."
"Oh. If you need to go…"
"I don't. And I called you, weirdo." Her voice softens. "I'm really happy for you, Bellamy."
For a moment, he's quiet.
"Thank you."
"Do you-" She's cut off by a noise on his end, a woman's voice. They exchange words she can't understand for a few seconds, then Bellamy grunts.
"I've gotta go," he mutters. She tries, and fails, not to deflate at that.
"Of course. Congratulations, Bell."
"Thanks, Clarke." He hesitates, and for a moment she can't tell if he's still there. "I'll talk to you, uh…"
"Yeah," she says, knowing.
"Bye."
"Bye."
As she hangs up, she ignores the way Elle is staring at her appraisingly. She grabs her box of pastries and pushes through the door. There's suddenly a hollow emptiness in her chest that she's really hoping these petit fours will be able to fill.
.-.-.-.
Clarke owes Octavia. She reminds herself of that when her alarm goes off at five am, and again in the car at five-thirty, and again when she pulls into the parking lot at the airport. It's her turn to pick her friend up at arrivals, for once.
But, you know, it's six in the morning.
She finishes chugging the Starbucks picked up on the way, then tosses it in a trash can next to the bench she's sitting on. As she leans back, her eyes drift shut. She's almost asleep when she hears her name, a smoky shout that could only have come from one person. Groaning, she opens one eye just in time to see Octavia springing to pounce.
"We're back, bitch!"
Lincoln is standing back, watching his wife assault Clarke with only an amused smile.
"Uh-huh." Clarke gets to her feet with some difficulty, slinging an arm over Octavia's shoulders. "How was it?"
"God, amazing, there were these little monkeys, and Lincoln got into a fight with this, like, ninety-year old Indonesian woman."
"What?" Clarke turns her head to stare at Lincoln, who rolls his eyes.
"She's exaggerating. Octavia, stop telling people that."
"Okay, but he was really pissed when she tried to rip us off for directions to our hotel."
"Mhmm." They round the corner for the baggage carousels, and Clarke realizes she actually did miss the two of them while they were gone. Octavia really has become family to her, and Lincoln is a hard person to dislike. Especially when he loves her best friend with the kind of devotion that makes Clarke feel equal parts jealous and embarrassed. "Did you get me anything?"
.-.-.-.-.
Sometimes, there are bad days. Today is one of them.
She's laying on her couch, an empty bottle of JD on her table, a blanket wrapped so tightly around her that she almost doesn't feel quite so much like she's going to fall completely apart. There's a knock on her door, and she doesn't answer it, but she's also not entirely sure she locked it.
And then she hears the click of the handle, and the sound of boots in her foyer, so. Apparently she did not.
She's expecting Octavia, or maybe Raven. Someone to come pull her out of this darkness that just seems to fall out of the sky every once in a while, heavy and binding and suffocating. But it's not either of them.
It's her mother.
"Mom?" She blinks through the haze of alcohol and fatigue. "What are you doing here?"
"I called…a few times. We were supposed to meet for coffee at two." Abbie kneels beside the couch, studying Clarke silently.
"Oh." She glances at the clock on her wall. It's after three. "Right. Sorry."
As she struggles to sit up, her mother frowns.
"Are you alright? You don't look well."
"Thanks," Clarke mutters, pushing the hair out of her face and pretending her head isn't spinning. Abbie's gaze falls on the empty bottle.
"I…I know we've had our disagreements." That's an understatement, really. "But I'm still your mother. If something is wrong, you can talk to me."
"I'm just having a bad day." Her mouth is dry. She gets to her feet, heading toward the kitchen. Her mother trails behind, hovering.
"Did something-"
"Nothing happened. It's just…" she doesn't know how to say it, how to explain the way some days she just wakes up with all of these ghosts like a weight on her chest. "A bad day."
"Oh. I see." And when Clarke turns back to her, lifting the glass of water to her lips, she's surprised to find that she believes it. There's a softness to her mother's face that tells her she does, in fact, understand.
"I'm sorry I missed coffee."
"That's alright. Are you…do you want to talk about it?"
She shrugs.
"Not really." It will pass, eventually. It always does.
Abbie sinks into one of the stools at the kitchen island, tapping her fingers absently against the granite.
"I heard Octavia and Lincoln got back?"
Clarke blinks at that. Sometimes she forgets that half her friends still work at the hospital with her mother.
"Uh, yeah. A few days ago."
"Did they…" Abbie's reaching here, trying to find some common ground, and Clarke doesn't know whether to resent or appreciate the effort. "-have a good time?"
"I think so."
There's something strange about this, them here in her kitchen, after everything. When Clarke quit the internship, they didn't speak for months. But eventually Abbie had reached out, and although they're far from close, they see each other from time to time. Whether it's for coffee, or lunch, or a quick dinner, they make the effort. Abbie is the parent Clarke has left. And as much as they seem to disappoint each other, over and over and over again, that still means something. The whiskey tugs at that, the faded sense of family here, of maternity and home.
"I miss him," Clarke says, before she can stop it. Abbie looks up at her, eyes sad in a way that somehow makes Clarke feel less alone. Like maybe Abbie's bad days aren't so different from hers.
"Who, baby?"
And isn't that the question? Her father, Finn, Bellamy, their faces seem to blur into one distant, untouchable thing from her past.
"I'm not even sure anymore."
.-.-.-.-.-.
"So, did he tell you?" Octavia asks, swiping at a stray hair that's fallen into her face. The action leaves a black smear of calligraphy ink across her cheek, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"Did who tell me what?"
"Bell's gonna be in Earthbound. Like actually in it. The director couldn't find anyone they liked for a small part, so they decided to just give it to him."
Clarke almost knocks over her finished stack of Thank You notes.
"What?"
"Right? I can't imagine him acting. He's always complaining about the actors he has to work with."
"Maybe the whole part is him standing around acting surly," Clarke suggests, sealing the last card in her stack with a sticker. They've been at this for hours, writing up notes for all of Octavia's wedding gifts. "Or giving some kind of long, angry speech. He's good at those."
"Mmm, maybe. He hasn't really said much about the part itself."
"I'm kind of surprised he agreed to do it. Did he sound excited?"
Octavia shrugs.
"Not really, more like he felt obligated to. But he'll only be in one episode, so."
"Weird."
A few more minutes go by, Clarke beginning to sort the cards into their respective envelopes.
"There's something else."
She looks back up, waiting.
"He's seeing someone."
Clarke waits for that to sink in, then finds she isn't surprised. It still hurts, like someone has slapped an elastic band against her heart, but mostly she just realizes she's been waiting for this.
"Okay. Who?"
"Kaitlyn Herald, again."
Slumping down in her chair, Clarke sighs.
"I can't really blame him. She is super hot."
"I guess," Octavia replies, looking at Clarke curiously. "You okay?"
Clarke shrugs.
"Yeah. I mean it's been a long time, he should be dating."
"Should he?"
"Octavia." Clarke gives her friend a stern look. The brunette just sighs, turning back to her thank you notes.
"Fine. So, there's this guy at my gym, he's single, and-"
"That's it." Clarke throws down her roll of stamps. "I'm out of here."
.-.-.-.-.-.
The truth is, Clarke didn't break up with Bellamy so she could date someone closer to home. She broke up with him because her life was here, in Vancouver, and she wanted to live it. So she's been burying herself in work, and painting, and Octavia and Raven, because those are the things she sacrificed her relationship for.
But when Hayley smiled at her over her latte, Clarke couldn't help but smile back. And when she found the phone number written on the side of her cup, she'd texted.
And now they're here, sitting in the Keg, Hayley shooting her that same shy smile, and it feels like for the first time since Bellamy, she's actually trying to move on.
.-.-.-.-.-.
"That's beautiful," Hayley rests her chin on Clarke's shoulder, studying the painting in front of them.
"Right?" Clarke lets out a happy sigh, content just to look at the canvas a little longer. She's been taking Anya's advice and searching the city for local talent, trawling the art festivals and the student shows and getting leads here and there from people she knows. It's not easy, and she learned early on to temper her expectations, but every once in a while she finds someone like this, and that makes it all worth while.
"Who did this one, again?"
"This nineteen year-old who was selling sketches in Stanley Park. He had a few pieces for sale and I saw this and just thought…there's no way this kid should be selling these for fifty bucks and living out of his truck," Clarke recounts. So she'd asked him if he'd ever considered selling his art somewhere with four walls and a roof, and taken him out for lunch. "His name is Dennis Brayden."
"He's really talented. Much like someone else I know." Hayley says softly, winding her arms around Clarke's waist. A strand of her long black curls falls forward, and Clarke gives it a gentle tug.
"Keep it in your pants, Griffin."
They both spin around to see Anya hauling a wrapped canvas up the stairs, looking bemused. Hayley drops her hands, looking embarrassed. Clarke just rolls her eyes.
"You need a hand?"
"No." Then Anya's eyes fall on the painting Clarke has leaned against the railing. "Is that the one by the Brayden boy?" Clarke nods, and the curator sets her own package down to come look at it. "This is very good. You have a knack for this."
Clarke just shrugs.
"So we'll show it?"
"Yes, I think so. You can tell him he'll get the same deal you did, half off our first commission fee. His might not sell for as much, but we'll have that Suzy Arbor collection in by this weekend and I think those will complement this nicely. How much did you say he was charging?"
"Fifty dollars. He was doing those caricature drawings in the park."
Much to her surprise, Anya smiles at that.
"It's always nice to see someone with that kind of dedication."
Clarke makes a noise of disagreement.
"He was sleeping in his truck."
"Not everyone has the resources you did," Anya reminds her sternly. "Some people have to make decisions about pursuing their passion or making a living. You were lucky."
She thinks about that for a moment, then bites her lip.
"Do you think we could get him…an advance or something? We both know the painting will sell, and he could really-"
"I've already cut him a cheque," Anya says, cutting her off.
"Oh." Clarke smiles sheepishly. "Alright. Thanks." She turns back to Hayley, who's been uncharacteristically quiet. "We should get going."
Hayley nods, and they wave goodbye to Anya, making their way down the stairs and out of the gallery.
"That was unfair," Hayley says, when they're finally out on the street. Clarke frowns.
"What was?"
"Anya shouldn't have said that, about your money. There was no need to be so bitchy."
Clarke runs through the conversation in her mind, then realizes what the brunette is talking about.
"Oh, no it's fine. She was right."
"It's not fine-"
Clarke has never seen her date worked up like this. They've been seeing each other for almost a month, and the girl has always been even tempered, shy almost. But now her face is twisted sourly, eyes narrowed.
"Hey, seriously." They come to a stop on the sidewalk, Clarke catching Hayley's eye. "It's fine. I'm not upset. She was just being a friend. Sometimes I need to be reminded that not everyone was brought up like I was."
"I just think-"
"Let it go," Clarke says, firmly this time. Hayley blinks at her tone, but eventually nods.
"Okay. Sorry. What do you want to do for lunch?"
Their hands lace back together, and the conversation from then on is lighthearted, but Clarke can't quite get rid of that unsettled feeling that's suddenly taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.
.-.-.-.-.-.
"She's…pretty." Raven says, as they both look over their shoulders at Hayley, who's working behind the bar at the café.
"But?" Clarke asks, raising an eyebrow at her friend's tone.
"She's just-she's not really your type, is she? I mean, she's so…nice."
"Are you saying I only date assholes?"
"Well," Raven looks thoughtful. "You dated Finn, and Bellamy. And you hooked up with Miller. Oh, and that girl from your internship, what was her name?"
"Emma."
"Yeah, she was a serious bitch."
Clarke rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. Raven isn't the first person to point out her attraction to people with…strong opinions.
"Hayley's not as nice as you'd think," she murmurs absently, watching her girlfriend serve up something hot and frothy to a man in a suit. As always, she's sporting a sweet smile, one that suits her.
"What do you mean?"
"Uh," Clarke shakes her head subtly as Hayley comes out from behind the counter, toward them.
"Hey, babe." She leans down to kiss Clarke quickly, looking curiously over at Raven. "Who's this?"
"Hayley, this is my friend Raven, Raven, Hayley."
There's a tense silence for a moment, then Raven cracks a grin.
"I guess you'll do."
Hayley stares at her for a moment, smiling only as Raven's own begins to fade uncertainly.
"Sorry, my brain is kind of fried after the morning rush. But it was nice to meet you." Hayley tells her, smile still plastered in place. "I should get back."
She walks away, leaving Clarke to frown after her, confused.
"Was that weird? Or is it just me?" Raven finally asks. Clarke turns to look at her, blinking.
"No, that was weird."
The two women just kind of look at each other for a moment, until Raven speaks up again.
"I don't want to be a jerk, but…are you sure about her?"
"Yeah," Clarke answers automatically. Hayley is sweet, and she does things like bring home petit fours when Clarke has had a bad day, and it's really, really nice not to have to go to bed alone all the time. So even if she's not perfect, and sometimes she unsettles Clarke a little, it's something good.
She's pretty sure.
.-.-.-.-.-.
"Hales, have you seen my grey bra? The lace one with the racer back?" Clarke asks, digging through her laundry hamper. She hasn't seen it in days, and it's the only one that works with her white tank top.
"Uh…" Hayley's voice drifts in from the kitchen. "No, sorry."
"Damn," Clarke mutters under her breath. Great. She'll have to wear a sports bra.
"Clarke, your phone is ringing."
Sighing, she gets up and jogs to the kitchen, answering her phone right before it goes to voicemail.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's Octavia."
"Oh, hey, O. What's up?"
"It's Bellamy." For the first time, Clarke notices the shake in her friend's voice. And suddenly it's like the bottom has dropped out of her stomach.
"What? What about Bellamy? Is he okay?" Her own voice is loud, and harsher than she'd meant.
"Do you remember his friend Jacob Williams?"
"Uh," Clarke nods, then realizes Octavia can't see her. "Yeah. They were best friends at McGill. Why?" The second the question leaves her mouth, she knows, and her heart breaks.
"He's dead. I guess some methhead freaked out on the street, and Jake tried to…" Octavia trails off, breathing heavy. "He died last night, I didn't find out until this morning, I keep calling Bell, and he's not answering, and I…have you heard from him?"
"No. I-" She bites her lip, hard enough to draw blood. "I'm sorry. I'll call him."
"Okay. And Clarke?"
"Yeah?"
"He-never mind. Just let me know if you get a hold of him."
"Alright." She hangs up, then just stares at her phone for a moment. Jacob was Bellamy's roommate for all of undergrad, the two were inseparable, from the stories she's heard. They are-were-still close. Clarke's met him a few times, liked the way he made Bellamy laugh more than anything else about him, but-
Fuck.
She takes a deep breath, then dials his number. He doesn't answer. She tries two more times, and gets the same result.
"Clarke?"
She jerks around, having forgotten Hayley was there.
"Is everything alright?"
"I…" All Clarke can think about is that she knows exactly what kind of pain Bellamy is probably neck deep in right now. "No. My friend's friend died."
Hayley's face is soft, sad.
"You mean your ex's friend, right?" She clarifies. "I heard you talking about Bellamy." She reaches out to lay a hand on Clarke's arm, but Clarke pulls away.
"We were friends first," she says firmly. "And I-" Suddenly, she knows exactly what she needs to do. "I've got to go."
"Go?" Hayley blinks, putting down her glass of wine. "Go…where?"
"Um, to Toronto. I'm really sorry, I know this probably seems weird, but he was there for me when Finn died, and I don't think he's doing too well," she can feel it, in this impossible way, like a magnet pulling her East. He needs her. "And Octavia called me, and she can't get a hold of him, and I don't have any appointments at the gallery for like a week, so-"
"Wait," suddenly there are small hands on Clarke's shoulders, big blue eyes in her face. "Just hold on a second. You're going to fly to Toronto to see your ex? Because a guy he went to college with died?"
"He's not just my ex, he's my friend. And I think he might need me, so, yes I'm going." She pulls her suitcase out of the closet, stuffing clothes into it. Remembering something, she fires off a quick text to Octavia.
No answer. Book me a flight for tonight? I know you know my Visa number.
"Clarke. Do you still have feelings for him?"
She sighs.
"This isn't like that," she argues, avoiding the question.
"I don't…I don't want you to go."
"What?" Clarke gapes at her.
"I mean," Hayley rubs chin irritably. "I don't think you should go."
"I think you had it right the first time," Clarke says quietly. Hayley scowls.
"It's not healthy, this thing with Bellamy. You need to move on, let him go, stop pining."
"God, I'm not pining," she mutters, continuing to pack. "Look, I'm sorry if this is making you uncomfortable, I understand why it would. But-"
"If you go, we're done."
Clarke looks up, sees Hayley standing over her, arms crossed. She gets to her feet, walking around her to the bathroom, grabbing a toothbrush and her contact solution. On the way back she grabs her phone charger out of the wall, and zips her laptop into the top compartment of her bag. Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out to see a reply from Octavia.
8:30, Air Canada, ticket in your inbox. I love you, Griffin.
Sure enough, an e-mail comes through a few seconds later with her flight information. As an afterthought, she grabs the black dress she wore to Finn's funeral, folds it carefully on top of the rest of her clothes. Just in case she's right about him needing her. She zips the case shut, then gets to her feet again. Hayley hasn't moved, is still standing there, glaring at her.
Clarke wheels past her, grabbing her jacket off the back of a chair.
"Clarke, I'm serious. If you go, this is over."
She pauses in the doorway, turning back to fix Hayley with a sad frown of her own.
"He's my friend, Hayley. We were over the minute you asked me not to go."
As she lets the door shut behind her, Clarke realizes with a pang of guilt that she's not sorry it's over at all.
