The song is "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol, for those of you who don't know it and want to listen to it.
Our Favorite Mortal Instruments Quote of the Chapter:
"The boy never cried again, and he never forgot what he'd learned: that to love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one destroyed."
-Jace Lightwood
0O0
Jace's P.O.V
I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road. Clary tells me about her day full of paperwork and I tell her about the "heart attack" I attended to which ended up being heartburn. The old man thought he was dying because he ate three double cheeseburgers for breakfast. Some people need to be punched in the face. Clary laughs at the appropriate moments. The light, happy sound relaxes me like nothing else does.
"Where are we going?" Clary asks me as we reach the boundaries of the city. Asphalt rushes beneath the tires as we speed down the nearly deserted highway.
"A secret location."
She sighs loudly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lean back in her seat and prop her feet against the dashboard. "More of your secret locations," she mutters sarcastically. "Beautiful." I turn on the radio with a barely suppressed grin. None of my saved channels are worth listening to for more than few seconds. Clary turns up the volume as the familiar tune of "Chasing Cars" fills the air around us. I sing along softly, my voice barely heard over the sound of the radio. She flips of the sound and turns her head to look at me.
"You have a nice voice," she says. I shoot her a speculative glance. "Really. You do." She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on the tops of them. I take the first exit off of the highway onto the familiar stretch of the road.
"If you're taking me to the middle of nowhere in order to murder me, be warned. I've acquired mad ass-kicking skills." I shoot her a speculative look. "Eyes on the road!" she says.
"Eyes where?" I ask, keeping my gaze trained on her.
"Jace…" she says warningly.
"You know, Red," I say, placing one hand on her shoulder while using the other to gesticulate. "You should really put more faith in my driving."
"Please return your eyes to the road before you kill us," she says, her voice higher than usual. With a small laugh, I put my hands back on the wheel and turn off onto a less populated road.
"The 'kill me in the middle of nowhere' theory is becoming more and more probable," she says. I turn into a parking lot and park in front of an almost empty diner.
"Welcome to Joan's," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt and getting out of the car. The cracked asphalt crunches beneath my feet. The building is old, the most ugly shade of orange in existence and falling apart; but it's home. Clary follows me, nearly tripping on the broken concrete. I make my way to the front door, the familiar, silver varnish of the handle worn away to show the brass underneath. The front window of the diner holds a flashing "24-hour" sign.
"What are you waiting for?" I say. She rolls her eyes and walks over. A bell rings as I open the front door and a wave of apple-pie-smell hits me right in the face.
"Well if it isn't Jonathan Herondale," says a familiar voice from behind the counter. Joan stands up from her humped position over the counter and puts her hands on her hips. "I haven't seen you in awhile." She flashes me a huge smile.
"Ah, Joan, my old friend," I say, putting on what she calls my "cocky ass voice" as I walk over to her. She whacks me in the arm with her washcloth and turns her eyes to Clary.
"Who's your lady friend?" she asks, waggling her eyebrows. Clary steps forward and offers her hand.
"Clary Fray. Nice to meet you," she says.
"You too, dear," she says, ignoring Clary's hand and pulling her into a Joan-sized hug. "I'm Joan and I own this shack," she says as she pulls away from Clary. "You're tables open tonight," Joan tells me with a smile.
"Is it ever not?"
"That's only because you always show up at ridiculous hours of the night."
"If a man can't sleep—"
"'Man'," she scoffs. "Hon, you only wish you were a man." I place my hand over my heart, assuming a hurt expression.
"Don't you dare try that with me, little Herondale," Joan says, using her old nickname for me from when I still came here with my dad. "Are you going to play tonight?" she asks me, her gaze moving to the old piano with the wicker basket resting on it. My first job was at this restaurant, playing for the meager tips I could scavenge.
"No," I answer.
"You haven't played since you came back." I flinch at her words. "You have to get over your ghosts, honey." Clary follows my gaze to the piano then flashes me a glance.
"You play?" she asks.
"Not very well," I say. Joan snorts under her breath.
"He plays stupendously," she corrects.
"Play me something," Clary says, pulling me over to the bench. Joan chuckles from behind us.
"I like this girl," she says with a grin. Clary pushes me down onto the seat and pulls up the cover. I keep my hands resting safely on my knees.
"Do it for an old woman," Joan says. "Your playing has been one of my few pleasures in life," she says with an overdramatic air. I flash her a speculative glance. She smiles in response. With a sigh I rest my fingers on the ivory keys, keeping my fingers gently curved like I was taught so long ago. Tentatively, I press down softly on the keys. A clear chord rings in the air. Slowly a song starts to take place; "Chasing Cars," the song from the car. My shoulders relax as I let my fingers fly over the keys. I 'm stiff after months of not playing and some of the notes come out wrong, but I must admit it feels good to play again. Clary touches my shoulder with the tips of her finger tips.
And suddenly, I'm not in New York.
I'm in Afghanistan.
Outside the window the land is barren. The building around us is old and falling apart. The only items in the room are a piano and a couple chairs and tables. I run my finger over the wooden edge of the instrument, wiping the dust off. I stand in front of it and press gently on the keys.
"You play, Lieutenant?" James Bragford asks me. I play a short tune I learned when I was younger and meet his eyes with a grin.
"I play."
"That all you can play? Chopsticks?" I laugh and pull up a chair. My fingers rest on the home keys. I flash Bragford a small smile. My fingers begin to fly across the keys and the other soldiers gather around. The notes radiate around me, along with the sounds of the raucous laughter of the soldiers. I feel myself smile. Three weeks until I get to go home and seek Isabelle and Alec and Max and everyone else I've missed for the past year and a half. The tune picks up into the more upbeat melody of "Don't Stop Believin'". The soldiers, drunk with happiness at the thought of returning home in a few short weeks, sing along with the tinny, awful notes of the piano.
"Is that all you got?" a soldier asks me. I laugh and unleash my fingers upon the ancient keyboard. They fly across the keys, moving faster and cleaner than they have in a long time. It feels good to use my hands for something other than death and destruction. Then, in seconds, the peaceful world we've created for ourselves collapses.
"Weapons down! Weapons down!" a man in a turban holding a US issued M16 shouts at us. His accent muffles his poor English, but we get the message. We remove the guns and knives we have strapped onto us and place them at the floor at our feet. I keep one knife on me, hidden in my boot. He levels the gun at my head as more soldiers stream in behind him. I snarl at him and the grin falls from his face. "Hands up! Weapons down!" he yells. We comply. "This is your leader?" he asks, walking towards me and grabbing me by the collar of my shirt.
The soldiers stay silent, loyal until death. They know that the higher up in rank you are, the worse they treat you. "Answer me! Answer!" The soldiers remain silent. He lifts the massive gun and awkwardly points the barrel at my temple.
"No!" Bragford says before he can fire. "I'm the leader." I turn my flashing eyes to his.
"He's lying," I snarl. "If you don't believe me look at my jacket. My collar," I say, refusing to let one of my soldiers go down for me.
"I know nothing of your silly American system," he says then pushes me roughly forward and nudges my shoulder with the tip of his gun…
That was Monday.
That was last week.
Last month.
Last year.
The diner swirls into focus. I blink and jerk away from Clary. My fisted knuckles are white.
"Jace?" Clary asks. She sounds afraid and is keeping a careful distance from me. Joan stands slightly behind her with a comforting hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
"I'm fine," I choke out. "Fine." My legs wobble shakily beneath me as I stand. "Can you get me some coffee?" I ask Joan. She flashes me a worried glance then takes a step forward. I move away from her outstretched hand and walk towards my usual table.
Clary follows me to a table with a large picture window overlooking the distant city, making sure not to come too close to me. I feel like a mentally unstable monster. The view out the window looks like a scene straight from a postcard. She slides into the seat across from me. The view captivates my attention and hers too.
"Jace, what happ-"
"Nothing. Nothing happened."
"You can talk to me—"
"I can't." She looks down at the table, staring at it like the weathered plastic is the most interesting thing she's ever seen.
"Are you sure you're alr—"
"Drop it," I say, more sternly then I mean to. She appraises me with her eyes.
"How long have you been going here?" she asks me, realizing that I mean what I say and choosing to change the subject. I feel thankful for that.
"Since I was seven." I trace my fingers around the edge of the menu holder. I think of what lies under it and consider showing it to her. My entire life, a dozen lives, hidden under an ancient menu holder.
I lift it and reveal a pad of paper. Clary shoots me a questioning glance. "It's a secret among regulars. Someone started it a few years back. It's covered with things we've seen or heard or been through. Pretty amusing actually," I say, offering her the pad of paper. "We've already gone through a few of these."
She starts to flip through the pages, laughing at some pages, giving me a sad look on others. Joan shows up with two cups of coffee. Clary continues to read through the notes as I talk with Joan, still worried about me after my…episode, but my heart's not in the conversation. I take a sip of the coffee and watch her over the rim. Every once in awhile she shows me something she finds particularly funny and will ask me if I know who wrote it. Some of them I know from times when we happened to be at the diner at the same time. Others I have no idea about. She reaches one entry then looks at me with wide, sad eyes.
"Who wrote this?" she asks, sliding the pad of paper across the table to me.
Remember that to love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one destroyed.
The familiar handwriting takes me back two weeks when I was last here.
"I did." She stares at me, her eyes wide. Her small hands clutch the edge of her table so tightly that I can see the white of her knuckles.
"Why—why would…" she trails off, unable to think of something suitable to say.
"My father always told me that," I say after a lengthy pause. Her green eyes widen.
"That's horrible," she says.
"Not really. It's good advice."
"Jace—"
"Clary." She reaches over to close the small book. I grab her hand before she can pull it away.
"But that's completely—" she says, but my fingers tighten around hers, quickly shutting her up. I release her hand and drop her gaze, turning to look out the window, but the picturesque scene can't hold my attention for long. I turn my gaze to Clary. The moonlight glows across her features, making her milky skin glow and washing out her brilliant hair. She looks so innocent and so sad and so strong and so so beautiful.
I reach across the short table and touch her cheek, turning her face to look at me. My fingers trace her jaw line, then slowly, softly, move to her lips. Her green eyes flutter shut as I run my thumb along her bottom lip. Her warm breath brushes across my skin. She puts her hand on top of mine, holding it against her cheek then gently pulls it from her face.
"Remember our re-do," she says softly. I let the mask of indifference I wear so well settle over my face, then lean away from her without saying a word. She touches her lips absentmindedly looking hurt and confused. I turn away from her and look out the window. My heart pounds furiously in my chest, a pain radiating from it that I faintly recognize.
To love is to destroy.
Suddenly, I know. Sometime in the last few weeks I, Jace Herondale, the heartless, Casanova extraordinaire, have fallen for Clary Fray. To love is to destroy. My father's mantra rings in my head, reminding me of my history and just how wrong I am for her; how damaged, how arrogant, how heartless. I keep my face blank and take a sip of my coffee. She reaches out and touches my hand with the tips of her fingers. I jerk away from her touch. Her scalding eyes meet mine and I see an apology in the verdant depths. I also see pity.
"I'll be in the car," I say. I stop at the front desk to pay, then walk into the frigid air and slide into the driver's seat. The car is still slightly warm from the ride down. I roll down the window, welcoming the cold to my pity party. I lean my elbows against the wheel, resting my head in my upturned palms.
Time passes slowly allowing me to relish in my mistakes. Every moment that led up to this one weighs heavily on my heart.
The butterfly effect. A butterfly flaps its wings and halfway across the world there's a hurricane. If I hadn't invited her here today. If I had let her believe I was an ass instead of feeling like I had something to prove to her. If I hadn't shown up in the ER that first night I met her. If I had never punched my fist through the damn window. If, if, if. I wouldn't be here, wanting a girl I don't deserve.
I pound my fists against the steering wheel, letting out a small scream of frustration. I throw open my door and start to pace, feeling restless and confused. The world shrinks down to me, a small stretch of pavement and the sound of my feet slapping against the ground.
A hand on my shoulder pulls me out of my mind.
Clary.
I stare at her for a minute, my walls lying in rubble around my feet. I hurry to build them up, once again hiding myself from her.
"Jace," she says softly.
"Let's go home," I say. But she won't let me go. She grabs my arm, her fingers gentle but her grip firm.
"No. You don't get to run away from me like that." My fingers tremble as irrational anger builds up in me. I grip her wrist and jerk it off of my arm. She stumbles away, her wide eyes gazing into me as she rubs her wrist. My hands drop to my side as I realize what I just did. I reach slowly for her arm, wanting to see the damage I've done but she steps away from me. I inwardly flinch as she clutches her arm to her chest.
"Clary," I say softly, trying to keep the bubbling emotion out of my voice. "I'm sorry."
"Let's go home," she says softly. She opens the door and slides into the passenger's seat. I don't move, watching her as she sits patiently, waiting for me to realize that she's not going to come back out. After a few minutes in the cold, I resign and sit in the driver's seat. I turn on the car and quietly pull out of the parking lot. The car is silent; no music, no conversation. Just the quiet, rhythmic sound of our breathing.
The city starts to appear around us. Skyscrapers and apartment buildings appear, shooting into the starless sky. Clary avoids eye contact with me, keeping her hands unmoving in her lap and her eyes trained out the side window. I pull in front of our building and turn the car off. She pulls open the door, not saying goodbye, not waving, not flipping me off. Nothing. She just leaves. And I'm left in the car trying not to think about her and thinking of nothing else.
Sorry for the wait! I've been incredibly busy. Hope this long-ish chapter makes up for some of it! Thanks, like always, for reading!