Cataclysm

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

Chapter Two

"Hey, Clare, wait up!" Clare nearly strangled herself with the scarf she had been bundling around her neck. She stared longingly out the door for a moment, wanting nothing more than to continue on her way, getting lost somewhere between long city blocks. Keeping in mind that brushing off the other waitresses would only exacerbate the discomfort she already felt at the cramped delicatessen where she worked, she put on what she hoped was a pleasant smile and turned around.

"Sorry, Carrie, I'm just on my way out–"

"I just wanted to ask you something." Clare bit her lip, gauging the strange smile on her coworker's face. Deciding it wouldn't hurt to humour the girl with a minute of forced conversation, Clare nodded tersely.

"Well, Madison and Laura and I, we were thinking that... we've invited all the other girls already, so I thought I'd better... sorry, you see, it's Laura's birthday this weekend and we were going to get dressed up on Saturday and head downtown to–"

"So you need me to cover a shift," Clare offered, pained by Carrie's incessant stuttering but relieved by the subject she was leading to. "Sure, I don't mind. What time?" Carrie quirked an eyebrow, looking at Clare strangely.

"No, Clare, I was asking you to come." Clare felt her heart begin to beat quickly, and dismissed her phony smile. Wringing her suddenly sweaty palms, Clare shifted her focus to the grimy linoleum beneath her feet.

"I'd really rather not," she answered quietly, wishing she had brushed this off after all.

"Are you sure?" Carrie asked, sounding understandably put out though not entirely surprised.

"Thanks, anyway." Clare flashed an imperceptible and insincere smile, wanting to waste no time in her second effort at exiting the building. Watching the white puff of air that was her heavy breath, she let herself disappear amidst a sparse population of winter coats and floppy hats. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, wishing for the wool gloves she had left on the kitchen counter that afternoon.

It had been a long day, one that felt oddly empty to Clare. Between waking up late after a night of tossing and turning to an empty apartment, making messes to clean in the absence of customers to serve, and shivering in the absence of a functional heater, she'd resigned to the fact that, upon her return home, she'd want nothing more than to crawl into bed and close her eyes, begging sleep to let her forget that day had ever happened. Clare had been trying to forget a lot of days since... She shook her head, choosing to observe the varying brightness of the streetlights which lined her path.

Her steps were automatic and expeditious–she appreciated the anonymity of walking a city street, but she wasn't ignorant; it was just barely eleven o'clock, and she was barely over five-foot-two. She weaved between cars, no patience for the flashing red lights at each intersection she crossed. So I get hit, whatever, she thought bitterly to herself. She flinched involuntarily at the sound of a car horn and the brief clamor of reflexive breaks, but barely faltered in her movements.

Finally, her building came into view. She slowed her pace as she maneuvered through the parking lot in front of the building, but only stopped to kick the fender of a newer addition to the tenant spaces, an aged black sedan–she felt no shame in the immature habit she'd picked up several weeks before. Truthfully, she wished the weather hadn't been so consistently successful at numbing her toes, then perhaps she could realistically hope to dent the car, or, at the very least, scratch it.

She lowered her hood, and a particularly cold wind made a quick effort at freezing her exposed ears before she had pulled out her keys and rushed into the lobby. She opted for the stairs, hoping the physical effort would encourage the restoration of feeling to her fingers, only to regret the decision by the third floor because the elevator would have have her in bed already. She dragged her feet off the last step, grateful to finally reach the dark, blue hallway of the fourth floor. She walked with her head down, watching her wet shoes squish into the worn carpet.

"I didn't think I'd run into you this late..." Clare stopped walking at Eli's nervous words. She looked up-was he really so pale, or had she just painted herself as that much of a a monster? Swallowing the curse words and insults that were rising like bile in her throat, Clare rolled her eyes and pushed past him wordlessly. She thought he'd been avoiding her, and she was vaguely pleased to have her suspicions confirmed. Nonetheless, she hadn't the energy nor the desire to reject another of his attempts to stutter a bullshit apology for something she was sick of thinking about.

Entering her dark living room, Clare attempted to pull off her shoes without pausing her journey. She nearly fell on her face after smashing her knee against the coffee table, but was too exhausted to really care. She unzipped her coat and threw it at a chair, watching with disinterest as it slid off of the wooden arm and landed on the floor. By the time she reached the bedroom, she was unsure of where she'd find her scarf and sweater in the morning but only proceeded to unzip her jeans, shimmying out of them just in time to collapse into her bed.

She rolled over lethargically to kiss Jake's shoulder, though he was snoring loudly and failed to respond. She watched his lips twitch and his head roll from side to side for a few minutes until her eyelids began to settle, and she happily obliged their fatigue. As soon as the meager light filtering through the blinds was blocked out of her vision, the thoughts she found herself continuously avoiding jolted her mind awake. Following the loss of a twenty-minute battle with herself and still no sleep in sight, Clare opened her eyes and sat up, looking back to the content smile on Jake's peaceful face. Then, because she'd barely slept in a month, because even next to Jake her day felt empty, and because she hadn't left herself for a long time, Clare began to cry.

The next morning when Clare woke up, she felt immediate regret for succumbing to her midnight tears because she could now barely open her swollen eyelids. She hardly remembered falling asleep, though it was clear it hadn't happened more than a couple of hours ago. Rubbing her engorged eyes aggressively, Clare groaned and escaped the thick blanket that felt suddenly suffocating. She walked out to the living room, kicking her discarded pants out of her path, and stopped to examine her clothes splayed about the apartment.

"Rough night, sleepy-head?" Jake laughed. He was at the kitchen table, briefcase open and papers surrounding him. He peered at Clare over the top of his glasses, slowly examining her appearance. Her eyes were barely slits in her mirthless face; she was wearing nothing but a black T-shirt, "New Yorker Deli" splayed across her chest, blue underwear and one gray sock; her hair was a disorganized combination of it's natural curl and just plain unruly; and her shoulders slumped with what was more than the stupor of having just woken up. Jake wasn't quite sure what to make of her, or what to say, so he was glad when she scoffed.

"Sleepy-head, says the one in bed by nine." Pushing her tangled bangs off of her forehead, Clare shuffled towards the bathroom. Jake smiled, hoping his observations had been overly-pessimistic after all.

"Only preparing for retirement, my love," he called out to her.

"Just a few short years away, old man!" her voice came from the other side of the bathroom door. He chuckled, attempting to compile a few of his documents to give Clare some eating space. "So, I ran into the girl from 413 in the mailroom again," he announced over the sound of running water.

"Bet that made you dizzy, the girl's a walking energy drink," Clare deadpanned, headed for the fridge. Instead of responding, Jake stood up and wrapped his arms around her waist. Clare turned to him, happily accepting her good-morning kiss, and even more-happily reciprocating Jake's attempt to deepen it. His tongue swiped her bottom lip swiftly, and she let him push her against the refrigerator door, his body flush against hers. His hands were sliding teasingly up the sides of her T-shirt and she considered how convenient it was that her pants were already absent just as he pulled away to graze his teeth over her earlobe.

"She invited us to dinner tonight," he whispered, trailing open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. Clare tensed. "Why?" she demanded. Jake shrugged, pulling away to look at her. Clare crossed her arms.

"To be nice? Some people just like to socialize, Clare."

"Don't patronize me. Why are you even bringing this up? I don't want to have dinner with them." Jake stepped back, and the look in his eyes made it clear that Clare's arguments were futile from here on out.

"Well, too bad, because I already told her we'd love to."

"You what?"

"I invited them to have dinner with us. Eli, calm down, it's not a crime to be nice to your neighbours." Imogen sipped her coffee with an air of nonchalance which only succeeded to further irritate her boyfriend.

Eli had divulged very little context regarding his history with their new neighbour, other than to label her as someone he "used to know." That they parted on less-than-amicable terms had been Imogen's own clever inference.

"Imogen, I don't think you're grasping what a bad idea it is to put me in a room with Clare Edwards. For someone who claims to love me, you clearly never want to see me again." Eli slumped down in the chair across from her, gripping one of her hands in both of his in an attempt to communicate his desperation. Imogen rolled her eyes, and laughed when he dropped his forehead to the tabletop.

"You're being ridiculous. Elijah, we're all adults. For the past month, all I've heard is how you and Clare need to be civil with one another–well, here's your chance. It's not like we're backing her into a corner; no one is holding a gun to her head and she's perfectly entitled to decline the offer. But I think we both know that she won't, and that's not our doing." Eli repositioned so his chin was on the table and he was looking up at her.

"She is really stubborn," Eli muttered, his tone revealing the very slightest hint of resignation.

"See? I'm only doing this for you, darling," she implored, leaning forward and pushing the hair out of his eyes. Eli laughed.

"Please, we both know you're doing this to stir up some more real-life theatrics for you to inject yourself into." Imogen smiled. A few moments passed in which Imogen stared at a far wall, running through the lines of a monologue she was working on, and Eli remained splayed across the table, examining the swirls of wood grain.

"No, I've changed my mind, this can't end well. Absolutely not, Imogen," Eli suddenly declared, bolting upright. Imogen quirked an eyebrow.

"Elijah, you're going to have to give me a good reason to cancel this, and that means telling me what really happened between the two of you." The blood drained from Eli's face.

"It's a long story," he tried, pathetically. Imogen raised her other eyebrow, daring him to try again, before smiling assuringly.

"I've got time."

Clare was still grumbling to herself 9 hours later as she straightened out the green blouse Jake had selected for her following her childish attempt to don sweats and a hoodie. "I may be a father, Clare, but trying to parent you gets old really fast." Clare ignored him, though she felt guilty that Jake was forced to deal with the emotions he hadn't even influenced. Jake sighed, resting his chin on her shoulder and making eye contact in the mirror before them. "Please, just try. If tonight is really as horrible as you seem to expect, I'll never bring it up again. Just try. For me?" Clare echoed his sigh, nodding in defeat. Jake beamed, and Clare smirked back.

Five minutes later, Clare and Jake were knocking on the door to apartment 413. Rather, Jake was knocking, and Clare was standing back warily. The door swung open, and Imogen stood on the other side, displaying what Clare decided was an obnoxious amount of teeth for a welcoming smile.

"Oh, I'm so glad you came! Where are my manners, come in, come in!" She stood back and ushered them in. Jake immediately engaged her in "hello, how are you"s, and Clare followed reluctantly. Imogen was wearing a vintage dress with a high neckline and cap sleeves, covered in tiny white flowers. She had on plain white pumps, and her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, tied up with a ribbon. Finally, and Clare nearly choked on her own spit when she noticed, her hands were housed in white gloves. Mentally kicking herself, Clare wondered what in the world she had gotten herself into.

They made their way into the kitchen, and Clare distracted herself by cataloguing the structural differences between this, and their own apartment. Her teeth gritted together when Eli came into view, his body leaning against the counter and a glass of water in his hand, but she allowed her eyes to sweep over him passively, just barely catching the terse nod he gave.

"Well, let's all sit down to eat, shall we?" Imogen asked excitedly, clapping her hands together. Everyone sat down at the pristinely set table, and Imogen placed a platter of ham in the center of them all with a flourish.

Dinner was consumed in awkward silence, only sporadic attempts at conversation passing transiently between Imogen and Jake. Clare was entirely focused on her plate, seeming much too enthralled with the act of cutting her meat, and Eli brought his glass to his lips every time Imogen looked to him for verbal input. As they all finally set down their cutlery and leaned back slightly in their chairs, Clare felt anxious to be done with this.

"Well, that was really wonderful, Imogen," Jake complimented. Imogen shrugged as though embarrassed, though no blush graced her cheeks, and waved her hand to dismiss him.

"Yeah, thanks for having us, it was lovely," Clare forced out quickly, rising from her chair. Imogen reached out and placed a hand on her arm, and Clare stared at the gloved fingers wrapped around her forearm.

"Oh, no, you can't go yet! I have dessert, and we've barely gotten to know each other." Clare shifted her eyes to Jake, who's own expression was pleading. Clare sat back down.

"Wonderful," Imogen smiled, "I'm so glad you can be adult about this, Clare." Eli quickly threw his gaze upon his girlfriend, brows knit together and he hissed her name quietly.

Similarly, Jake's eyes shot open, and he immediately looked to Clare, hoping she had not picked up on the Imogen's thinly veiled condescension. "Clare," he whispered, but it was no use, she wasn't listening to him.

"And miss this, Imogen? Of course not, I haven't even had the chance to compliment your June Cleaver costume–or is it Minnie Mouse?" Imogen let out a laugh, and Jake was beyond relieved when Clare made no move to further provoke the situation.

"Well, Clare, I'm an actress–I can't help but get into character. Tell me, what is it you do?" Her tone was no longer condescending, but Jake was sure that the hope of Clare adapting a pleasant attitude was unsalvageable anyway.

"Um, I'm a financial consultant for an architectural firm," Jake offered. Imogen leaned forward on her hands, her intrigue seemingly sincere.

"Oh, how fascinating. And what about you, Clare?" Clare met her eyes, and straightened up in her seat, trying to meet a challenge no one had issued.

"I'm a waitress, actually, at New Yorker Deli on Bay." Imogen nodded.

"Oh, I don't think I've ever eaten there; we should go sometime, Eli," she suggested, looking to her still-silent boyfriend for support.

"Er, yeah, maybe."

"Eli," Jake began, "What do you–"

"Have you always wanted a career in the food industry, Clare?" Imogen's tone was sickeningly sweet, and Clare really was growing dizzy trying to discern the difference between sincerity and acting.

"No, I used to be in publishing." Imogen clicked her tongue.

"Didn't pan out, then? Too bad."

"Actually," Clare shot back, "I quit. I needed a change. I was a prevalent part of Seraphim Editions." Imogen's eyes were suddenly gleaming.

"Seraphim! They published Eli's novel," she exclaimed suddenly. "Well, isn't that fun." Imogen sat back in her seat, hands folded in her lap as her eyes shifted between Clare and Eli, silently inviting them further into her conversation.

"Y-yeah, I know. I was still... there, when... when he was picked up." Eli looked at her questioningly.

"You were?" Clare felt uncomfortable with his eye contact, and began wringing her hands together.

"Elijah, clearly she wasn't about to call and tell you that you were practically business partners. Given what happened between you, I mean."

Clare's hands flew to the arms of her chair and she gripped tightly, whipping her head around to stare at Eli.

"You told her?" Anger ebbed at her words, and Eli wanted nothing more than to go back in time and tape Imogen's mouth shut, before she had the chance to instigate this whole dinner in the first place.

"Clare," Imogen began, "You hardly have to be embarrassed. You were a teenager; rejection is just a part of growing up. It was just a schoolgirl crush, and unfortunately it wasn't reciprocated. Surely you can forgive Eli, and move past all of this unnecessary hostility." Clare's face grew more contorted with each sympathetic word that escaped Imogen's thin lips. Realization dawned on Clare, and she pushed her chair back slowly.

"Jake, we're leaving."

"Clare, wait–" She turned to glare at Eli.

"For what, Eli? Just leave me alone, leave me alone to nurse my poor, broken, rejected heart." Clare's words dripped with venom, and Eli had legitimate reason to believe she'd spit in his face. "This, is never going to work," Clare added, gesturing wildly between the four of them, her eyes landing on Imogen's amused face, "and your boyfriend is lying to you. Mine was hardly the heart that he broke, and it goes way past the rejection of a crush. Get to know each other, before you try to get to know us; it's pathetic."

Jake, feeling too out of place to interject, placed a light hand on Clare's back and led her out of the apartment.

Eli stood up so quickly that his chair fell over, and in an instant, his face was mere inches away from Imogen's.

"Whatever the hell that was, Imogen, it was not okay. We aren't just characters in some story for your amusement, you can't manipulate people that way to keep yourself entertained." Imogen scoffed, backing away from the infuriated man before her.

"Please, Eli, you don't even like her. She doesn't matter."

"She's a human, Imogen! She has feelings, and you went out of your way to hurt them! I don't care who it is, you don't do that!" Eli stormed out of the kitchen, grabbing his keys and wallet from the coffee table and headed for the door.

"Eli, where are you going?" Imogen asked, sounding bored. Eli didn't even look back before he slammed the door.