(A/N: Post-episode 1x06.)
Maybe it wasn't the best idea for Brenna to reprimand a still-drunk Ford, but her fury would wait for nothing.
"I can't believe you did that. I should have let your parents deal with you," Brenna muttered, jerking Ford's heavy boots roughly off of her feet.
The other girl lay sprawled on her comforter. Brenna had managed to get her home, with help from Kieran. And they had somehow avoided getting caught by Ford's mom and dad – the girl would have been in for a world of retribution, and Brenna was really starting to think she deserved that and more.
Ford, on the other hand, still quite drunk but sobering up nicely in the wake of her spectacular vomit fest on Greer's belongings, was more concerned with something else.
"Why have you been so on edge today? It was a party. I was having fun. That's, like, what people do at parties. Hello."
Brenna stood up straight, clenching her fists at her side and breathing deeply so as to control her temper and not completely destroy the mess of a girl before her.
"It was beyond rude, Ford. It was the most disrespectful thing you could have possibly done. It was juvenile, and I hope you have the worst hangover tomorrow."
"What, do you like her or something?" Ford drawled, her eyes slipping shut to stop the room from spinning.
With a sigh, Brenna shook her head and went about cleaning up the outer layers of clothing she'd helped Ford shed.
"I… She's cool, and it wasn't right to drink her parents' champagne and ruin a family heirloom."
Brenna stopped fidgeting and stood prone, thinking about Greer and how she must be feeling right then. Probably betrayed, possibly suffering from secondhand embarrassment. Definitely distracting herself by burning her bed furnishings…
"No," Ford paused. She opened her eyes and caught sight of Brenna's still back. "I mean, do you like her, like her?"
Brenna breathed heavily. Her shoulders rose and fell, but she didn't say a word.
Ford had her answer.
"She represents everything we hate, Carver."
Brenna could have screamed at her supposed friend. She whirled around and pointed a chastising finger right between Ford's eyes.
"Does it make you happy, being so angry and spiteful all the time? Because I've been angry for a really long time, okay? Hell, I've been full of anger since my dad left. But it wasn't until recently – it wasn't until Greer – that I started to think about being happy and what that means. Not just losing the anger, Ford, but being happy. Really and truly satisfied with my life."
She stopped – bit her lip, shook her head – then continued again.
"Greer doesn't represent everything we hate, Ford, not even close. Because if we hate everything she is, then we hate kindness, and optimism, and, honestly, probably everything else that's good in the world. You're not doing anyone any favors by pretending that pessimism and cynicism are the most profound truths, all right?"
Ford didn't say a word. She just continued to lay prone, staring up at the ceiling. But it felt like the alcohol was leaving her system faster every second, and the words were making her brain pound painfully against the inside of her skull.
"And I could care less if you remember any of this tomorrow. I could care less if you change. Because I'm changing, you know? I'm allowed to change. And I can do it with or without you and your twisted sense of friendship."
As Brenna left the room, Ford expected her to slam the door loudly. Doing so would alert her parents to their mess of a daughter. It would have allowed Brenna to exact sweet, sweet revenge. But even as Ford braced herself for what she thought would be the inevitable crashing of the door in its frame, Brenna surprised her for what was probably the hundredth time that day: she closed the door quietly, slipping away like a whisper.
And that soft click felt like the punctuation mark at the end of whatever statement their friendship had been. Ford breathed in and out deeply through her nose. She felt like she was going to be sick again, but not because of the booze this time.