Half Truths

Best behaviour

Clary leaned against the back railing, her eyes fixed on the gleaming, tiled ceiling above, while the swells of Celine Dion reverberated throughout the small space. Simon stood at her side, his hands tucked into his pockets as he whistled along to Que sera sera.

Clary snickered, looked over at him, and shook her head.

Simon froze, his mouth still in the shape of a small O, and glanced down at her. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing." She smiled.

He raised his brows and cocked his head to the side as if waiting for a better answer.

Clary laughed again. "It's just . . . well, you're such a dork. I mean, you're whistling Que Sera Sera."

"What's wrong with que sera sera?" he asked, his brows drawing together. "I think it's a musical masterpiece."

Clary doubled over, laughter pouring out of her. Simon tried to continue whistling but couldn't through the smile forming on his lips, so he proceeded to sing the chorus in his best falsetto voice. Soon, they were both laughing, their snorts echoing off the walls. Both were in tears by the time the elevator doors slid open.

Clary reached up and wiped the moisture from her eyes, her gaze landing on her brother's scowling face. "Well, hello, Jonathan." Clary and Simon stepped out of the lift into the ornately decorated office. A large cherry desk stretched the expanse of the room and a painted up blonde sat behind it, her long, fake nails clicking at the keyboard.

"Clary," Jonathan answered, before turning his stare to Simon. "And you brought your friend, lovely."

"Hey, Jon. What's up?" Simon lifted his hand into the air like he wanted to high-five.

Jonathan scowled, and looked Simon up and down. His arms stayed glued to his side. "It's Jonathan, Lewis. For as long as you've known me, I've never let you call me Jon."

Simon shrugged and leaned toward Jonathan. "One of these days, I shall break you, and you'll be begging me to call you Jon."

Jonathan rolled his eyes and raised his gaze to Clary. "Are you ready? Father's expecting you."

"

Yeah." Clary hitched her bag over her shoulder and moved toward Jonathan. Simon followed.

Jonathan held out a hand, pushing it to Simon's chest. "Your lap dog stays here."

"Is that an insult to my size? Because, I really don't think I'd fit in her lap. We could try it out though, and see." Simon glanced behind him toward the seating area. "Ah, that big green chair looks comfy enough."

Clary stifled a giggle. "Sit Teddy, sit. Good dog," she said to Simon.

"Woof," he answered.

"Quit screwing around." Jonathan took hold of Clary's elbow, tugging her toward the large double doors to their left. His grip was not tight, and she followed willingly.

As the doors opened, Clary found herself immersed in her father's world once again. For so long she'd distanced herself, not only because of the way he made himself appear superior to her and everyone else, but because he treated his things and space like they belonged in a museum. Not a speck of dust lined any surface in his office. Everything was arranged in groups of three and positioned at just the right angles. Little trinkets from his world travels dotted the expansive dark, wood shelves, as well as pictures of him and Jonathan during their many excursions.

Only one photo of Clary occupied his space. It was one from when she was about five and the whole family had gone with Valentine on his business trip to Paris. The Eifel Tower stood proud and tall in the background with her parents right in front of it. Jonathan was situated just before their father, Valentine's hand cupped proudly around Jonathan's seven-year-old shoulder, and Clary sat on her mother's hip. They all smiled. Clary couldn't remember another time where they all looked like a family.