Outcasts

Her Voice -Part Two-

Chelsea took a generous drink of her Irish coffee, wiping away the foam on her upper lip when she spotted Fletcher's smirk.

'I needed that,' she said.

'Rough day?'

'When is it not with him?'

Silence. Clay started playing the first new chords of The Scientist, by Coldplay. A favourite of his. Chelsea noticed he defaulted to that when he was nervous. She wanted to ask what was eating him up; pre-show jitters were a thing of the past for Clay. Or so he said.

'Were you staying with Jaz?' Clay asked, surprising her. He didn't look up from his guitar, and she couldn't see his eyes beneath his curly brown locks. His eyes were the one thing that would not lie. Would show the beautiful soul within—beneath the snarky exterior.

'Uh... yeah. Yes. I came home today. Can't... can't hide there forever.'

'So just move out.'

'It's not that simple, Clay.'

Clay looked up for the first time, and she was startled by the cold sea blue of his eyes.

'It can be. You can make it simple. You can fix this shit by just getting the fuck outta there.'

Chelsea blinked, her lips clenched tight. She felt the tremor in her fingers and she closed them into a fist. Not leaving mum, no chance.

'I'm not that strong,' she admitted.

'Bullshit,' Clay snorted. Chelsea just glared.

Fletcher reached out and rested his hand on Clay's, quieting his tempest. Clay held a fire inside that could easily consume him. He had been through his own hell, and she knew he hated seeing her still living in hers.

'Easy,' Fletcher breathed.

'No,' he said, shrugging Fletcher's hand off. 'Chelsea is the strongest person I know. This is fucking bullshit.' He stared right at her, the storm spilling out. 'You are strong, Chels.'

'Legit, you always have our backs,' Fletcher said.

'I wish,' she started, choosing to stare into the umber liquid, and not at those eyes. 'that I could be strong for myself. Not just for you guys. I need... Damn. I need to actually do something. I need to get my head in the bloody game and... help her.'

'Wow,' Clay whistled. 'must be proper end-of-the-world shit if you're spilling that blasphemy from your mouth.'

'Clay,' Fletcher warned, leaning forward and grabbing Chelsea's hands in his own. There he was, so pure and sweet, and Chelsea, in the cynical trappings of her mind, wondered not for the first time how much of it was an act. No one was this kind, this quick to help. It had to be a false front—making up for insecurities buried deep down. It had to be.

'Help who?' he said softly. Chelsea clicked her tongue. She hadn't meant to say that last part out loud. Oh well, there's no backing down now.

'Mum.'

'Why are you afraid to leave her?'

'So you agree with Clay?' she spat. 'It's really that easy, yeah? Just up and run? Of course he'd say that.'

Clay withered under her taunt, her blow too close to home. All this fire... but she could never hurt her friends. She could never afford to lose them.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'it's not... I don't want to go there.'

Clay nodded, biting at his lower lip, eyes glossing over for a brief second. He slumped back in his armchair, staring out the window, at a past that stung. The sky outside was staining a velvety orange. A sky for reflection.