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Finn is explaining The Godfather to her for the fifth time in a week, and Clarke is on the verge of doing something drastic. Like strangling him. In the middle of this bar. With any number of witnesses. And then standing over his corpse with her foot on his chest like a triumphant victor.
She blinks herself out of her murderous stupor, but he’s still going. “And you already know Coppola only meant for people to see it that way.” On the long list of things Clarke cares about, The Godfather does not make the cut. Hearing about The Godfather from a secondary source is also absent from that category. Hearing about it five times in a week makes the top of Clarke’s “Reasons To Dump Someone” list.
Unfortunately, Clarke pointing out that she doesn’t care about this movie has not discouraged Finn from talking about it; if anything, it’s done the opposite. He’s of the mind that everyone should care about it, what with its being a staple of the genre (which genre, Clarke’s unsure — maybe mafia movies? Movies that make men feel smart?), and since Clarke doesn’t care about it, it’s his mission to change that. Before The Godfather, it was The Social Network. Before that, 2001: Space Odyssey.
Clarke should have broken up with him when she first learned of his cinephile nature, because now it’s too late. She’s tried telling him she just doesn’t like movies, but he never seems to hear her. This was fine when it was an offhand comment about being excited for some new release, but then it turned into one-sided conversations and constantly getting dragged out to the theaters to see Christopher Nolan’s new film. The fact that Clarke even knows there’s a new Christopher Nolan movie in theaters means she’s officially in the belly of the beast. It’s not nice in here. It’s dank. And mind-numbingly bland.
According to Wells, Finn is an asshole. Clarke is hesitant to name-call, because really, she’s kind of an asshole too, for leading him on this long, but Wells always assures her he’s the bigger asshole, because “if he could pull his head out of his ass for long enough to listen to a word you say he’d realize you don’t give a shit.” And then he’d dump her. Which would be nice. Clarke hates being the dumper. Finn may be an asshole, but he’s still a human being.
But they’re on The Godfather: Round 5, and Clarke’s desperate. In fact, she’s more than desperate: she’s scheming.
“Now imagine you’re Marlon Brando,” Finn says, with overzealous hand gestures to illustrate whatever point he’s making that Clarke has been tuning out.
Clarke has no interest in imagining she’s Marlon Brando. She tosses back the rest of her beer and says, “I’m gonna get another drink.”
“Wait like two seconds,” Finn says. “Let me finish my point.”
Clarke clenches her jaw. “Nope, I’m going now. Do you want something?”
“I’m good,” Finn says, kind of huffily, like he’s personally affronted that Clarke would dare interrupt his Marlon Brando dick-sucking just to get more alcohol. She really can’t deal with this anymore. If only it were acceptable to dump someone for being annoying to Clarke personally.
“Be right back,” she says tightly, and all but runs to the bar from their table. The sudden lack of any men trying to explain movies to her is a more-than-welcome reprieve. Clarke slumps against the bar and sighs, in no rush to get a new drink and rejoin her own personal hell.
“That guy sure loves the sound of his own voice.”
Clarke noticed the man to her right at the bar the moment they walked in. He’s what she imagines when people say tall, dark, and handsome — complete with curls and warm brown eyes and, apparently, a deep voice, slanted with a slight accent. She looks over at him to find him looking at her with sympathy.
“Who, Finn?” Clarke glances back at him; he’s scrolling through his phone. No doubt on the Godfather Wikipedia, stockpiling new arguments for why Clarke should really get with the times and watch this movie. Just the thought makes her shudder. “Yeah, I can’t argue with that.”
“Boyfriend?” asks Tall Dark and Handsome. “Not trying to jump to conclusions, but I can’t think of any other reason you’d suffer through that exhausting monologue.”
“You have no idea,” Clarke says. She should be more careful around unfamiliar men in bars, but having a hot stranger immediately take her side is kind of hitting in the right way, and she might be a little tipsy. “Boyfriend, yes. For the moment. I’m working on a way to dump him without hurting his feelings, but so far all my reasons have to do with how annoying he is.”
“The hell do you care about hurting his feelings?” Tall Dark and Handsome says. “If you don’t like him, stop putting up with him. Do a favor to you both.”
“He’s still a human being,” Clarke says. “With feelings. Just because I don’t give a shit about movies, doesn’t mean I have to make him feel bad about it. We’re not meant to be, it’s whatever.”
“This is such classic girl shit,” says Tall Dark and Handsome, who is seeming less handsome by the minute. Clarke is prepared to go on the defensive, or maybe offensive depending how quickly she can come up with an insult, when he goes on, “Why are you sitting here worrying about how a jerk like that will feel when a girl who’s way too good for him dumps his ass, when he’s spent the last half hour talking about something you obviously don’t care about and hasn’t even bothered to notice? He doesn’t care about your feelings at all, so give him a taste of his own medicine.”
Clarke narrows her eyes at him. “Seems like an oddly on-the-nose observation for a stranger in a bar to make. Stalker much?”
“Sorry for noticing a pretty girl in a bar,” says Tall Dark and Handsome, not sounding sorry at all. He has regained his Handsome status, and Clarke can tell she’s turning pink. “And I wasn’t eavesdropping. Your boyfriend’s voice carries. Trust me, I was trying to tune him out as much as you.”
“Probably not quite as much as me,” Clarke mutters. She glances behind the bar, but there’s only one bartender and she’s busy at the other end right now.
“Probably not,” Tall Dark and Handsome agrees. “I’m Bellamy, by the way.” He holds out a hand. “So I’m not a stranger in a bar anymore.”
“Clarke.” She shakes his hand. “Do you have any thoughts on The Godfather I should know about? Maybe some criticisms I can use as ammunition?”
Bellamy laughs. “Haven’t seen it, so no, can’t say I do.”
“If only you were my boyfriend,” Clarke says ruefully. Then, “I mean— you know. So I wouldn’t have to—”
“Oh, I know,” Bellamy says, smirking. It’s infuriating how charming his smirk is.
The bartender steps on what might have been an ill-advised moment. “What can I get you?”
“Another Sam Adams,” Clarke says. “I have a tab.”
The bartender looks at Bellamy, who says, “I’m good. You can put that Sam Adams on my tab, though.”
“That’s okay,” Clarke interrupts, shooting Bellamy a look. “It’s my boyfriend’s tab. I’m fine.”
Bellamy shrugs. It’s hard to tell if it’s an I can take a hint shrug or a may as well get your shitty boyfriend to pay for your drinks shrug. Clarke’s not actually sure which one she would prefer.
The bartender cracks open Clarke’s beer and puts it on a coaster for her. “Name on the tab?”
“Finn Collins.” Clarke turns to Bellamy as the bartender goes off. “You seem to have a lot of thoughts on the matter, so tell me: what would be the best way to get him to break up with me?”
Bellamy snorts. “I still think you should just dump him.”
“That's all you got?”
The challenge hits its mark; Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “Okay, fine.” He turns, studying Finn. After a moment he says, thoughtfully, “Would you say he's easily threatened?”
“Threatened how, exactly?”
“Like by an ex,” Bellamy says. “If you were to have, like, a violent, possessive ex threaten to dismember him if he ever came near you or whatever, would he fight for you or would he run?”
Clarke stares. When there's no indication that Bellamy is joking, she says, “I don’t know. I’ve never had a violent, possessive ex threaten to dismember him, so I really can’t say.”
“Hm,” Bellamy hums, scratching his chin. “Worth a shot, isn’t it?”
“Bellamy, I don’t have a violent, possessive ex,” Clarke says impatiently. “Nor do I know anyone who could convincingly portray one. Finn knows all my friends anyway.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Bellamy says, with a wolfish smile.
He’s crazy. That’s obvious. First of all, he’s far too invested in Clarke’s tragic relationship, and besides that, anyone with this much confidence in their ability to be violent and possessive over a person they just met has to have a screw loose somewhere. He must be crazy.
Clarke takes a long gulp from her beer, smacks the bar, and says, “Fuck it. You know what? Fuck it. If you’re sure you can get me out of this relationship, I’m down.”
“You can get yourself out of this relationship,” Bellamy says, grinning. “But I’ll gladly lay the groundwork.”
“Took you long enough,” Finn says, pocketing his phone as Clarke returns to their table. “While you were gone I got us tickets to see the new DiCaprio movie.”
“Finn,” Clarke starts, but he holds up a hand.
“Look, I know you’re gonna say you don’t want to go, but I’m absolutely sure you’re gonna like this one. It’s based on an incredible true story and it’s barely even three hours.”
Anytime now, Bellamy, Clarke prays, seconds from dry-heaving over the thought of watching Leonardo DiCaprio do anything for three hours. By some miracle, Bellamy saunters over right on time, looking for all the world like a drunken asshole.
“Clarke?” He grabs her chair for balance and leans in close; his breath is warm and his eyes go wide. “No fuckin’ way. Clarke Griffin? Do my goddamn eyes deceive me?”
Clarke tenses, glancing first at Finn — watching with a horrified expression — and then back at Bellamy.
“Bellamy,” she says curtly. “Long time no see.”
“Too long,” Bellamy says with a leer. It’s unnervingly convincing. He swings his head to look at Finn and his expression sours like milk. “Who the fuck’s this?”
“I’m Finn.” Finn’s voice is cold steel. “Clarke’s boyfriend. And you are?”
Bellamy laughs, nothing at all like his laugh at the bar. This one is harsh and grating, like a dissonant cacophony of birds. “This twelve-year-old boy is how you move on from me? Seriously, Clarke?”
Terribly, Clarke almost laughs. Instead she forces herself to sound cross. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, this grown man is my boyfriend.”
“I could beat this ‘grown man’ into a pile of cooked spaghetti in less than a minute,” Bellamy says with disdain. He slinks towards Finn, breaking every personal space barrier. “You think you’re good enough for her, chump?”
“Yeah, I do,” Finn says, lifting his chin in defiance. “And I think you’re obviously not, or she wouldn’t have dumped you.”
“Who says she dumped me?”
“I did,” Clarke interrupts, raising her voice. Neither boy spares her a glance. Clarke does a quick analysis of the situation, indexes every interaction she’s ever had with Finn, and takes a gamble. “Finn, forget it. Let’s just go.”
Bellamy shoots her a look like what are you doing? and Clarke tries to give him a look like just trust me. She has no idea if it translates.
Her gamble pays off. Finn squares his jaw. “I can handle myself, Clarke.”
“Yeah, give Mr. Nice Guy a chance to prove himself,” Bellamy taunts, prodding Finn’s shoulder. “Come on, big guy. You think you deserve a girl like Clarke? Think you’re man enough for her?”
“I think I could kick your drunk ass,” Finn says evenly. “You don’t scare me.”
Clarke grabs Finn’s arm and pulls. “Finn. I said drop it. Bellamy and I are history, and he knows that, don’t you, Bellamy?”
“What I know,” Bellamy says, “is that you suck at rebounding, Clarke. I mean, look at the posturing on this piece of shit. Pathetic. I bet he doesn’t even know how to throw a punch.”
Clarke wouldn’t have guessed that Finn knew how to throw a punch, either. Which is why she’s stunned speechless when he does.
It connects with a low-pitched thud, like a slab of meat hitting wood. Bellamy’s hand flies to his face and he stumbles away from the assault.
“Holy shit,” Clarke says. “Finn, what the fuck?”
“What—”
“I said to just drop it!”
“He—” Finn gapes. “Are you seriously mad at me for this?”
“I don’t want you fighting over me!” Clarke snaps. “And if you ever listened to me you’d have picked up on that when I asked to leave the first time!”
“You motherfucker,” Bellamy growls, straightening up. Clarke has no idea how far he intends to take this charade, but she hopes he’s not planning to deck Finn. That was never part of the plan.
“Bellamy, back off. ” Clarke plants herself between the two of them and gives him a meaningful look. “We’re done. Understand?”
Bellamy nods imperceptibly and gives her a quick wink. Then he flails his limbs and loudly declares, “I’ll back off for now, Clarke. But if I ever see this bastard out and about without you, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
He bows low, pretends to trip, and then lumbers away, swaying all the way back to the bar.
“What a dick,” Finn says, shaking out his hand. “Can’t believe you used to date that slimeball.”
“I can’t believe you fucking punched him,” Clarke says, incensed. “Are you kidding me?”
“What did I do wrong?” Finn demands. Like he really doesn’t know. “I was defending you!”
“I don’t need you to defend me!” Clarke throws her hands up. “I need you to listen to me, and you never do!”
“But I—”
“See? You’re still doing it now,” Clarke says, feeling vaguely hysterical. She grabs his shoulder and shakes, gently. “Finn. If I wanted a man in my life who was going to fight other men for my ‘honor,’ I would still be with Bellamy. I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t care,” Finn says stubbornly. “He insulted you.”
“No, he insulted you, ” Clarke says sharply. “Don’t pin this on me. You were defending yourself. ”
Finn stares at her, aghast. He opens and closes his mouth as if trying to dispute this, but the argument never comes. Finally, he says, “You can’t ask me not to fight for you. You’re my girlfriend. I love you.”
It’s the first time he’s said it, and Clarke doesn’t even believe that it’s true.
“I’m not asking,” she says firmly. “I’m telling. If you can’t be the kind of boyfriend who can let me fight my own battles, then this isn’t going to work out.”
“Wait — Clarke, wait.” Finn snatches up Clarke’s hand. She risks a sideways glance, but she can’t find Bellamy in the crowd at the bar. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious,” Clarke says, and she really is. “Tell me that if Bellamy comes back you could walk away from him. Tell me you could ignore him.”
She’s put all her eggs in this basket, and somehow, she knows it was the right play. In every scenario, Finn does what he thinks is best. Never mind what Clarke thinks.
His eyes are sad and serious when he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Clarke, but I couldn’t. You deserve better than that.”
Clarke exhales, feeling just a little guilty over how entirely she’s manipulated him into this breakup. “Then I guess this is it for us.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“It does.” Clarke squeezes his hand. “There’s a girl out there who would love to have a guy like you to fight for her. It’s just not me.”
His puppy dog eyes have lost their power over her. She cares about him in a distant way, but she’s just about done feeling beholden to him.
“Clarke,” he says beseechingly.
She shakes her head. “Goodbye, Finn. Good luck with everything.” She kisses his cheek, and then she leaves him there, staring after her, as she slips out the door into the cool autumn air.
Somehow, she’s not surprised to find Bellamy outside.
“How’d it go?” he asks. It’s disturbing how easily he can switch from ‘friendly stranger’ to ‘evil ex’ and back.
“Depends who you ask,” Clarke says, stepping out of the way of the door, towards him. She anxiously scans his face. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He tenderly touches his cheek with two fingers; it's tinged unusually pink in the low light. Not bruising yet, but it's only a matter of time. “Not the first time I've been punched in the face. I'll recover.”
Everything she learns about him makes her want to know more.
“So?” Bellamy prompts. “Tell me I didn't get assaulted for nothing, at least.”
“I ended things,” Clarke says. “Told him I didn’t want him fighting for me, which is true, I guess, but still an excuse.”
“Eh, good riddance,” Bellamy says, unfeelingly. “You were right about him. He wasn’t listening to you at all.”
“Those were some creative insults you came up with. Almost sounded premeditated.”
Bellamy shrugs evasively. “It’s a skill.”
“Like acting violent and possessive?” Clarke muses. “‘Cause you were scary good at that.”
“Why thank you,” Bellamy says, bowing. This time he’s grinning as he does. “My little sister says the same thing.”
“Oh, so you’re one of those,” Clarke says skeptically.
“Reformed,” Bellamy says, holding up his hands like he’s at gunpoint. “I hardly ever threaten to kill her boyfriends these days.”
Clarke laughs. She shouldn’t find him funny, but she does. There’s something magnetic about his shameless self-deprecation; it’s unusual for a man so aware of his flaws to be this confident anyway, but he makes it look easy. He makes it look good.
“Thank you,” she says, realizing she hasn’t said it yet. “I probably shouldn’t have needed a fake ex-boyfriend in order to break up with my real boyfriend, but I appreciate the assist.”
“Hey, no judgment here,” Bellamy says. He leans back into the brick face of the bar; he looks like he should have a cigarette. “I had fun. And I’m always in favor of making pretty girls single.”
The forthrightness should really make her more uncomfortable. Instead she finds it alluring. Resisting the very misguided urge to kiss him senseless against the wall, she says, “I hope you’ll at least wait the appropriate mourning period before hitting on me.”
“Which is how long?”
“Until we’re both sober?” Clarke suggests, a half-smile pulling at her lips despite herself.
Bellamy quirks a smile back at her. “I wasn’t drinking tonight,” he says. “I was DD for a friend, but he left with some guy. You turned up just as I was getting ready to leave.” He holds out a steady hand in the air between them. “So I’m stone-cold sober and ready when you are.”
Clarke takes a slow sip from her bottle, which is still half-full. She could stay tipsy for a while at this rate. She could bid him thanks and farewell and call an Uber, leaving Tall Dark and Handsome Bellamy loitering outside this bar.
Or…
“I could use a ride home,” she says. “If you’re offering.”
“I wasn’t,” Bellamy says. “It would’ve sounded like hitting on you.”
“Yes, it would’ve,” Clarke agrees, stepping closer. “So?”
In the race for brown eyes, Bellamy’s leave Finn’s in the dust. There are universes in the molten chocolate of Bellamy’s eyes, and constellations in the freckles surrounding them.
“Not scared of me?” Bellamy murmurs. “Strange man at the bar who’s a little too good at being violent and possessive?”
“Reformed,” Clarke says. “And there’s not a lot that scares me.”
“I noticed,” Bellamy says, with a faint air of amusement. “Now I’m wondering if I should be scared of you.”
She’s a med student. The human body is her bread and butter. She can think of six different ways to physically incapacitate him right now, and two ways to kill him. Most guys don’t like self-possessed women. Finn certainly didn’t.
“Oh, you should,” Clarke says, lifting her chin. The same way Finn did, she realizes — prepared to prove herself. “But as long as you don’t talk my ear off about Marlon Brando, I’m optimistic about your chances.”
Bellamy grins. He is indisputably not ‘most guys’. “And here I thought you were just using me for my superior acting skills.”
“Sorry for noticing a pretty boy in a bar.”
“Well, in that case,” Bellamy says, “can I offer you a ride home?”
Clarke smiles. “I would love a ride home.”