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Isabelle doesn't know how this happened. All she knows is that her parents thought she was seeing someone (which, she had been at the time of the call, then she dumped him). And asked to bring the nice boy over for their next party, knowing full well Isabelle never dates nice boys. And, so, now she's hand in hand with the cute redheaded girl who waits tables at the local cafe.
“I'm so sorry about this,” she tells Clary, still clinging to some of her dignity. They're on the steps to her mother and father's house and yet she's trembling.
Clary laughs. “It's fine.”
She'd been the one to approach Isabelle, but guilt churns in her stomach. “No, it isn't,” she says. Clary purses her lips, looking ready to say something, but then they're at the front door and Isabelle raises her fist to knock.
Alec is the one who opens the door, thank god, and he raises his eyebrows at Clary.
“You have to be here when I introduce her to Mom and Dad,” Isabelle bursts.
“Okay,” Alec says. He snorts. “So you didn't tell them you were bringing a girl?”
“Evidently,” Isabelle deadpans, “not.”
Clary looks between them like she's not sure they're real. Isabelle can't blame her. She peers over Alec's shoulder, only seeing a heavy crowd.
“Oh, it's one of those parties,” she mutters. “Is your boyfriend somewhere in there?”
“No.” Isabelle frowns; Alec waves a hand. “He's at another party, or something. I didn't ask. He doesn't show up to a lot of these, anyways -- it's hard to enjoy yourself with my parents glaring daggers at you over someone's shoulder the entire time.”
“I guess.” Isabelle tosses her hair over her shoulder, letting out a whoosh of breath. “Well, time to face whatever undying wrath they have in store for me. Clary, if you drift off into the crowd -- ”
“I'll just -- ” Clary squeezes her fingers and puts on a fake grin.
Alec takes pity on them and steps out of the entryway, letting them into the crowd. They're stopped after they make their way about a fourth in by a familiar shout of, “Izzy!”
“Jace,” Isabelle calls back, pausing with her hand still in Clary's. She rubs her neck, smiling at him and Max, trailing him. “Hey, Max. How are you guys?”
Jace isn't looking at her -- rather, at Clary, curiosity seeping into his eyes. Isabelle nearly breaks her neck twisting her head to look at Clary, who, too, is frowning, her eyebrows scrunched together. Isabelle spends a second thinking about how cute that is before she shakes her head and stares at Jace.
“Do you two know each other?” she asks.
“Uh, I think we might have -- ” Jace starts, cutting off.
“Dated,” Clary fills in.
Max peels away from Jace's side with all the petulant attitude of a thirteen-year-old, combing his hair back. He's trying not to look as shocked as Isabelle knows he is, from the way he blinks three times more than usual.
His eyes fall on Clary's shirt. “You like manga?” he blurts.
This breaks the momentary tension, Clary glancing down before nodding. “Oh, yeah! I forgot this is what I put on this morning.” She laughs, scratches her head. “The shirt I was going to wear got paint on it, so....”
“Forget the shirt,” Isabelle cuts in. “You dated?”
“In high school,” Jace confirms. “I thought I was in love with her after two weeks, then she broke up with me and started dating her best friend.” He doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed, fuck him. “I never talked about her because, well, I thought Mom and Dad would disapprove.”
At that moment, before any of them can respond -- fortunate or not, Isabelle can't tell -- Maryse Lightwood spots them from across the room. She squeezes into the little circle they've made, some kind of dark liquid swishing out of the wine glass at her side.
“It's three in the afternoon,” Jace points out.
Maryse fixes him with a steely look. “It's not alcohol, Jace,” she says coolly. She looks to Isabelle, a smile crossing her face. “Hello, Isabelle.”
Isabelle waits for the question, tapping her boot on the ground.
Tick-tock, mocks a clock in her head.
And indeed, Maryse is glancing around. Isabelle looks to one side and sees Robert socializing with a policeman. Maryse's smile becomes strained, wrinkles around her eyes accented by her confusion.
“Isabelle,” she says, “where's the young man you promised you'd bring?”
Isabelle opens her mouth to answer. Maryse's gaze falls on Clary, mouth forming a perfect “O”, realization dawning on her features.
Isabelle expects all hell to break loose at that.
Robert breaks free from his conversation with the officer, striding over to the other Lightwoods and Clary. He smiles, just as flimsy as his wife, and looks between their terse stances.
“Hello, Isabelle, it's nice to see you.” He nods towards Clary. “And who's your lady friend?”
Isabelle almost starts to laugh. She looks at Clary, and sees her face is a weak mask as well. Maryse whispers something into Robert's ear. His jaw works furiously, glancing between the two.
“Well, I assumed you were bringing a boyfriend,” he says.
Isabelle shrugs. “Well, I didn't.”
He opens his mouth to say more; Max and Jace are watching with silent awe. Finally Robert grits out, “I can see that”, and his gaze fixes on Clary. Maryse holds out a hand to her.
“Hello, I'm Isabelle's mother, Maryse Lightwood.” Clary takes her hand, looking put-off by the change in attitude. “It's nice to meet you... though I wasn't aware you were even coming.”
“I'm Clary.” She drops Maryse's hand. “Izzy's girlfriend. I thought she told you she was seeing a girl, but... apparently not?” Clary tosses a glance in Isabelle's direction.
Maryse's half-hearted glower falters at that. “Oh. No, she didn't. But -- ”
“You're fine with it, right?” Alec cuts in, hovering by them. Isabelle jumps -- she hadn't even noticed him. He tilts his head to one side, and Jace and Max both look towards their parents.
“Yes,” Maryse and Robert answer in stiff unison. Alec smothers a laugh with his palm.
“So,” Jace says, clearing his throat, “do you want to stay for dinner, Clary?”
Clary's smile is blinding. “I'd love to.”
*
“I can't believe it,” Isabelle says, head falling forwards into her palm in the car later. “They liked you better than me. And I hardly even know you,” she points out.
Clary, resting against the passenger window with a smug smirk on her face, pats her on the shoulder. “Don't worry, I don't know you either. I just take your order on Wednesdays, for coffee as black as your soul but with extra sugar.”
“Why do you ask for my order every time if you have it memorized?” Isabelle wonders. She shakes her head. “No, never mind, I don't want to know. Really, all I know about you is that you're single -- well, fake in a relationship, I guess -- and an artist, and -- ” She stops herself before she can say fucking adorable.
Judging by the look in her eyes, Clary hears it anyways.
“So.” Clary stops as soon as she says it, scratching the side of her face.
“So?” Isabelle asks.
“I feel like we should be backing this lie up.” She shrugs. “I mean, we aren't even friends on Facebook. Doesn't that seem suspicious?”
“Not before my parents found out,” Isabelle tells her. It's true. “Besides, I have girlfriends or boyfriends -- not that they've heard about any girlfriends until now -- for about two weeks before I break up with them. It's expected of me.” That is also true.
Clary laughs. The light from a street lamp outside Isabelle's apartment flickers on, casting a yellow glow across her freckles.
“So since we said we've been going out a week,” she says, “you'll break up with me soon?”
I don't want to, fake or real, Isabelle bites back, but all she does is shrug. “Maybe I'll end up liking you too much to want to. That'd be a new one; I think Mom would keel over if that happened.”
A comfortable silence settles, lasting a few minutes before Clary hums. “I like your family.”
“They, surprisingly, like you.”
“I get the feeling they haven't liked many of your dates before.”
Isabelle clicks her tongue. “I might bring home guys I know they'll hate on purpose.” Clary's eyebrows fade somewhere into her bangs. “What? It also doubled as a way to stop them from interrogating guys Alec was seeing that they didn't know he was seeing, so.”
“You weren't out to them before this?” Clary fusses with a glinting bracelet Isabelle hadn't noticed before, golden and with a few charms. She's distracted by its gleam for a few seconds, frowning. “Isabelle?”
She snaps herself out of it. “No. And I don't think it ever crossed their minds that more than one of their kids could be... not straight.”
Clary is silent, still twisting the bracelet. “I have a brother,” she says, and Isabelle blinks at her.
“What?”
“You said you didn't know anything about me.” She stares out the window, distant, tension rising in her posture. “Well... I have a brother. His name is Sebastian, and he's a year older than me.”
Isabelle shifts. She would like to hear about him, but Clary looks uncomfortable. “You don't have to -- ”
“I want to.” Clary's determined gaze burns at the edges. “Long story short: I didn't grow up with my biological dad, and his house burned down with him and Sebastian inside. Their bones were found just after my mom left, he didn't know that she was pregnant. But here's the thing -- they weren't their bones.”
Isabelle almost cuts in with a What?, but she bites her lip.
“They were another guy's, and his kid's.” Clary shakes her head. “I don't know who they were. Old enemies of my dad, I guess. He... wasn't a good guy. Anyways, Mom and everyone else thought they were dead up until a few years ago? I guess it would've been around the time Jace and I dated, so I was sixteen, probably, and Dad came for a visit.
“Mom wouldn't talk about what he said, or did. But all she knew was that he and Sebastian were alive. Sebastian came to find us, after. He was -- fucked up,” Clary admits. Isabelle blinks. “Being with my dad really messed him up. But he tried. And, now, I think he got taken in by another family. He hasn't seen us for a while, Dad's in jail.”
“Clary -- ” Isabelle starts. She hadn't quite expected that much information, though it appears Clary's more comfortable now, shoulders slacking. “Damn.”
“'Damn' about covers it.” Clary snorts.
Isabelle almost says something else, after ten minutes of sitting there, but she looks over and Clary is fast asleep against the window. She drums her fingers across the steering wheel, deciding not to wake her.
*
“Morning.”
Clary sits up from Isabelle's couch. Isabelle rests in the armchair near her, flipping through a tabloid magazine. She's not sure why she's reading it, though, and so drops it onto the table.
“Where -- ”
“You fell asleep in my car.” Isabelle's voice sounds flat, even to her. “I couldn't wake you up, and I don't know where your house is, so I just brought you in here.” She looks over her. “You're heavier than you look, you know.”
Clary smacks her hand against her forehead. “Oh my god, I told you the entire story behind my shitty family, didn't I?” When Isabelle's response is silence and the side of her lips quirking up, she sinks back down into the couch. “I'm sorry.”
“Should I be the one saying sorry?” Isabelle pats her hair down. Why hadn't she just taken a shower? She stands, shoving her hands in her pockets, wearing sweatpants for once. “I mean, the whole deal with your dad and brother -- ”
“Ugh.” Clary groans. “I was really tired last night, I definitely need to say sorry at least ten times.”
“You want me to bring you home?”
Clary shakes her head. “No, I don't want to wake Mom and Luke up. Besides -- ” She pats the sides of the couch. “It's nice here. You have a nice apartment.”
“Thanks,” Isabelle says. “I'm pretty fond of it, myself.”
Clary laughs, and all Isabelle can think is, shit.
*
Clary doesn't end up going home until one in the afternoon. They talk about their friends and family--Clary ends up spiraling stories about her best friend Simon, who's a geek and especially loves Star Wars. Isabelle mentions she hasn't seen Star Wars, but has it on her shelf somewhere, and so of course they have to watch at least Episode IV.
“You're a good fake girlfriend,” Isabelle tells her after the credits roll. She sniffs.
“Are you crying?” Clary grins. “Wow. You and Simon would get on really well.”
“I'm not crying,” Isabelle says. She isn't, she swears -- she's just a little in wonder. She checks her phone and winces. “You should probably be getting home.”
Clary nods but makes no move to get up. “I guess.”
“I'll drive you if you tell me your address.”
Clary does, looking a little disappointed. Isabelle stares at her feet once Clary gets out of the car at the flat she says belongs to her mom and stepdad.
“Bye,” Clary says.
“Bye,” Isabelle echoes.
*
Clary adds her on Facebook. Her request says, If you ever need a fake girlfriend again, I'm game :).
Isabelle updates her relationship status, and sees Clary's is altered too.
She can always change it if she wants.
*
Which is how she finds herself at her parents's for dinner two weeks later, again with Clary accompanying her. She hasn't told her parents she's still “dating” her, so she expects there to be a nice boy there. Her parents try to set her up with nice boys a lot; they're always the same, thin white boys with paper smiles.
And they're always assholes.
So she asks Clary over again, and indeed, there's a boy with slicked back white hair. Clary, clutching Isabelle's arm, startles at the sight of him.
“Clary,” he says in a smooth voice. “And you must be Isabelle.”
“I am,” Isabelle says, curious. “How do you two know each other?”
Maryse steps into the kitchen. “Ah, I see you've met Sebastian,” she says, and Isabelle freezes.
“Sebastian?” she asks.
“Yes,” he drawls. His gaze falls back on Clary. “It's been a few years, sister.”
*
“So Sebastian is Clary's brother,” Maryse mutters after hearing the story. She'd kicked Sebastian out a few minutes ago, and now Clary sits on the couch, staring into space. “If I'd have known -- ”
“You didn't.” Isabelle sighs. She looks around, deciding to change the subject. “Where's Dad? And Max?”
“Max is in his room.” Maryse's eyes soften for just a moment, though they harden once she realizes the first part of Isabelle's sentence. “Your father and I had a fight this morning. He's -- off somewhere, I don't know. I didn't ask.”
Isabelle almost asks what it's about, but she thinks she knows, so she goes straight for the kill. “You fought about me, didn't you?” Maryse cringes, and nods. “Of course you did.”
“It wasn't -- ” She exhales, rubbing her temples. “He's just a little upset you never decided to tell us about your interest in women.”
“You already hate your gay son,” Isabelle points out. Maryse opens her mouth; Isabelle narrows her eyes. She can't say neither she or Robert at least dislike Alec, or his sexuality. “Why should I have believed you'd still love your bi daughter?”
“Isabelle,” Maryse snaps.
“No,” Isabelle bites out. “No. Alec is twenty. I'm eighteen. You can let us live our own lives, for once, Mom.” She strides over to the couch. “Clary, we're leaving.”
Clary stands without question.
In the car ride home, Isabelle asks, “How much did you overhear?”
“Not much,” Clary says. She looks to her lap, where her hands are twisting together. “I'm sorry.”
“Me, too,” Isabelle says. She's quiet, after that, and Clary doesn't appear to be one for much conversation either.
*
And then, they fake a break-up on Facebook.
“This is a terrible idea,” complains Clary over the phone. “I mean -- ”
“Well, Mom can't be too eager to set me up with anyone else after Sebastian,” Isabelle says, upbeat. Clary doesn't respond, and Isabelle rolls her eyes. Her mouse hovers over the “change relationship status” button. “It won't be that bad.”
Maybe, Isabelle thinks even as Clary agrees, still hesitant, it will be. Maybe Clary will start avoiding her, after this, and maybe she'll quit her job at the cafe. She could sell some of those art pieces, anyways -- get a job as a famous artist --
And why does Isabelle care, she wonders? Clary's just a girl. A cute, funny, nice girl, who she's been fake dating for longer than she's dated anyone for real.
Oh, no.
But her status is already updated to say “Not in a relationship”. And Clary's affirming hers says the same, and there's no time to say anything. To suggest maybe they should go out for drinks or dinner for real, not to avoid getting set up with some douchebag.
“I'll talk to you later?” Isabelle says instead. Her heart tremors, and when she looks down she's horrified to see her fingers are shaking over the keyboard of her laptop.
“I guess.” Clary doesn't sound ecstatic to say it. “Yeah. I'll talk to you later, Izzy.”
She hangs up, and Isabelle is aware of her messenger showing an influx of at least two new messages. She's too busy burying her face in her hands and screaming, quietly, into them until her throat is sore.
She'd known she'd liked Clary, but sure as hell not this damn much.
*
“Hey, Max,” Isabelle says. Her legs fold as she sits, uncomfortable, on her parents's couch, the taste of spaghetti churning in her stomach.
He's standing in the doorway of the living room, eyebrows scrunched as he sets his bag down. “Where's Clary?” he asks.
“Oh, um.” She falters, smoothing back her hair and looking at her shoes. “We broke up.”
“I liked her,” Max tells her, coming to sit beside her. He looks at her out of the corners of his eyes, looking confused. “And I thought you did, too.” She's a little surprised by this, given that he's thirteen and grossed out by love and dating most of the time.
Isabelle twists her hands in her lap. “I did. I mean, I do. But -- I don't think it would've worked out.”
“Why?”
“Well....” We weren't really dating in the first place? she thinks. It's accurate enough, but if she tells him that he'll tell Maryse. “I don't know. Sometimes people just don't work out.”
As if on cue, Maryse steps out of the foyer. The click of her heels is muffled by the carpet, and she's brandishing a bottle of wine. Isabelle's eyes jump to her finger, where there are a few thin lines marking where her ring isn't.
Max, appearing to be thinking the same as her, nods, silent.
*
“So, let me get this straight. You fake dated a girl you knew you thought was cute, then you ended up liking her, but now you're fake broken up. And you still like her.”
“That's the gist of it, yes.” Isabelle lets her head fall forwards, peeking up through her fingertips.
An unimpressed Magnus Bane sits across from her, one eyebrow arched and a disbelieving expression on his face. Why had she asked him, anyways?
“I'm not even sure what to say to that,” he says. He's clearly as uncomfortable as she is to be here, and talking about her love life. “Only you, Isabelle.”
“You've never been in a situation like this?” she asks, folding her arms and leaning back. “That's surprising, considering -- ”
Magnus's eye twitches. “Why did you ask me here again?”
“I don't even know,” Isabelle admits. “Because Alec or Jace would kill me for lying about dating Clary?” He shrugs at that, painted nails curling around his glass of... some bubbling beverage. Isabelle doesn't want to ask; he'd ordered before she'd gotten here. “And I'm assuming you'd have more experience in this stuff.”
“No, there's no beating that.” He snorts. “Besides, aren't you the one with the trail of boyfriends who your mom and dad hate?”
“They're not exactly fond of you,” she points out. Magnus winces. “Sorry, but it's true.”
He doesn't say anything for several minutes, and Isabelle's worried she's offended him. He straightens, after a bit of gazing into the murky depths of his drink. She frowns as he stands, eyes unreadable.
“Talk to her,” he says. Then he's walking towards the door.
Isabelle stares, sitting there with her untouched tea and his halfway gone drink.
She pulls her phone out of her jean pocket, opening up Facebook. She doesn't have Clary's phone number, she realizes, and so she taps into the messenger.
Hey, she types. Can I talk to you?
*
“What did you want to talk about?”
Two days later, Isabelle is sitting at a table in a coffee shop. There's a sketchpad spread out across the seat in front of her, Clary on her break and sketching. She doesn't even seem to notice she's doing it, drawing a figure of a person -- a woman? Isabelle can't see the drawing from the angle she's at.
Clary tucks her ponytail back, brushing it off her shoulder. She looks so impossibly beautiful in just a paint-stained tank top and ripped denim shorts, Isabelle thinks. And her eyes aren't accusing, or anything other than light and -- dare she think it -- happy.
“Anything,” Isabelle breathes out. Clary sets her mechanical pencil down, looking at her drawing and pulling her eyebrows together, a silent question. “Well, I actually wanted to ask if you'd want to be my girlfriend again.”
Clary laughs, shakes her head. “I think the fake dating thing -- ”
“Not fake,” Isabelle cuts in. What am I doing? she wonders. She's doing a terrible job at this. “For real.”
Oh, god.
Clary blinks. Her smile fades, mouth dropping into a small “o”, like she's shocked but doesn't want to be impolite by gaping. Isabelle sighs and rubs her forehead.
“Sorry,” she says. “I know that was really blunt and-- ”
“Yes.” Clary's answering so quick Isabelle has to stare; she blushes under the eyes on her. “I mean. Yeah, I'd like to be your real girlfriend.”
“Oh,” Isabelle says. She wants to smack herself in the face, kind of -- real intelligent, Lightwood. “Um. So.”
Dear god. She's usually so smooth with these things -- always with the fleeting glances, the winning smiles. The bedroom eyes and cutting remarks, the touches intended to seduce. And yet, here she finds herself, speechless for one of the first times she can remember.
Clary takes her hand, warmth flooding through her the second their fingers lace together. “So,” she repeats, smile soft and sweet.
Isabelle happens to glance down, subconsciously leaning halfway across the table, at Clary's sketchpad. She startles at that, a question rising and dying on her lips when she looks back up at Clary.
“Yes,” Clary says, answering the unspoken question. “It's a drawing of you.”
“Flattering, Fray,” Isabelle says, finding her voice. Clary laughs. “How many other times have you drawn me?”
Clary is the one to sputter and go pink at that. “Well -- ”
Isabelle draws circles on Clary's fingers with her own. “Maybe I could model for you sometime,” she offers.
“No,” Clary says. She chews her lip. “I'm better at drawing from memory, actually.”
Isabelle looks back down to the drawing, then back up at Clary. “But it's so good.”
Clary shrugs. “Sometimes references and models are better, but sometimes, if it's someone I've been looking at a lot....” She smiles down at their intertwined hands. “I can pretty much memorize their face.”
Isabelle doesn't quite understand that, so she shrugs and goes back to idle small talk.
*
“How are we in this position again?” asks Clary, over the roar of voices all around them.
Her hand grips Isabelle's, and Isabelle laughs, leans over to kiss her cheek. The motion leaves a smear of red lipstick against Clary's dash of freckles, and tints her face a shade of pink.
“It's not one of Mom's parties,” Isabelle corrects, “and we're not faking it anymore.”
She maneuvers them around two couples making out, barely able to keep from shouting Get a room!. Clary arches her eyebrows, her gaze returning from the people all around them to Isabelle.
“What, is there a spotlight or something on me?” Isabelle laughs again, but it comes out more breathy, more light and nervous.
Clary studies her for a long moment, like she's going to sketch her. Then she moves in to kiss her, earning them a cheer from nearby.
“There always is, to me,” Clary says when she pulls back.
Isabelle links their arms together, sweaty hands still pressed together. “I think I need to find Magnus somewhere in here and kill him,” she decides when Celine Dion begins playing.
“I'll help,” Clary suggests, her eyes glinting.
“I knew I liked you for a reason.”