Clary’s door clicks shut behind her, the sound of rising, buzzed voices in the main room fading to background noise as she pushes her phone into the crook between her shoulder and neck. “Hey, Izzy,” she says, hoping her exhaustion doesn’t seep through into her tone. She presses back against the door, scraping her hair back, lifting it ever-so-slightly into a half-ponytail.
“Is everything okay?” She can hear the frown in Isabelle’s voice, a tremor of noise behind her, too–- a party, maybe, but it seems too quiet for that. Then, muffled, “Just a minute, Jace,” and the rustle of feet across a floor, hair scraping past the speaker. “Okay. You sound–- upset, Clary, are you all right? Is it something with–-” Isabelle falls silent, her swallow audible over the line. She doesn’t sound like she wants to chance dropping Sebastian’s name.
“Kind of.” Clary sighs, shoulders dropping; she sinks against the door, wood pressing a harsh line into her spine. Jocelyn’s voice rises to something just under a dull roar, and then Valentine yells back at her. (He’s not even supposed to be here, anyways. Luke is out visiting his sister, and Clary thinks that’s the only reason Valentine’s come out of hiding.) “Um. So. My dad’s here.”
“Your-–” There’s a sharp inhale of breath. “Your dad? Oh, god, Clary. Are you okay? Is your mom okay?”
Clary swallows a sniff in her sleeve; the ratty fabric will leave her eyes stained red and have them ache forever but she’s not caring about that right now. “For now, I guess,” she says. “I’m sorry, am I–- are you over at your mom’s?”
“Jace’s,” Isabelle corrects, soft. “He bought his own place, and so of course I have to be at the housewelcoming party. Guess who’s not here? Alec.” There’s a teasing lilt to her tone, like she’s trying to make Clary feel better with jokes. “There is this guy, though, a friend of Jace’s even though he insists that they’re not friends–- Simon, I think-–”
Clary jerks up and hits her head on the doorknob. The sound outside falters to a stop, and Clary presses a hand against her thudding heart, willing it to slow just a little bit. “Simon? Messy brown hair, glasses, scar on his lip?”
“Ye-es,” Isabelle hazards.
“Remember that best friend I was telling you about?” With this, the quiet conversation, Clary can almost ignore the voices rising again outside. “Well. Apparently I don’t need to introduce you to him, after all.”
Isabelle gives a breathy laugh, one that drops after a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
Clary leans back. “Tell me a story,” she says, instead of I love you.
(There’s time for that later, when her biological father isn’t yelling in the main room and her mom isn’t yelling back at him with just as much force, her voice cracking. There’s time, Clary tells herself, and for once she believes it.)