"Well, at least we can agree that Julian is an asshole," Aiko murmured, after my sobbing had subsided for a couple of silent moments.

I laughed wetly. The combination of my cold and crying was making it impossible to breathe and communicate like a normal human being. "I never said that I think he's an asshole."

And, sometimes, Julian was even sort of nice. Like when he takes me out for pancakes after a night between the sheets (and he doesn't even make me pay for my own) or gives me back massages or looks at me with his big, intense black eyes like he just wants to-

Okay, maybe I shouldn't be thinking about these sort of things when I'm talking to Aiko.

Besides, for every nice thing that Julian does, there's a bad one. Like showing up at my apartment (which I share with someone else) at all hours of the night for a booty call. Or denting my apartment wall (long story) and not paying to fix the damages. Or completely ignoring my while I'm on my period, because obviously I'm completely useless to him when there's blood leaking out of my vagina. Or calling Paul a washed out David Bowie impersonator, or something.

"Come on, Bea, don't tell me you like him," Aiko pleaded. "You can do so much better than him."

"I know," I responded. "He's not my boyfriend, remember? The sex is good. That's all."

And at the end of the day, no matter how much Julian was a tool, what we had together was good enough. I wasn't looking for a commitment, I was looking for someone to satisfy my needs and that was one of the few things that Julian was actually good at.

"Okay, now I need to change the course of this conversation before I start seeing visuals," Aiko told me. "So, if Julian isn't Stupid McDumb Face, who is?"

I scowled, for a moment, completely clueless to what she was referring to. Then, I remembered: Claude. Claude was Stupid McDumb Face. I heard the sigh escape my lips, feeling whatever better mood that had begun to form within me completely fade away.

"Oh. Him," I practically hissed.

"And it's definitely not Julian? That sort of tone is something I usually associate with him," she reasoned.

"So about that . . . " I trailed off, ignoring her question (I mean, there was only so much hating that Julian deserved (and I'll leave that all for Aiko's spare time) and now was not the time for it). "I sort of picked up a hitchhiker."

"Bea," she practically cursed. "You're not supposed to pick people up on the streets."

"He isn't from the street! He's from the airport," I explained. I informed Aiko about meeting Claude, forcing him to buy me food and shelter if I wanted it ("I just have to say, Bea, your entrepreneurial skills really do come out when you're hungry"), and finding ourselves at Cloud Nine. I left out the events of last night and this morning, as I knew they would just worry her.

"So what don't you like about him?" Aiko questioned.

"His whole personality," I answered.

"That's not a proper answer and you know it."

"He doesn't deserve a proper answer," I insisted.

"Well, now you're just pouting," she reasoned. "Did he say something to upset you? Did he stand up for Julian's douche-baggery? What is he like?"

I laughed at the mention of Julian, before sighing. "I don't know, he's just . . . so difficult, you know?"

"Well, I've never met him, so no."

"Screw you. If you could see me right now, I'm flipping you the finger," I informed her.

"That's the Bea I know," she noted, warmly. "How is this Claude guy difficult?"

"It's just . . . He's difficult to understand," I attempted to explain. "He's like one of those fucking Rubik Cubes or something. You start twisting and turning and rotating through all of these things he's saying and you feel like you're making progress. Maybe you have one or two of those little square faces done. Then it turns out your colorblind. You haven't done anything. In fact, maybe you've messed things up more than they originally were."

"Did you try to psychoanalyze him?" Aiko inquired, caution in her tone. "You know that people don't like it when you do that."

I could feel my cheeks getting heated at the accusation. I insisted, "I did not!"

"Well, that's good. If you did, I would have to say that's pretty fuc-"

"And so what if I did?" I demanded, interrupting her, barely even comprehending her words. "Aiko, I'm a grief counselor. It's my job to psychoanalyze people, to help them in any way I can."

"But only for people who want you to do it," she contested.

"So I should just let people suffer when I can help them?" I argued.

"I'm not saying that you can't use your skills with people outside of work," Aiko explained. "But people's issues are personal and if you start poking and prodding into them moments after meeting, many aren't going to take too kindly to you. Besides, you know as well as I do that the truth can make a person deaf, Bea."

I knew she wasn't trying to sound accusatory, but I still felt her words strike me. I didn't care if she was trying to insinuate that I wasn't listening to her fucking truth, she wasn't my mom. She would never be my mom.

"Well, it looks like you are a fortune teller, because you truth has made me deaf," I deadpanned. "I guess there's no point of continuing this conversation. Bye."

"Wait, Be-"

I hung up.

As I slammed the phone down, I noted a dark green bottle gleaming next to the bedside table. I grinned.

*

It all happened so fast that I only had time to hear it: the slam, the tap tap tap of footsteps, the silence. One moment, I had been taking lazy sips out of the last remaining champagne bottle, dancing to an Amy Whinehouse hit, and the next-

"Hey," I snapped. Instantly, I stopped moving, swiveling around on my heels to face the person who had turned off the music. "I was listening to tha-"

Claude had snatched my arms, one hand taking the bottle out of my grasp. "You've been drinking."

I jerked my arms away from his touch. "And what are you going to do about it, Dad?"

"Do you have a drinking problem?" He demanded, grabbing my arms again. "I've known you for all of one day and the majority of time I've spent with you, you've been hammered. How can you think drinking is a good idea when you're sick and you haven't eaten all day?"

"Anything is a better idea than talking to you," I spat, finally wrenching myself free of him once and for all. I stumbled backwards, my legs tangling together as my feet struggled to find their place.

Claude placed the bottle down on a table, noticeably away from me. "Cut the dramatics, Bea. We aren't in high school."

"What do you know about being in high school?" I demanded, finally settling down on the bed. I clung onto the banister, or else I knew I would be too tempted to lie down and fall asleep. "You were . . . what, eleven, when you were in high school?"

His eyes narrowed. "I may have been young, but I was old enough to realize that everyone's hormones and lack of emotional maturity was making them act like they belonged in the Lion King or something like that."

"What, because high schoolers act like animals?" I clarified. "Well, if you really think that, then I call Simba."

"I think you share more of a resemblance to Scar," he countered.

My eyes matched his. "Who's acting like they're in high school now?"

Claude's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard at the roots. I could practically hear him growling from here (hello, Scar). "What was I thinking when I agreed to drive to New York with you? I should've stayed in Chicago. Fuck Christmas."

"Sorry this trip hasn't suited your fucking fancy," I snapped.

"Why did you even ask me to come?" He demanded. "I could have easily murdered you, hurt you-"

"Oh, don't worry about that," I growled. "Mission accomplished."

"You're accusing me of hurting you? We've known each other for one fucking day," he argued.

"Yeah?" Now I was rising to my feet. "Well, in that fucking day you've saved my life and then insisted we're strangers, that you don't give a flying shit about what we've been through together!"

"Because we've barely been through anything together," he snapped.

I stepped closer to him, until I was right in front of him. Until I was close enough to count his freckles, his fading acne scars, the flecks of gray in his eyes. "I tried to kill myself, Claude."

"I was there," he said, coolly.

"Is that just a normal occurrence for you, then?" I insisted, jabbing my finger into his chest. I felt like at that moment I was the sky and every time I touched him, I was emitting a thousand bolts of lightning through his body. "You said that we hadn't been through anything together. So, what, is suicide just a part of your daily fucking calender?"

Claude's eyes darkened. His voice was quiet when he spoke, like the dead silence before a storm made society implode. "Yeah, it is."

I scowled, feeling my eyebrows burrow together. Was Claude implying that he himself was-

Oh.

"I'm sorry," I said. I could almost cringe at how void of emotion my voice was. "I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry."

"You don't have to say that," he said, looking away from me. I could feel the electricity between us melt away, despite how close he was.

"I do, actually, because I am," I reasoned.

"No, you aren't. It's not like you know her," he murmured.

"Actually, I do," I told him. "Or at least part of her. Depression has stuck around me like a shadow for . . . for a long time. So I'm sorry about your sister. But I'm also sorry for you. Not because I pity you. You don't need pity. I'm sorry because you can't talk to me about it."

"Why the fuck do you keep insisting that I talk to you about Annalise?" Claude demanded, his eyes locking on mine again. His anger radiated off him, yet the electricity was still gone. His fury was muted. "We. Are. Strangers."

"Exactly." I don't know what urged me to do it, but suddenly I was grabbing hold of his cheeks. His blue eyes bore into mine and his skin felt scratchy because he hadn't shaved and his breath smelled like coffee. I used my softest voice. "That's what therapy is about, Claude. You talk to someone like me because we are strangers, because I have no influence in your life. You don't talk to your mom or friends or anyone you actually love about your sister because it's hard, because you feel like they have enough on their plates with Annalise. You talk to me because I don't know Annalise. Because I'll give you my honest opinion without having any biases. Because I'm a professional, and, well, I know what you're going through."

Claude was silent.

It was like he was drinking me in, but not in the sort of way a girl wants to be savored. I was shots of whiskey, burning his tongue and throat and stomach and turning the very air into fire. He was consuming as much as possible as fast as he could because he didn't want to think, he wanted to burn.

He whispered, "You're drunk."

"I know," I whispered back. "Isn't it great?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't drink," he told me.

"Well, you can be second-hand drunk off me," I said. "I'm definitely drunk enough for the both of us."

"I might be a little drunk," he admitted. "I don't usually let people touch me like this."

He was referring to my hands on his face. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

I almost smiled. "Well, this is usually the part of the night where I let some people start touching me a little more, if you get what I'm saying."

I was close enough to see his pores combust, to roast red. "Does that mean you have a lot of drunken sex?"

Now I couldn't hide my smile. "No. And when I do, it's only with Julian."

"Julian?" He scowled. "Is he your boyfriend?"

I laughed. "Oh, goodness, no. He's more of a disaster than me, if you can imagine it. No, we just have casual sex."

"Oh." There was that blush again, adorably staining his cheeks. "So he wouldn't mind if I . . ."

"If you what?" I asked.

"If I . . . if I asked you to dance," he murmured, hesitating.

Claude wasn't the first boy to ask me to dance. It all started with Chester Parrish at my eighth grade Spring Formal, and had proceeded to follow me for the rest of my school career, as well as into night clubs and parties and raves. Yet no boy was like Claude. Because despite his gentle demeanor, he was a man. He was steel and fire and whatever it was that held books together. I wrapped my arms around his neck, stepping close enough that our chests brushed against each other. I couldn't help but smirk at him as I asked, "Do you even know how to dance?"

"No, but I could figure it out f-f-for you," he told me.

"Put your hands on my waist," I instructed him.

He listened. I could feel his hands trembling.

"What music are we supposed to be dancing to?" I asked, beginning to lead him into dancing (and by dancing I mean we were kind of just stepping backwards and forwards (mainly just so Claude didn't have the opportunity to mess this up)).

Claude hesitated for a moment, before something lit his blue eyes. "Bea . . . Can you feel the love tonight?"

I laughed, leaning my forehead against his. "The peace the evening brings-"

Claude joined along. "-The world for once in perfect harmony with all it's living things."

"You really have those Disney tunes down," I teased.

"Just the Lion King," he retorted.

"Well, then I guess I'll let you be the Nala to my Simba," I told him, dramatically, as if I was offering him a grand deal out of a sense of deep generosity. "That is, if you don't think I'm Scar anymore."

Claude stopped moving. His fingers dug into the fabric of my sweater at my waist. "Bea, I didn-"

I shook my head. "Forget I said that."

"No," he insisted. "Look, I'm sorry I said you're like Scar. You can be Simba, although I personally think you are more like Timon-"

"Does that make you Pumbaa?" I questioned.

"Are you kidding me? I still want to be Nala," he informed me. "She is pretty much the reason that there is a queen emoji."

The fact that Claude liked Nala, wanted to be Nala, and actually knew about emojis was going to kill me.

"But that's not the point," he said. "I'm sorry for hurting your feelings. But I'm not sorry for being mad. You did invade my privacy."

"That's fair," I agreed. "I deserve a kick in the butt every once in the while anyways."

"I'm not going to kick you in the butt," he reasoned.

I rolled my eyes. "I didn't mean literally."

"Oh." Claude hesitated. "You're welcome, then. I guess."

*