This is part of a 100 page monstrosity that has been sitting on a flash drive since 2014, which I've decided to sort through and publish for your entertainment. Please enjoy and go easy on me, as I wrote it awhile ago and don't feel like entirely restructuring the story. I will, however, be editing for cohesiveness and maybe parts that sound like they were written by a child (haha), so updates will be pretty regular. I have a few of these from that flash drive that I'm hoping to share in the coming months, so if you'd like to see more, please let me know! Also, I will be updating NFJL next, so stay tuned!

Anyway, please enjoy, and let me know if you want me to write the songs that inspired the parts or if I can just leave those out!

Extra bonus for naming my favorite song (hint: it's in the title). Enjoy my lovelies! 3

American Thighs

Prologue

Her New York upbringing had a few advantages—autonomy for travel as soon as she was old enough to understand the transit networks, entertainment for when nothing was worth squinting at through the television static, and an attuned sixth-sense for spotting friends in masses of strangers. Due to this honed locating ability, there were a few cars she'd come to know well. She could recognize her mother's burgundy Taurus that carried her home on paint-stained cloth seats after a long day of work, the dent in the passenger side door a dead giveaway. She used to hear the hum of her father's Cadillac from down the street, blending into the midnight sky, though now she didn't know if he even drove that anymore. Of these, though, the one she was most familiar with is Jace's old Cavalier. Of all ways to traverse this beautiful city, seated beside the boy with long, golden curls was by far her favorite. The car itself was nothing special, just blue with rust eating at the edges. The gears tended to protest and had to be coaxed from park to drive, and even then, Jace sometimes had to sweet-talk it to get the stubborn wheels to move. Springs demanded attention as they stabbed the passengers in the ass if they didn't balance delicately on the left edge, and one mirror was held by a wrapping of duct tape, often flying across the lanes if the driver made an abrupt stop, which, in New York, was pretty frequently.

But Jace loved that hunk of metal and was often found stroking its hood in the driveway, mumbling compliments at his beloved Austin Carr. It's ironic! he'd protested after she'd booed him for naming his vehicle after a Cleveland Cavaliers player rather than their beloved Knicks. It's a Cavalier, Clarissa, he'd stated, looking at her over the top of his sunglasses like she were a child in need of a punishment. She hated when people call her by her full name. Jace knew this, and it earned him a bright purple bruise on his left arm.

For all its faults and flaws, Austin was the reliable car that would haul the pair to school, Jace belting out the words to the same three songs on repeat, his honey-coated voice soothing the annoyance of rush hour traffic. It was the car that she slept in when Jace toted his beaten acoustic guitar to smoky pubs and bat mitzvahs, the soft strumming of his fingertips outside enough to lull her into the great abyss. It was much more than a car back then. It was an escape—from her house, from her parents, from her life. She'd prop her feet on the faded dashboard and deliberately sing off-key to the radio as Jace took her around the backstreets of their neighborhood, weaving humorous stories about the people milling on the sidewalks. His name is Richard, she could hear him saying, his voice like an old record that hadn't been played in years, but everyone calls him Dick. He resents that name and makes it his personal mission to castrate those who use it. Austin Carr the Chevy Cavalier paired with his owner became her saving grace as she entered her teenage years.

She'd be lying if she denied any pain at the sight of it sitting vacant in the neighboring driveway, coated in a fine layer of dust that Jace normally wouldn't let settle. Day in and day out, the sun caressed the same spots, fading unevenly as it refracted through the cracks in the windshield. She could see his Mets cap tucked in the corner of the dash, his graduation tassel and a pair of fuzzy dice she'd given him adorning the rearview mirror. She could see the sleeve of her gray St. Xavier's sweatshirt tossed haphazardly in the backseat, but she didn't have the heart to get it.

The curtain slipped from her fingertips as she shielded the car from her view, hoping to sever its connection to the resurfacing memories. The flimsy barrier proved too weak as an agonizing longing took root in her belly, slowly expanding outward until she felt her body ready to explode—not that she'd mind. It had become a routine thing, to stare at something that reminded her of Jace and let it consume any piece of happiness she attempted to cling to. A ritual of sorts that only served to solidify the notion that while their love was real to her, it meant absolutely nothing to him.

Her other finger hovered absently over the dial button, the cheery green an incorrect representation of the call she wanted to place. The ten digits mocked her weakness, laughing at her lack of self-control, at her desperation. She set her jaw, pressing down hard with her thumb as an aggressive retaliation for the object's jeering.

Among all the things her heart had memorized about Jace, the scene his answering message conjures up was the most striking. She knew he was leaning his back against the edge of her bed as he spoke, the sun casting shadows through his eyelashes and down his cheekbones. She'd been sifting her fingers through his long curls, musing silently about how much he truly needed a haircut. This hair is rock-and-roll, Clary. You wouldn't understand. He'd only taken one breath during the entire recording—the lungs of a singer. He spoke smoothly, save for the moment his voice raised slightly as he said his name because she'd poked him in the ribs, earning her a signature headshake as he finished the message.

You've reached Jace! I've got better things to do than answer this call, so leave a message. I might return it! She could hear her own muffled voice in the background, playfully chastising him for such an unprofessional answering message.

What if, like, Barack Obama calls you to visit the White House? He'd rolled his eyes, flopping onto the bed next to her so than the sun now reflected directly in his aureate eyes, shimmering like molten gold.

I'm not exactly presidential material. Besides, I'm probably hanging out with you anyway, he'd rationalized, and back then, she'd been too naïve to have any further argument. Now, as her ragged fingernail, unpolished and chewed to the nub, ended the call, she finally had a rebuttal.

"It hurts," she whispered to the empty dial tone like his voice would magically cut through. As expected, the monotonous buzz only harmonized with the hollowness in her chest. She pulled her knees up, curling in on herself as she finally pulled the noise away from her ear. He'd certainly found better things to do than return her calls and messages, than to let her know that he was even still alive. She often found herself asking Isabelle how he'd been, casually as to not seem too invested in the conversation. Then she had to pretend like it didn't kill her when Izzy answered like they talk all the time, like he wasn't purposefully ignoring her.

Sobs finally wracked her withering body, violently throwing her forward onto her hands and knees. They're the kind of sobs that only added to the silence, like even the sounds took too much effort.

Her brother found her this way, his black eyes a reflection of the pit of despair she used to jokingly call her soul. Now she couldn't find a more fitting description. "Why did he leave, Jon?" she asked with bated breath, her eyes refusing to focus on the man before her. Of course, her brother believed she's asking about the man that gave him the striking combination of snowy hair and moonless eyes.

"I don't know, Clare. I don't know."

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All My Love

~BallinBlonde21