This is why I don't drink.

The pounding head, bleary eyes and mounting nausea aren't worth the fleeting hours of fun. I'd much rather stay home. After all, ice cream and cake provide the exact same rush as a night out. That, and the comedown from a sugar coma is always easier than the comedown from alcoh—

Why the hell is the ceiling fan white?

Mine is brown, right? Like I'm not crazy. It's totally brown.

But if this ceiling fan is white, then where the hell am I?

I take a deep breath, hold it, and turn to my left. Pursuing my lips, I stop the exhalation of air as a gasp struggles to the surface.

Shit.

How did I end up here?

With him.

In his bed.

In his clothes?

I roll onto my back and lift the duvet. A black cotton t-shirt swamps my body. In his clothes, then.

Right, so I'm in his bed, in his clothes, in his house. He's asleep, which is a blessing, and by the sounds of it, no one else is awake. If I'm quick, careful, I can be out of here and in my own room in a heartbeat. All I need is my phone, dress, and shoes. Henry might be up. If not, I'll have to call Paula.

Henry better be awake. He's so much easier.

Okay, so phone, dress, shoes, Henry.

Phone, dress, shoes, Henry.

The list repeats itself as I slide my right leg out of bed. I place my foot on the floor, the left following suit, and stand up. Tiptoeing, I notice my dress. It's folded neatly at the foot of the bed with my phone on top and my trainers beside it. The setup is perfect.

With my belongings in hand, I continue to the door. It's ajar. I run a finger along the handle and coax it open, but the hinges creak, and I cringe away. Throwing my shoulders back, I slip through the crack, careful not to make any more noise. My back grazes against the lock. I hiss as it scrapes against my arm too. It leaves a localised stinging sensation raging in its wake, but I'm free.

Once I'm out of the room, my feet practically jumping over the threshold, I waste no time running down the hall and bursting out the front door. My phone is pressed against my ear as the door closes behind me. Henry picks up almost instantly and offers me frantic hello.

"Where have you been?" he asks, a loud bang slicing through his words.

"Doesn't matter. I just need you to let me in."

"You're outside?"

"Yes, Henry, I'm outside. Let me in!"

"Okay, okay." His exasperation is palpable. It seems impossible that just a few seconds ago, he was worried about me.

As I wait, I tip my head back and sigh. The sound floats up into the early morning air. It bounces between the clouds. I can see it, see the sheer smoke jumping in a jaunty pattern, leaving a faint trail through the otherwise unspoilt blue. Then Henry opens the door, and his grumbled hello ruins the pureness of the moment.

"Could you be any louder?" I groan, pushing past him.

"Yes." He follows and clamps a hand on my shoulder to twirl me around. "I could be, so tell me where the hell you were."

I bite my lip and peer up, trying my best to mimic the puppy dog eyes of childhood. I haven't done them in years, haven't needed to pout and beg, but they used to work a treat. "You promise you won't tell?" I ask, my voice small and meek.

"Cross my heart." He offers me his pinkie finger. I link mine through it and squeeze his until he winces and pulls away.

"I mean it," I hiss, the cuteness disappearing. "You can't tell Mum, Dad, Paula, anyone. And you especially can't tell..."

Maybe I say nothing.

Maybe I keep this to myself. After all, what was it that song says?

Oh yeah, 'only two can keep a secret if one of them is dead'.

It's not like I can kill Henry; I actually love him, which leaves me with one solution.

I try to slip past, but he grabs my forearms and drags me back.

Okay, now I have no solutions.

"Who, Lizzie?" he asks, shaking me like a ragdoll. "Who can't I tell?"

"Isaac," I whisper. "You can't tell Isaac."

Henry closes his eyes, runs a hand across his buzzed head and groans. "What have you done?" he asks.

"Nothing." Only, I don't know if nothing is true, because when I think about last night, all I can see are snapshots. A series of events leading to Isaac's arms around me, murmured words, our lips brushing against—wait, was that Isaac?

"What happened last night?" I ask.

"You don't remember?"

"I haven't tried to."

Henry snorts and steps back. "Have a go," he says. "Then come and find me. I'd really like to believe you when you say nothing."

Without a second glance, he leaves. I watch him disappear around the corner until the sound of his slamming door rouses me to do the same. Shuffling down the corridor, I barrel into my room, throw myself onto the overly firm mattress and groan. Thankfully, the sound is muffled by my sheets.

What happened last night?

I repeat the question over and over until the images slow into stills. They're like four-by-four polaroids just waiting to be slotted into a nice, neat linear sequence. A sequence that makes sense.

There was dancing, blue eyes, mounting nausea and sleep.

Maybe a kiss.

An almost kiss. My hand was on his face, rough with stubble. Blue ey—

It wasn't Isaac.

Thank the Lord, it wasn't him.

It can't be. He has brown eyes. They're big and dark, and his thick lashes provide a delicate frame that helps soften his angular features. While the person I kissed—almost kissed—had sparkling blue eyes with stubby blonde lashes. Mystery man also had a beard or at least the potential to have one, while Isaac is incapable of growing anything close to a moustache. Honestly, his skin is as smooth as the day he was born, which, thankfully, means it wasn't him.

But that doesn't explain how I ended up in his bed.

Suddenly, the almost kiss turns into a kiss which turns into a full-blown make-out session. My hands caress the stranger's cheeks, his roam my covered waist. A fingertip trails up my exposed thigh, I moan into his mouth.

But if we made out, how did I wake up in Isaac's bed?

We're kissing again, and kissing, and kissing—I can't believe I did that—but then suddenly we're not.

I remember Isaac, panicked eyes morphing into relieved ones.

A tentative smile appeared on his lips as the stranger and I pulled apart. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You just disappeared."

I can't remember what followed, can't remember what passed between Isaac and the stranger, although I'm sure something did. In fact, all I can remember is that the entire ordeal ended with Isaac and me in a cab and my head on his shoulder the whole way home.

"You're something else," he said at some point, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips as he shook his head. "Truly, one of a kind."

I don't remember what I said. Don't remember if I laughed or teased him. If I told him to fuck off. If I shrugged and accepted his words at face value. I don't remember anything surrounding the circumstances, don't remember why he said it, can't figure out what he meant. But none of that matters because as I think back on it, on the way he smiled and blinked, his long lashes sweeping across his skin, I can't help but smile too. Then there's a knock at my door, and I wipe the smile off my face.

Mum's head pops in. She gives me a pitying once over. "Did you have a good time last night?" she asks.

I nod.

"Great. Dad and I are spending the day in the Old Town if you want to join us. Henry said you just woke up, and Dad and I haven't spent much time with you."

"Is Paula coming?" I ask.

"I think she's going to sit this one out."

"Oh."

"But if you want to wait for her, we can go tomorrow."

"No," I shout, springing off the bed. "I'm coming."

"Okay," she laughs, shaking her head a little. "We're leaving around eleven."

~*~

Getting ready takes everything out of me. I wish I told them to wait or that I didn't want to go, but staying here means possibly seeing Isaac, and I don't think I can handle that right about now. It's bad enough that I woke up in his bed; the last thing I need is to actually face him knowing I did.

I haul myself off my bed and unzip my backpack. My water bottle is flung in first, followed by my paint-splattered purse and raggedy earphones.

My sunglasses, the last piece of the puzzle, are unfortunately placed. They sit, tauntingly, on top of my sketchbook. I graze against the rough cover as I pick up the retro frames. A trill ripples through me, starting in my fingertips and fizzling until I relent and shove the sketchbook into my backpack too.

The itch is long gone, I know that, but it feels wrong to leave the book behind. If I really do this, if I ignore the battered black canvas and thick, dog-eared pages, then this is it. The end of an era. An era I never actively chased away.

Maybe I should let go, move on to a new medium. Photography's pretty cool, although I'm nowhere near as talented as Henry.

Or maybe I could give up artwork altogether. That's it, stifle my creativity and turn to more rational hobbies like jogging or bike riding or whatever people do in their spare time.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I can't do that, any of it. I can't let my sketchbooks sulk in silence. I can't let the itch win. So I drag my sketchbook out from my backpack and sigh. It's heavy in my hands. The pages whisper, crooning for attention. I let a single finger skirt along the edges, teasing the bound cover open until I shove the sketchbook back where it belongs. It's one thing to bring it with me and a complete other to actually look at it. I'm no glutton for punishment.

Mum's waiting by the pool. She and Henry are laughing at something or the other. "You look pretty," she says, tugging at a loose thread on the hem of my top as I collapse beside her.

"You too." We're matching today, both in flowing white tops and jean shorts. Our afros catch the light breeze that trundles through the branches, and rogue coils obscure our view. She steps forward to tighten my headband, securing the runaway curls under the orange silk.

"Well then," she smiles, standing up, "now that you're here, I'm going to see what's holding your father up."

She isn't even two feet away before Henry pinches me. My arm throbs under the assault as well as my ears when he asks if I remember.

"Shh," I hiss, my eyes darting towards Mums retreating figure. "She can hear."

"She's not listening," he says, pinching me again.

I shove him, keeping an eye on Mum, and wait until she's well and truly out of range. "I remember," I whisper as I turn my gaze to the dazzling aquamarine of the pool.

"You do?"

"Of course."

"So?"

I shrug, relieved for the words that rush to the forefront. "Nothing happened," I say.

"That's what Isaac said," Henry murmurs, and my hand flies out. It's coiled into a fist, ready to pummel him, but he jumps back and engulfs my hand with his much larger ones.

"Henry," I shriek, yanking my hand back. "You promised!"

He raises his hands and shrugs. "He called me," he says, almost as if it's explanation enough.

"And?"

"And he said you were with some guy talking about Spencer, so he decided to take you home. Paula had the keys. He didn't want to wake Mum and Dad. It was just easier to take you to his."

"I spoke about Spencer?" I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. How bloody pathetic.

"You'll have to ask Isaac," Henry says with a smug shrug. "You should thank him too. He didn't have to be so kind, especially not the way you treat him."

"Do I really have to thank him?" I groan.

"Yes, Lizzie. Gosh, he didn't have to help you. If I were him, I wouldn't, and you're my sister, so you should count your blessings and say something nice for a change."

What he says makes sense, truly it does, but even though I know this, the thought of saying thank you makes me retch. I know last night I was talking about my debt and repaying it, but now, in the light of day, all I want to do is forget. No point holding onto embarrassing memories, especially not ones involving Isaac. And if I say thank you, he'll never let me live it down.

No, better to ignore him altogether. I mean, it was my initial plan, and it worked so well those first few days. Why can't it work now?

Thankfully, before I have to disappoint Henry any further, Mum and Dad appear arm in arm. They ask if I'm ready to go in a way that makes saying no virtually impossible. I nod and jump to my feet, telling Henry to say thanks for me instead.

The compromise causes his lips to downturn and his eyebrows to furrow. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but Dad tells me to hurry up. I run away, sneaking a peek over my shoulder before I round the bend.

He's pissed, but I can just imagine what he was going to say. And, in turn, can only thank God he never got a chance to. The only thing worse than being berated by Paula is when it's Henry, because then you know you've messed up.

~*~

We spend most of our time ambling through the cobbled streets, stopping at the small shops that populate the curbside. Every little charm and trinket catches Mum's attention. That is until Dad puts his foot down and drags us to lunch. It's an even bigger production, and a silent argument rages between them. The deciding vote, as per usual, is mine.

"Let's go over there." I point to a small café nestled between an ice cream parlour and a restaurant. It has dainty metal tables that spill out into the square and a bakery case. If I squint, I swear I see rows upon rows of pastel de nata. My stomach growls in response. "Please," I beg, "we can get dessert." I don't know about them, but I really need it.

Dad seems unconvinced, but Mum relents. I tug at her wrist; he trails behind, grumbling until we're seated by an overly friendly waitress. She picks a table outside. The sun bounces off the sharp edges and fractures into a million glinting pieces. They twirl through the air, spinning and splintering until we're offered menus, and my focus is pulled to the laminated pages.

"Do you have any lip balm?" Mum asks once we've ordered. I nod and rifle through my backpack. The corner of my sketchbook escapes the dark depths. It catches the light and Mum's attention with it. "I didn't know you brought that." Mum manages to grab the slither on show. She produces the book with an excited flourish and flicks through the pages, smiling as she traces over the sure lines inscribed in permanent marker and fine-line ink.

"Do you remember this?" She shoves the book into Dad's lap.

He smiles. "She used to be obsessed with him," he says. There's a wistful note that lingers beneath his words. It makes my heart squeeze.

"Obsessed with who?" I ask.

My fingers twitch. I want to snatch it back, wrap it in my embrace and hide it forever. But they continue staring, leaving me with no option but to crane my neck. I catch a glimpse of the page; my eyes zero in on the date inscribed at the top. The numbers are ink-splotched, written in haste, but slope in the way my writing did when I was nine.

06/04/2012

"Oh," I mumble, turning away.

"Oh indeed." Mum hands the sketchbook over. Not that I need it. "You and Isaac were inseparable," she says with a smile. "But, alas, you can't stay young forever."

"No," I murmur, my cheeks warming. "You can't."

I know, I know, you must be confused. I don't blame you if you are. It's not that I've lied, more that I haven't given you a very balanced account of my and Isaac's relationship. But I'll fix that.

Promise.

In fact, I'll fix it now.

Before we hated one another, before the heated exchanges and avoidance tactics, we were friends. And, before I met Jess, aged six, he was my best friend. With our parents being so close, it was almost impossible that we wouldn't be the same. We did everything together, from day trips to museums and city farms, me running away while he fed the sheep, to Disney movie nights where we fought over The Little Mermaid and Hercules. Then, when we started secondary school, he was sent to a boarding school, and I stayed home.

It wasn't the distance that changed us or the burning sense of loss that followed me those first few months leading up to his first Christmas home, but rather the overwhelming disappointment that came crashing down when he finally returned. He was different, we were different, and that friendship which always seemed rock solid, crumbled into an ashen heap.

We never managed to get back that spark. Never managed to rebuild our friendship. But looking at this drawing, at my cartoon depiction of us commemorating his birthday, our fingers interlocked as we grin wildly at one another, I wonder if we can build something.

Maybe not the impenetrable bond we once shared, but something of a truce. You know, an acceptance that we liked one another once upon a time. A respect for our previous relationship. It won't replace what came before, nothing will, but maybe, Paula and Henry have been right this whole time. Perhaps I do owe him my thanks, and gratitude, and, most importantly, a hint of kindness.

Look at me being all mature. They would be so proud.

***

Were you expecting any of this?

Do you really think Elizabeth and Isaac can try to get along?

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you did, please remember to share, comment and vote.

xxx