There's a knock at my window. It's loud, obnoxious. I ignore it, rolling onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut until the darkness softens around the edges.

It's back. A triple knock this time. My extra pillow finds itself pressed over my face.

There are a few minutes of silence. My eyelids unclench, my hands limpen, the pillow slips.

My phone rings. I tense all over again as I pat around for the offending item. Opening one eye, I spot Isaac's name scrawled across the screen. I decline.

He calls again.

"What?" I groan as I press the phone to my ear and burrow under my duvet.

"Get up," he hisses, knocking on the window again.

"It's eight-thirty."

"Exactly, we're late. Get up."

"No."

"Come on, Lizzie," he coos, his voice like silk. "You know you want to."

"Actually, I know I don't,"

"It's our last day," he says, whining like a baby.

"So?"

"So? What do you mean so?"

"I mean, so what?"

"Don't you want to spend it with me?" he asks. I can just imagine him clutching at his muscled chest as he pouts at the window.

"If it doesn't involve getting up at eight-thirty, then sure," I mutter, wriggling further under the duvet.

"But you're up now. What does it matter?"

Shit.

He has a point.

I shuffle up until I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. "What do you have in mind?" I sigh.

"That is a surprise, but meet me outside in half an hour. Oh, and make sure you bring a jumper."

I hang up before he can make any more demands. It's bad enough that I'm up at this ungodly hour; the last thing I need is a never-ending list of things to remember too.

Unfortunately, by the time I return from the shower, Isaac's managed to compile just that. It's ten items too long with a p.s and p.p.s that makes me roll my eyes. I'm half tempted to ignore it, but then a p.p.p.s appears, and my ice-caged heart melts. Just a little, mind you. Not enough to flood the room, but there's a small puddle beneath me, glistening teasingly as I reread his message.

Isaac: p.p.p.s I'm annoying...I know

Smiling like a fool, I shake it off and shove my phone into my back pocket. The list rolls through my mind until each and every item is stuffed into my backpack, and a jumper is tied around my waist. Then I leave, slipping out the door at nine on the dot.

Isaac's waiting at the end of the drive. He hikes his backpack higher, grabbing at the strap so tight his knuckles look like they're about to pop out and leave a trail of stringy tendons in their wake.

"You alright?" I ask, toying with the edge of my own backpack.

"Of course." A breathtaking smile blooms on his face, chasing away the indecision. "Let's go."

"So, are you going to tell me where we're going?" I ask as I run after him. "Or am I going to have to guess?"

"How about you try trusting me."

"That's a big ask," I say, bumping my shoulder against his. "But yes, I do trust you."

"Then let's go." He threads his fingers through mine and tugs so hard my arm almost detaches from my shoulder. His grip forces me to speed up. It makes my legs hate my brain, and my lungs hate my heart. Then we come to a crashing stop beside a sleek black car, and my body realigns harmoniously.

The driver rolls down their window. "Isaac?" he asks, his eyes darting between us as he offers us a broad smile.

"That's me, and you're Tomas?"

"Yes. It's for Igreja de São Lourenço?"

Isaac winces but nods all the same as Tomas welcomes us into his car. The leather seats squeak beneath us, drowning out the tinny melodies that float over the speakers.

"What happens if I google Igreja de São Lourenço?" I ask once Tomas pulls away from the curb.

"You'd have to be able to spell it first," Isaac hisses, his gaze fixed on the window closest to him.

I grin and tug my phone out of my back pocket. "Hey Siri," I say.

Isaac smacks a hand over my mouth and glares at me as my phone screen lights up. I catch Tomas' eye in the rearview mirror. He glances at Isaac's hand before staring me dead in the eyes, forcing me to throw two thumbs up and nod awkwardly. He looks away.

"I was only joking," I say once Isaac releases me. "I'll let you keep your little secret."

"It's not a secret," he wails.

"Okay, okay, surprise."

My lips twitch as he huffs and puffs and goes off on a very disjointed tangent. I purse them together, willing them to stay shut. Only it doesn't work, it never does, and my laughter spills out just as he moves onto the value of kindness.

"I'm sorry," I say, clasping my hands together as I swallow the rest of my laughter. "I'll be serious from now on, promise."

"It's fine," he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "If you google Igreja de São Lourenço you'll see a church."

"A church?"

"Yes, a church. But please don't google it. I actually want some element of today to remain a surprise."

"I won't," I say, grabbing his hand. "Promise."

"Okay."

"So then can I ask you something?" I toy with his fingers, rubbing at his dry knuckles.

"As long as it's not about the church," he says, an uncertain smile stretching his cheeks.

"It's not," I laugh.

"Then sure, go ahead."

I cough, my chest tightening as I stare past him rather than at him. "Did you know I'd be here?" I ask, returning my attention to him the moment the words pass my lips.

He gulps, his adam's apple bobbing, then nods. "I did," he says. "Mum told me ages ago, but then I saw you at the airport, and I thought you saw me, and I had this massive panic in W.H.Smith."

"Am I that scary?" I laugh.

"No, but I was under strict instructions to avoid you. It was really hard on the plane. I ducked when you walked past my seat."

"You didn't have to hide," I mutter as I draw back and settle into my own seat.

"Of course I had to hide," he snorts. "You hated my guts."

"You hated mine too."

"I've never hated you," he says, his voice quietening until it's a whisper. "I think I've just always liked you a lot more than you've liked me."

"That's bullshit," I laugh, rolling my eyes. "You weren't innocent. You argued back, you insulted me, you engaged. How could you not hate me?"

"What was I supposed to do, Lizzie?" he asks as he slaps his hands against the shiny leather seats. "Let you call me a stuck up, boring boarding school prick and then tell you how much I miss you?"

"I—"

"—No, please, I'd love to hear how you think I should've dealt with my feelings. Because from where I was sitting, it seemed like the moment I told you the truth, you'd laugh in my face and call me a pussy."

"I'm—"

"—Gosh Lizzie, I can't believe you'd even ask that—"

"—Will you let me talk?" I shout, catching Tomas' attention all over again. Only this time, it's me on the receiving end of his disapproving stare. It's almost paternal and sends a lightning bolt of shame firing down my spine until I swallow my pride and offer him an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry," I say once my voice is settled, and I can look at Isaac without wanting to wring his neck. "I didn't know you felt this way."

"It's not like you cared," he mutters as he crosses his arms like a sulking child and slips down in his seat.

"That's fair," I say. "But I care now. A lot, actually."

"You do?"

"Of course. If you've taught me anything these last couple of days, it's that I need to be a little more forgiving."

"You're telling me." The tiniest hint of a smile quivers on the edges of his lips as he glances up at me.

"But I can't take back the past," I say. "So, will you accept my overdue apology for being a massive, raging bitch?"

"Of course, but only if you take out the raging bitch part."

"Fine," I laugh. "Will you accept my overdue apology?"

"Happily."

"We're here," Tomas says as the car comes to a smooth stop outside of a towering white building.

"Obrigada," I shout over my shoulder. Tomas smiles at my thanks and waves before he reverses out of his parking spot.

"I can't believe he put up with us," I grin, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles on my denim skirt.

"It is his job."

"I've been kicked out of ubers for less."

"You're joking."

"Oh no, getting an uber with drunk Jess is pretty much impossible these days." She's sloppy at the best of times, but there's something about a waiting uber that turns my mildly embarrassing friend into a total wreck. It's so bad, I've resorted to limiting our nights out to places within walking distance. I don't quite fancy being left half an hour from home with a slurring Jess ever again.

"You'll never have that problem with me," Isaac says. "I've been told I'm a rather philosophical drunk."

"Philosophical my arse."

"Shhh," he whispers as he makes a massive deal of glancing over his shoulders and shooting me a frustrated glare. "We're at a holy site," he says, eyebrows furrowed.

"We're outside a holy site," I correct. "Which reminds me, why have you brought me here?"

"Wait and see."

The first thing I notice are the pews. They're the first thing I see in every church. I think I'm drawn to their simplicity, how they hide expert craftsmanship behind utility. We never really think about them, just sit down, appreciative for the break. But someone took time to make them. Someone carved the wood, polished it, cared for it. It was, for a moment in time, someone's everything.

The next thing is the alter. It's adorned it gold and sparkles like a holy beacon. Yet, it doesn't diminish the provincial air that swirls through the chapel. Despite the grandiosity, everything still feels small, quaint, intimate. I can imagine a family sitting in the front row listening to the sermon, a well-loved bible gripped in their hands, the leather cracked, a shining cross on the front. They're not awed by the golden structure, simply humbled, glad to bathe in the presence of the Lord.

But it's neither the charming set-up of the pews or the blinding gold of the alter that takes my breath away.

It's the walls. The very foundation of the building. It's heart.

Rows upon rows of tiles create a beautiful mural in a stunning white and subdued blue. As individuals, they're unique. As a group, they're powerful.

"They're called Azulejo's," Isaac whispers, his minty breath dancing across my neck.

"They're beautiful," I say, tipping my head back to gaze at the decorated ceiling.

"The tradition originated in the 13th century," he explains. "Right here on the Iberian peninsula."

"Did you do some research?" I tease, turning to shoot him a smile.

"A little. I know how interesting you find art history."

"Thanks," I whisper, suddenly conscious of the way our voices bounce around the tiled room and disrupt the sanctity. "I really appreciate this."

The church is too small for proper exploration. Still, I take a few pictures for prosperity, bully Isaac into a selfie beside the intricate alter, and examine it before leaving, committing every single detail to memory. Even then, I don't want to go.

I think standing here, in the cold, tiled room, I've found peace. Genuine peace, where your mind goes blank and all the crap you thought mattered is ripped to minuscule shreds, its relevancy in tatters. Then Isaac places a hand on my shoulder, the tips of his fingers kneading into my jumper, and it all comes rushing back.

"Let's get out of here," I say, smiling as he leads me towards the exit.

"So?" he asks once we step out into the burning sun. "What did you think?"

I want to say thank you.

I want to tell him how incredible it was. How incredible he was.

But instead, I throw my arms around him, burrow my face into his neck and inhale his clean scent as we rock from side to side outside the magnificent Igreja de São Lourenço.

"I'll never forget this," I whisper.

And for once, I don't shelve this memory with the rest of his things. I don't hide it in a decrepit corner of my mind that I can run from, but I place it front and centre with every other cherished item my brain protects. It sits on the glinting shelf, nestled between the first time Spencer told me he loved me and my sixteenth birthday, right where it belongs.

"So?" I grin as we pull apart. "Where to now?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

***

How sweet is Isaac?

Do you think he likes Lizzie more than she likes him?

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

xxx