When I wake up, I expect to see the brown blades of the ceiling fan. But instead of tracing the discoloured slates of wood, committing the texture differences to memory, I meet Dad's steely gaze. It takes less than a minute, less than a second even, to know that I've royally fucked up.

But before I can ask what I've done, or rather what I haven't, which is really the same question, not that—

Sorry, anyway, before I can speak, he jerks his head towards the door and disappears into the hallway. My lips pucker, questions stinging the tip of my tongue until he tells me to meet him in the kitchen. Sighing, I roll out of bed and do as I'm told.

An old jumper of Spencer's lies in a ball beside the door. I pick it up, shrug it on, resist the urge to sniff the faded blue cotton or pick at the peeling logo and slip out of my room.

Everyone else is lounging by the pool. Henry catches my eye through the closed French doors. His lips curl into the most taunting grin imaginable just as Dad asks me to hurry up. I flip Henry off, he sticks out his tongue, and Dad calls for me again. This time I run. After all, not following orders will only get me into more trouble. Not that I know the trouble I'm already in.

Dad's sitting at the island. In one hand, he caresses a steaming mug of coffee while the other presses against the granite countertop. His veins strain against his skin, creating sharp green ridges across the otherwise smooth plane. I take a seat across from him, picking up the other cup of coffee, and take a sip. The bitter liquid dances across my tongue; the strong notes are interspaced with the calming aftertaste of sweet, frothy coconut milk. Dad's the only one who knows how to make a good coffee. Mostly because he's the only one who likes it so rich you choke, but also because everyone else prefers tea. And as much as I like a mug of PG Tips, nothing can beat a scolding cuppa joe.

"So?" I sigh once the silence becomes unbearable. The two of us are practically staring one another out. He's grimacing; I'm frowning; it's exhausting. "What have I done this time?" I ask.

"I think you know what you've done, or at least I should hope you do," he says, turning his mug in his hands. I bite my lip and shrug. Whatever I've done, I certainly don't know about it. "Oh, come on," he laughs. It's as bitter as my coffee. No, worse. "Do you really expect me to believe you had nothing to do with Isaac's outburst last night?"

"Why are you grilling me about his actions?" I mutter. "Surely I'm not responsible. He chose to call me...well, you know. I in no way forced or encouraged him."

"Ha." Dad's laugh is dry, humourless. In fact, it's more of a statement than a laugh. A complete dismissal of my attempt at survival.

"What do you mean, ha?" I ask.

"You know exactly what I mean," he says. "Now tell me what you did."

I could come clean. I'm not the one who swore after all; my punishment won't be as bad as his. In fact, when you think about it, I'm pretty much blameless.

But why throw myself under the bus unnecessarily? Like, who does that? Or better yet, who does Dad think I am? He, of all people, should know better.

No, I'm not selling myself out. It's ridiculous Dad thinks I would. If I'm going to do anything, it's play the long game. That's it, the long game. I won't say anything unless Isaac already has. It's the best way, the only way, to save myself from maximum trouble.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I say, taking a slow sip of my coffee. "But I have no idea what you're talking about."

"How interesting," he hums.

I shrug again. Surely I've done enough to ward off further interrogation.

"Well, since you won't own up to anything—"

"I'm free to go?"

"Nice try," he laughs. A little bit of life even trickles through. "But no."

"So?" My voice trails off, and I bite back a frown.

"So, you can help me cook breakfast for everyone. Danielle and Rob will be over in an hour, and there's lots to do."

"Are you serious?"

He grins and nods as his bellowing laugh fills the kitchen. "Deadly," he says with a wink.

"Why am I being punished for Isaac's actions?"

"Because, although you deny any involvement, I know you, Lizzie, and I know you had something, if not everything, to do with what happened last night."

"Fine." I concede. I have to. If I don't, he'll force me to tell the truth, and I don't want that. Nobody wants that. "But I'm not talking to him," I say.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. Now, let's fry some bacon."

The moment the first rasher hits the thick layer of oil that lines the pan, any earlier tension is forgotten. I watch the curved white fat turn brown and shrivel up.

Dad leaves me with the bacon and begins slicing mushrooms. He hands a pile over once the bacon is finished and turns to the toaster.

"Are we doing beans?" I ask. "Or sausages?"

"Yes, to the beans." The sound of the toaster interrupts him, and he pauses to reload it. "No to the sausages."

"No sausages?" How blasphemous.

"Your mother couldn't find the right kind."

We finish with twenty minutes to spare, and I return to my room to get ready. Once I'm showered and dressed, a pair of shorts covering my paisley print swimsuit, I sit in front of the mirrored wardrobe and begin to do my hair. I'm halfway through the detangling process when my phone screen lights up.

It's like an avalanche. Message after message pours in. On any other occasion, I'd ignore it and continue with my hair, but the sheer number forces me to push my products aside and pick up my phone. I scroll through the long list of names and click on Jess'.

Jess:

CALL ME!

She picks up on the second ring. Her voice is frantic, frazzled even.

"What's up?" I ask, holding back a laugh. Messy Jessy is the best kind of Jess out there.

"So, you haven't seen it?" She's fizzing, spewing chaos down the line.

I sit up straighter and blink once, twice, before telling her no.

"You sure?" she asks. "You promise you aren't trying to be strong."

I laugh and assure her that's not the case. I'd need to know what I'm being strong about first.

"Good." She sounds relieved, sighs and everything.

What the hell is going on?

"Because I want you to hear this from me," she says.

"Hear what?"

"That Spencer." She pauses, and I feel myself tighten like a spring.

"Well," she begins again. Her voice is a lot steadier. "That Spencer and Penelope are together."

Together.

Spence...Spence...Spencer and Penelope...together?

Togeth—oh fuck it!

"What are you talking about?" I ask once it becomes startlingly obvious that my brain won't be processing the news anytime soon. At least not by itself.

"Well." Her voice trails off.

In the silence, I find clarity, at least a spark of it. It courses through the air like a lightning bolt, bright and angry, before disappearing. But while it's there, hanging in midair, I understand everything.

"Are you trying to tell me that in the two measly weeks since we ended things, he's already moved on?"

"Y—"

"Are you trying to tell me I meant nothing to him?"

"I—"

"Are you, well, are you fucking kidding me?"

She's silent.

Maybe I've broken her.

Shit, what if I've broken her?

It makes sense. I break everything. Look at Spencer and me. Completely obliterated.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie," she says.

Thank God, I haven't broken her.

"No one expected this, trust me. Not after her party the other day, but it's official. Instagram pic and everything."

In an instant, Jess' concerned mumbles fill the room, and Instagram fills my screen. I scroll past one picture and another and another, leaving a string of careless likes in my wake before I see it. My traitorous eyes well up when I do.

It's on her page, sparkling like a shiny new gold medal. Yet, somehow, in everything, the fact that she dared to post it hurts all the more. More than the cheating, more than the betrayal, more than the loss. We were friends. Not in the way Jess and I are, obviously, but there was an assumed level of loyalty. At least on my side.

Spencer's lips are pressed against her cheek; she's lit up from within. To prolong the torture, I scroll across and see the next picture. His arms are wrapped around her, and they're laughing. But it's the final photo that breaks me; shatters me into a million dripping shards. There they are, kissing, eyes closed. He's caressing her cheeks. I can almost feel his rough fingertips against my own skin. My lips tingle as I think of the now-phantom kisses we shared—delicate, attentive, cherished kisses.

It's weird, but for the first time since the entire ordeal, my heart aches, and the ache isn't due to pain. No, now it hurts because the damage is irreparable. He will never be mine, not in this lifetime. But in knowing this, I reclaim a small part of myself, slotting a shard back into place, and I can speak again.

"Thanks for telling me," I say. "I'll call you later." I hang up quickly, maybe too quickly, and drop my phone beside me.

A month ago, I was telling Spencer I loved him, that I would always love him.

A month ago, I was happy and ecstatic and overjoyed.

A month ago, this reality was confined to my worst nightmares. In fact, it wasn't even on my mind because a month ago, I had no idea who Spencer was.

Now I do.

Now I know he's a liar.

Now I know he's manipulative.

Now I know he's selfish. So fucking selfish.

All this should be enough to convince me that I don't love him, that I can't, and yet...

There's a knock at the door. It saves me from having to face the truth, whatever that may be.

Without asking who it is, I welcome them in and scrub my face until the tear streaks give way to blotchy but dry skin. They wander in, and I turn around. My eyebrows furrow for a second before my stomach explodes, and my mouth falls open in preparation to shout and scream and cuss.

"I come in peace," Isaac insists. His hands are raised, and a tentative smile plays on the corners of his lips. It's not enough.

I scoff, telling him as much, but he only raises his hands higher and says, "I promise."

"Your promise means fuck all," I say, turning away from him.

"Maybe, but perhaps it'll mean more if it comes with an apology."

I glance over my shoulder and quirk an eyebrow. His eyes meet mine, and I'm tempted to look away, but then he opens his mouth, and I'm transfixed.

We never say sorry. Never apologise. It's just not us. And yet, here he is.

"I'm, well." He rubs the back of his neck. "Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call you a bitch."

"You didn't?"

"Okay, I did, but only because you were acting like one."

"What an apology." I return my gaze to the mirror. My trembling hand wraps around my purple Tangle Teezer; it slips out my grasp and clatters against the cold hardwood flooring. I pick it up again.

I continue the detangling process, forcefully oblivious to his presence, and count down the minutes till he leaves me alone and I can wallow in peace. But he doesn't, and with each run of the brush through my curls, my ability to hold it together crumbles.

I don't know when it starts. I don't know when my fragility decides to take control. But as quickly as I swallow back the tears, I'm crying, and Isaac is beside me. He reaches out as if to touch me before pulling away and settling for sitting next to me instead.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"What do you think?" I sniff. The sound is unattractive, more of a snort, really. I expect him to say something, anything, but he watches my reflection, leaving me to turn from my snot-ridden face.

"I didn't think my apology was that shitty," he says, laughing uncertainly.

"It wasn't an apology full stop."

"Want me to try again?"

I shake my head.

"Are you sure? I know I have one good apology left in me."

"Your apology isn't the reason I'm crying, idiot. Gosh, how self-centred can you be?"

"If we're going by your standards, incredibly."

"Great, we are."

"But considering I'm here apologising, or at least trying too, I'd say you judged me a little too harshly last night."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, considering the fact you think I'm crying over you, I'd say I wasn't harsh enough."

"If you aren't crying over me, who are you crying over?"

It's a valid question, and if he were anybody else, I'd consider providing an answer. But it's him, so I don't.

"Oh, come on." He bumps his shoulder against mine. "Tell me."

I remain silent.

"You know you want to," he says with a grin.

"I most definitely do not."

"Well, you should."

"Why?"

"Because out of everyone, I'm the only one who's going to understand. I did get dumped, as you so happily reminded me."

My eyebrows furrow and I turn to look at him. Like really look at him. He's smiling lopsidedly, his front teeth grazing against his plump bottom lip, and he leans in. I find myself leaning in too. We're millimetres apart, the shared air sucked up by my involuntary hiccups, and then I hurtle back.

"What has your abysmal dating record got to do with anything?" I ask.

He picks up my phone. Penelope's pictures slice through my heart all over again.

"He's your ex, right?" he asks, swiping across to the next piece of betrayal.

"Yes."

"And I'm guessing she's your friend."

"Something like that."

"Well, I know all about ex's and friends." There's a bitter edge to his voice, and somehow it helps lessen my pain.

"You do?" I ask.

"Unfortunately."

"What happened?"

He scoffs and shakes his head. "You have to go first," he says.

"Why?"

"Because if I have nothing to hold over you one day, you'll get nothing to hold over me."

As much as I don't want to revisit, well, everything, he has a point. He is the only person who'll understand. That must be why I open my mouth and spill my heart.

"He cheated," I say, my voice cracking as the picture of them kissing runs through my mind. That must be what it was like the first time, only rather than the sun beating down on them, they were surrounded by darkness, with strobe lights illuminating their betrayal. "And, even though he did, I was willing to forgive him."

"Was?"

"Am."

Quiet descends upon the room, and my admission weighs down on me as I realise that despite everything—you know, the pain, the lies, the loss—I'm willing to forgive him. I want to forgive him. How fucking pathetic.

"What about you?" I sigh, pushing the spotlight away from me. "What happened with your ex?"

He smiles, only it lacks the usual annoying quality that makes me want to smash his face in, and shrugs before taking a deep breath and launching into his story. "The first time Lily broke up with me, it was because she thought I cheated. Obviously, I hadn't, I would never, but she, well, she said she couldn't trust me."

"And the second time?"

"She cheated. He's my best friend, she was my girlfriend, and I forgave them both. But two weeks ago, she ended it for good. She wants to be with him, and who am I to stand in the way of that?"

We're silent again, but I break it when I say, "I'm sorry for calling you self-centred. You're not."

He manages to crack a smile and bumps my shoulder again. "I'm sorry for calling you a bitch. You're not either."

I smile, and a feeling which can only be described as relief-adjacent washes over me. Maybe I am just like Isaac, but for once, I'm okay with that because at least I'm not alone in my patheticness. At least I know there are others like me. You know, others who are holding onto a love that was never meant for them. 

***

Hey guys,

Poor Lizzie!!!

Do you think her and Isaac's bonding moment will resolve their problems?

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

xxx