Paula has a big mouth. The biggest. For how else can you explain Mum's concerned gaze or Dad's disappointed grimace. You can't, that's how. She swears she didn't tell them about Spencer, but I'm not an idiot. Henry never would. It may come as a surprise, but we respect one another's privacy. Keep each other's secrets. But when it comes to Paula, she's a hand grenade, pulsing until she explodes and sends shrapnel flying everywhere. My life, my business, is that shrapnel, and although I insist that I'm fine and that I don't need to talk about it, Mum and Dad whisk me away anyway.

It's the most awkward journey of my life. More awkward than the airport car park and the drive to the club combined. I'm half tempted to fling myself out of the car, but I don't quite fancy spending the rest of the trip in a hospital bed. That and I know Mum will think I've finally snapped. She's been waiting for it through A-Level madness and Spencer's foray into Penelope, but I'm fine.

At least I think I am.

What am I saying?

Of course I am.

And what does it matter anyway?

Who's a hundred per cent fine a hundred per cent of the time?

No one. I can tell you that for free. And if they say they are, they're lying.

Eventually, Dad parks. I slip out of the car, glancing up at the cliffs, and stifle a groan. As beautiful as the houses are, even they're getting old.

"I hope you're not taking me on another boat," I say. The view was amazing, I'll admit, and sometimes I felt like Rose before the Titanic sank, but I didn't appreciate being trapped with everyone's opinions. I could've done with it.

"I thought you enjoyed it," Mum says, frown lines marring her smooth skin.

"I did," I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "I just think I've had my fill of the marina."

"Well too bad," Dad says, powering ahead. He falters as he nears the restaurants and spins to face us. "What will it be?" he asks, glancing from left to right. "Fancy or filling?"

"Filling," I grin. "Definitely filling."

I missed breakfast. Not on purpose, but then I heard Isaac's laugh, and I turned on my heel and barricaded myself in my room. It seemed like a smart thing at the time, the right thing, but now my stomach is staging a coup.

"You read my mind." Dad all but runs to the café, leaving Mum and me to dawdle behind.

She laughs as he eagerly takes a seat. "Your father's crazy," she says, stroking my hand. "Absolutely nuts."

"I guess I get it from him."

"Oh no." Her grasp tightens. "You're your own person. Always have been, always will be."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment," I laugh, leaning against her shoulder. "But I'll take it."

"We love you," she says, suddenly very earnest. The frown lines are back and everything.

"I love you guys too," I say.

"But Spencer—"

"—Is that why you bought me here?" I ask.

I knew this was coming, but knowing something and actually experiencing it are two very different things.

"I just don't understand," Mum says, slowing our crawl to an absolute stop.

"Did Paula put you up to this?" She seemed so supportive of my decision yesterday, but then if Paula is good at anything, it's the comforting part. She leaves the hard truths to others. Usually, I'm that vessel, the bad cop to her good one, or Dad. But today, it's Mum, with her furrowed brows and stroking hand.

"Paula has nothing to do with this," she lies.

"But someone had to tell you," I say, flexing my fingers and nibbling on the inner corner of my lip. "Someone had to worry you."

"We're worried because this isn't like you, Lizzie."

"How isn't this like me?" I groan, ripping my arm out of her grasp.

"I love Spencer, Mum. Love him. Isn't this what you do when you love someone?"

A weak smile slithers onto her face as she shakes her head. "If he loved you, sweetheart, he would've treated you better. And I'm not talking about the cheating."

"You're not?"

"No. You gave everything to that boy, Lizzie. I watched you do it for years. Baking him cupcakes on his birthday and missing curfew to run to the flipping hospital when he broke his arm. But I'm not sure he gave you anything in return but a broken heart."

"That's not—"

"—I'm not saying you have to listen to me," she says. "God knows you never do. But I am saying that you really have to think about this. Is it worth it, Lizzie? Is he worth it?"

"I don't know," I say. "I really don't. But I do know that I'm starving, and if we leave Dad any longer, he might just tear us to shreds."

She glances at the restaurant. Dad's glaring at us, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You're right," she sighs. "You're absolutely right."

And just like that, I'm left with a thousand more questions and not a single answer.

~*~

Lunch passes without incident. I don't think Dad wanted to delve into the mysterious workings of my mind, and Mum had clearly said her piece. Not that I'm complaining. I actually like my parents. You know, when they're normal. But talking about Spencer is definitely not normal.

Anyway, the point is, I survived.

Survived Mum's mini-investigation and Dad's sidelong glances.

Survived another awkward drive back.

I even survived a quick conversation with Mum in the kitchen, the two of us skirting around the issue as I filled my water bottle.

But now I'm free. Free to head to the beach and push it all to the darkest reaches of my mind, where the edges sink into a profound nothingness.

At least, that was the plan. But as I lay out the tartan blanket Mum stuffed into my backpack, I spot Isaac and Elle, and all the thoughts I wanted to ignore spring back like a boomerang.

They're sitting on two sun loungers, pots of ice cream clutched in their hand. A blob of what looks like chocolate ice cream dribbles down Isaac's chin. Elle leans forward, wipes it away and pops her finger into her mouth, sucking the ice cream off. A half-smile appears on Isaac's face as he returns his focus to what's left in his pot. Elle frowns. It's deep-set, accompanied by furrowed brows and a sidelong glance. It makes me laugh. He makes me laugh.

Surely he's not that oblivious.

Turning from the newly formed couple, I open my sketchbook. The itch is a lot more present these days. It's always here, leaving a pleasureful sting in its wake. I'm relieved. For a second, I thought I was broken. It's never gone for this long. A week, sure, maybe a month if I'd been on a bit of a creative rampage, but never a year. Still, it doesn't matter anymore because it's back, and if I'm careful, it'll never leave me again.

My pencil hovers over the blank page. I twist my wrist, feeling the delicate bones scrape against one another, and gaze towards the ocean. A child paddles alongside their parent. They cling to their leg, glancing up lovingly. It's sweet. It's inspiration.

It's easy to block out the shapes, to fill them in, to create a ghost image on the page. The child is long gone by the time I finish, but I can't forget the mix of fear and excitement that swirled across their features as they waded deeper into the sea.

Can't forget the careful hand lingering on their shoulder as they wrapped theirs around their parent's calf.

Can't forget the pride as they floated alone, bobbing with the waves.

The sun's setting by the time I struggle to my feet. I stretch, reaching up into the air before I bend down to sink my palms into the sand. My body feels limp, not my own. It's like a noodle being straightened out for the first time. I shake my legs, shake my hands, shake my head. I shake everything and heave a sigh the moment I feel like myself again. Then I run. Sprint. Dash towards the villa. It's one thing to disappear for the afternoon, Mum can forgive that, but it's a complete other to miss dinner.

They're setting the table when I hurtle in through the front door. I slink past, catching the edge of Mum's irritated glare before I crash into my bedroom. The first items of clothing I see are the ones I throw on. Unfortunately, they happen to include a faded blue t-shirt of Spencer's.

It still smells like him. The scent clings to my senses, taunting me as I slip out of my room and join the others. It's there as I sit down, directly across from Isaac, and when I offer the table a cursory smile.

"It's nice of you to join us," Mum says, her disapproval slicing my torture in half.

"Sorry," I say, bowing my head. "I lost track of time."

"Oh, what were you doing?" Mrs Harris asks as Mum hands her the salad.

"Sketching."

"You were sketching?" Dad's head pops up like a cute little meerkat. He likes to keep tabs on my creative output, loves to analyse my pieces like a seasoned art critic.

"I was," I say, smiling.

"Can we see?" Mrs Harris asks.

"Unfortunately, it's not exactly finished."

"You don't finish much," Isaac says. His mum pinches his elbow, making no effort to hide the sharp movement. But he doesn't flinch. In fact, he pushes his chin out and raises a competitive brow.

"Let's not do this," I say.

Dad coughs before shooting me a wide smile. "Yes," he says, patting my knee under the table. "Let's not."

Isaac knows better than to fight. He's not an idiot. But he catches my eye nonetheless, and I know the moment the dishes are cleared, and our parents have disappeared to share a bottle of wine out by the pool, we're having the conversation. Whether I like it or not.

And I don't like it. Don't want it. There's nothing left to say. Nothing I can think of, at least.

Dinner passes quickly. Silently, even. I say little, barely look up from my plate, and, when the time comes, help clear the table without complaint. It's quick, painless, and once the dishes are done and the food in the fridge, I head for my room. Only Henry grabs my wrist and squeezes. "Paula and I are going out for drinks," he says. "Come with us."

"I'm tired. I'd rather stay here."

"Isaac's not coming if that's what you're worried about."

"What?" I scoff. "Is he going to see Elle?"

"I don't see how it's any of your business." Henry drops my wrist. "You're the one who turned him down."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter, spinning on my heel and running towards my room.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he shouts after me.

Isaac squealed. He had to. I didn't say anything, and I know Essie didn't want to get involved. Didn't feel it was her place. So that left him. Stupid, stupid him. The same foolish person who's waiting for me in my room.

I don't bother to scream or shout or anything. I simply sit beside him and sigh. "What do you want?" I ask. He shrugs slowly and picks at a dry patch of skin on his knee. "Oh, come on, Isaac. You must want something."

"I do," he says, his fidgeting coming to a rather abrupt end.

"So?"

"Was it a mistake?" he asks.

I'd feel bad if not for the fact that I realise, all too late, that he was there last night, listening. Lurking in the shadows waiting for something. And by the way he's hunched over, refusing to meet my gaze, I know what I said was not that something.

With the realisation comes a massive helping of guilt that festers as our silence grows. It bulges until it's threatening to blast through the door. Then he jumps up, and it explodes.

"Wait," I shout after him.

He spins around.

"How much did you hear?" I ask.

"All of it."

"All of it?"

"Yes. So, was it a mistake? Was it a massive misunderstanding?"

"Yes."

He turns to leave.

"But not in the way you think."

He refuses to face me. Refuses to turn back around and meet my gaze. His back is straight, painfully so, and I watch the muscles in his neck flex as he swallows a gulp of air.

"The call was the mistake," I say.

"It was?"

"Of course. I should've hung up."

"So why didn't you?"

I shrug, quickly realising he can't see me. "I was with him for two years," I say instead, pinching the bridge of my nose. "It's difficult to just turn it all off, you know."

"What about wanting to figure things out?" he asks, his voice dwindling to a whisper.

"That parts true," I admit.

He takes a step towards the door.

"But it doesn't mean I want to figure things out with him."

"What?" He finally turns to face me. His lips dither, slipping between a smile and a lopsided frown.

"I need to figure things out for myself," I say, taking a step towards him.

"And us?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Oh."

"But I want to, know that is." I laugh, glancing away as I rub my neck. "I really, really want to know."

"I want to know too."

"So?"

He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine, and tugs me into his chest. "So we figure things out, as friends."

"As friends," I agree, forcing a smile onto my face. 

***

Do you think they'll survive as friends?

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

xxx