"Isaac, can we talk?

"No...Isaac, do you have a minute?

"I'm sor—Thank you?

"Oh, fuck it!"

Groaning, I fling myself off my bed and tumble to the ground. It's cold down here, but with the breeze comes clarity. No matter how long I sit here trying out different hypothetical variations of my thank you speech, thinking about saying it is not the same as actually doing it. And the longer I put it off, the harder it'll become. So hard I might just never do it.

No. I have to face him.

Do I?

Gosh, what am I saying? Of course, I do.

In fact, I will. Right now, actually.

I struggle to my feet and grab my trainers. My shorts ride up as I crouch down to tie the laces, and the greying polyester slips out of my grasp until I give up and shove them into my shoes. With each step I take, the aglets jam into the soles of my feet. I drop to my knees, dragging them out, but the laces continue to slip.

"Need some help?" Henry saunters over. He laughs as he towers over me, one of his slug-like brows arched condescendingly.

"No," I mutter, shoving the laces back into my shoes. Although I'm careful to lay the aglets flat this time.

"Do you really find it that difficult?"

He offers me a hand. I ignore it.

"All you have to do is make bunny ears and tie them around one another, and then voila, your laces are tied."

"Are you finished?" I try to push past.

He grabs my wrist and tugs me back. "Where are you going?" he asks, eyebrow raised and everything, almost like I owe him an explanation.

"The beach," I say, the lie easy enough to tell.

"The beach?"

"Yes, Henry, the beach."

His eyes skirt over my features and zero in on the corners of my mouth before he releases me. Apparently, they twitch when I lie.

"We're going out tonight," he says, completely ignoring the unnecessary stare-off he just subjected me to. "You know, if you want to come."

"Who is we?" I ask.

"Me, Isaac and the girls we met the other night."

"And why exactly would I want to go out with you and Isaac?"

"I mean, you spent the night with him, Lizzie. Surely you won't be opposed to a few drinks."

"I didn't spend the night," I hiss. "And even if I did, I'd appreciate it if you lowered your voice."

"Potato, tomato," he says with a flippant shrug. "The point is, do you want to come?"

"A, that's not how the saying goes, and B, I'd rather gouge my own eyes out than spend another evening with you, Isaac and your little holiday flings."

The last thing I need to remind myself how woefully alone I am is to watch a beautiful blonde fawn all over Isaac. What with her perfect hair, freshly manicured nails and uncanny resemblance to a supermodel—any supermodel. No, I'd rather spend the evening with Paula like planned. Midnight swims are a lot better than torture on the dancefloor.

"Suit yourself." Henry disappears, laughing as he does.

I ignore him and leave before another family member can knock me off course and send me hurtling back to the safety of my room.

I have to do this. Today.

It's unexpectedly cool outside. I wrap my arms around my body once I knock next door and squeeze, a pulse of warmth speeding through me.

Mrs Harris opens the door. Her soft brown eyes crinkle in the corners, and her smile lines deepen. "Lizzie," she says, bundling me in her arms. "What can I do for you?"

"Is Isaac around?" I ask.

"No, he just left for the beach."

I stifle a groan.

"But if you run, you might catch him."

Her kind smile somehow softens further as I thank her. She squeezes my arms and nods, turning me around gently and giving me a little push into the drive.

I run. I have no choice but to. My thighs burn, the sound of my shoes slapping against the pavement rings out, and I hate myself and Isaac, but then the beach comes into view, and so does he.

He ambles along the pavement, nodding off-beat like a broken bobblehead. I spy a white wire dangling from his ear and push myself that little bit further.

My thighs are screaming now. I ignore the fiery sensation that rages through my muscles and reach up to yank his earphones out.

He whirls around, eyebrows furrowed, mouth open, and groans. "Fucking hell, Lizzie." He tears out his other earphone. "What are you doing here?"

The question hangs between us. Two options present themselves. Number one, the right one, is tell the truth. But it's number two that glitters because if I lie, I hold onto a slither of my pride. But if I get caught, that last shred of dignity will slink down the drain, and it'll all be for nothing.

Why is life so hard?

"Lizzie?" Isaac says my name carefully, unsurely almost. It sounds odd coming from his mouth because he's literally the most self-assured person I know. Well, that is second to Henry, but only because his undeserved confidence knows no bounds.

"Lizzie?" He says it again. This time, something akin to worry seeps through his voice. It forces me to meet his questioning gaze. His eyes are hyper-focused, and for a moment, I feel like I'm under a microscope. Then the feeling passes, and option one rushes to the forefront. After all, there's no point lying, not when I'll have to tell the truth eventually.

"I came to say thank you," I say, glancing at the concrete and twisting my index finger until it throbs. "You know, for the other night."

"The other night?" he asks, his expression painfully neutral, like beige paint.

"Are you really going to make me say it?" I groan.

"Say what?"

The innocent act would be more annoying if not for the fact that my thank you would be meaningless if it was followed by an argument.

So, I sigh and say, "Thank you for taking me home and letting me stay in your bed. You didn't have to help me out. It was really decent of you." Perhaps the first decent thing either of us has done for one another in a while.

"It was my pleasure," he says, walking away as he does.

It's typical Isaac. Do something nice, kind, and he throws it in your face. Like God forbid he does something nice back.

He stops, laughter dancing behind his eyes, and turns to face me. "Are you coming or what?" he asks.

"What?"

"I said—"

"I know what you said!"

"So?"

Against my better judgement, I nod. My thighs beg and plead, but I'm running again. My muscles stretch until I slow to match his leisurely pace. He leads me further up the beach, steering clear of crowds until we find a relatively empty spot where he lays down his towel and offers me a seat. I sit on the very edge and kick off my shoes and socks. My feet burrow under the heavy grains of sand, and I flex my toes, sighing as it all falls down.

"I'm surprised you came all this way to say thank you," Isaac says, collapsing beside me.

"It's not exactly all this way," I mutter, staring at my feet. Or rather, the mountain of sand over my feet. "And I wanted to come to the beach anyway."

"Well, either way, I'm glad you said it. I didn't know you had it in you."

"It was the right thing to do."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "So, you didn't mean it?"

Rolling my eyes, I push myself up. "This is why I'm never nice to you," I say, slapping the sand off the backs of my thighs.

I'm ready to leave. To grab my trainers, storm off and bury myself under my duvet. I've done the right thing, cleared my debt; if he can't accept it, that's on him.

I'm a few meters away when he calls me back. "I was kidding," he says, laughter evident in his voice.

My heart tells me to run. To bolt. But the moment I turn, my brain takes over, and I find myself sitting on my edge again. Sometimes the right thing to do is the hard thing, and staying is hard. Staying goes against my every instinct. But maybe in staying, Isaac and I can come to an agreement. An understanding of some kind that'll make this entire holiday easier for us and everyone else involved. It's the least they deserve.

"I don't bite," he says once I'm seated, patting the space beside him and smiling that charming smile of his. It's delicate and dizzyingly perfect and throws me back to childhood, compelling me to scoot over. My knee presses into his thigh, and I half expect him to shove me aside or move over, but he settles against me, and we sit in silence.

The sound of waves mingles with distant conversation. It engulfs us, the notes tangling with the wispy sea breeze until Isaac clears his throat. "Lily called me this morning," he says, itching at the nape of his neck.

"That's your ex, right?"

He nods, and his smile falters. I don't know what comes over me but watching the slight quiver of his lips leaves me reaching for him. I pull back at the very last moment and shove my hands under my thighs.

Touching him, holding him, would be inappropriate, right?

What am I saying? Of course it would be inappropriate.

Very, very, very inappropriate.

"She said that she and Michael are." He stops himself and clears his throat again. "God, why is this so hard to say?"

Although I know I shouldn't, although I know it'll complicate everything, I reach out, taking his hand in mine. His skin is soft, warm, inviting, and as I place my hand on top of his, he smiles.

"She called to say that they're together," he says, laughing. Only it's not his usual laugh. It's not light and annoying and stupid, but bitter and pained, and I can't do anything but apologise.

"It's not your fault," he says. "And it was inevitable. Just a matter of time, you know."

"That doesn't mean it hurts any less."

"Can I pretend it does?"

"You can do whatever you want."

"Did that rule apply when we were kids?" he asks, his hand shimmying out from under mine.

"What do you mean?"

"When I left for boarding school, and you flipped out. Was I allowed to do whatever I wanted then?"

"Do we really have to talk about this?"

Talking about it makes it real. Not that it hasn't been real for the past few years, only that I forgot about it. But remembering, remembering our friendship, makes me feel worse. It makes the whole situation worse.

"We do," he says, completely ignoring my desire to keep it locked away and hidden. "It's the one thing that doesn't make sense. Like I get it, we didn't always get along, but we used to try."

"You changed." It's the only thing I know for certain. He changed, and I didn't know what to do, so we fought.

"And what?" he asks. "You didn't?"

"Okay, we changed."

"That's life, Lizzie."

"I know." My chin juts out. I'm on guard. Ready for a fight. For what else do Isaac and I do but fight?

"So why all the hostility?" he asks, his eyes narrowing. "You know when I came home that first Christmas."

"You weren't my Isaac. You looked like him, but you didn't act like him. I just wanted my Isaac back."

"You weren't exactly my Lizzie either," he says.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His Lizzie? I'm not the one who disappeared and came back different.

"It was Spencer," he says so matter-of-factly it's a surprise I'm still confused. "You were obsessed with him."

"Don't be dramatic." I roll my eyes. "Spencer and I were friends back then. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Look, Lizzie, I know what I saw. You gushed about him the whole time I was home. And every time we'd hang out, he'd text you. The obsession seemed mutual, and I guess I got jealous. I was always your closest male friend, and another guy was muscling in on my territory."

"Your territory?"

Is that all I was? Not his friend, but a prize to be won and fought over.

"That's not what I mean," he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

"Then what do you mean?"

"He was taking you away. I'd been replaced."

"I felt replaced too, you know." All he could talk about was Michael and Lily and everyone but me, but us. "It wasn't a one-way street," I say.

"Oh."

"Exactly."

"If we'd just talked."

I cut him off. "We were twelve, Isaac. Twelve. Talking wouldn't have solved anything."

I remember being ready to fight, to call him out and force an apology. Little did I know, my need to confront him would ruin everything.

"So what?" he asks. "Were we always destined to split up?"

"Stop being dramatic. We were twelve and stupid, and talking about it wasn't going to fix it. In fact, it isn't even going to fix it now."

"What do you propose, then?" He crosses his arms, his eyes refusing to meet mine.

"We let it go," I say, smiling a little. "We pretend it never happened, and we try. That is if that's what you want."

His arms slacken, and he reaches for my hand in the sand. "I do want that," he says, his voice soft, caressing. "You have no idea how much I want that."

"Well, then it's settled. We're friends-ish."

"Friends-ish," he agrees with a laugh.

Who would've thought? Me and Isaac, friends—friends-ish, I mean.

***

What do you think all of this means for Elizabeth and Isaac?

Friendship?

Something more?

Nothing???

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

xxx