I've missed the summer house.

I've missed its narrow windows and the old oil heater that smells of mothballs.

I've missed the stretches of canvas piled in the corner and dried pans of watercolours that sit on the windowsill.

And I've especially missed the view. The house looks special from down here. All its oddities, like the cracked roof tile beside the chimney and the dip in the bathroom window, stand out, glinting cheekily under the setting sun. I miss staring through the kitchen windows, watching as Mum cooks and Dad whines about something or the other. I miss how she smiles, laughing silently at his unnecessary complaints, and how he huffs and puffs until she places a hand on his shoulder and he falls into her.

I also miss Spencer.

We used to spend hours in here, cuddled up on the worn leather sofa pressed against the back wall. We would come by straight after school. He'd always loosen his tie, unbutton his crisp white shirt, and throw his navy blazer on top of his bag. We'd start with our homework, pretend for as long as we could, but eventually, it would join his blazer, and I'd be in his lap, my lips pressed to his until he sucked the air out of me or one of my parents returned from work.

I miss how easy it was—like second nature. And, if I'm completely honest with myself, I miss how much I loved him. It's not that I stopped; it's just that I question it, and I don't want to question it anymore. I just want the answer.

Yes or no.

Isaac or Spencer.

Old or new.

But then, life isn't as easy as that. If it was, I'd know already.

Sighing, I turn from the window and collapse onto the sofa. It sinks beneath me. I tug my sketchbook out of my backpack and flick through, smiling as old sketches mingle with the new. It's an incomplete landscape that pulls my attention. I'd blocked out the space, started on Isaac's angular profile, but the pencil strokes teeter out, leaving a ghost image in its wake.

I drop the open sketchbook beside me and head for the largest canvas available. A thin layer of dust dribbles off it as I place it on my easel, and for a second, I think of the itch. As if to reassure me, it sparks, pushing aside the memories of its dormancy and reminding me of its presence as I grab the sharpest pencil from an old Heinz can that sits on the windowsill.

The pencil is heavy in my hand, and my wrists are suddenly stiff. I stare at the canvas, rolling my arms this way and that, until I'm transported, and the summer house isn't the summer house anymore. I'm not certain of the scene unfolding around me, not sure of the memory I've recalled, but if I know anything, I know that it's Isaac's figure dancing in the centre.

As the recollection fades, I place my pencil on the stretched surface and allow it to glide across. The first stroke is faint, uncertain, the second the same, then I hear my name.

"Lizzie?" I drop the pencil and rush to the door. "Lizzie, hurry up. I think your Mum saw me."

My heart seizes as I wrap a hand around the brass doorknob and twist. Then I see him, my Spencer, and it all falls away.

He hurtles past, collapsing onto the sofa, and laughs. It's loud, full of life, and wraps around my body until I'm laughing too.

When he laughs, he looks like an angel. His eyes squeeze shut, his lashes flutter perfectly, and his lips, thin and pink, purse as deep smile lines curve around them. And then, just like that, the sweet innocence I love is replaced with a storminess that festers in his hazel eyes.

"I've missed you," he says, his hand bridging the gap between us and wrapping around mine.

"Missing me isn't enough."

"I know."

"What did you miss?"

He grins, blinking slowly, and tugs gently at my hand until I fall into his lap.

This wasn't the plan. At all. But now I'm here, in his arms, I can't help but feel that it was fate. A divine decree I'd be mad to ignore.

Then there's a knock at the door, and I crash to the floor.

"Lizzie! Lizzie, are you—"

"Who's that?" Spencer asks.

My eyes jump from Spencer to the door and back again. He stands up, completely ignoring my sprawled figure, and hurries over. I want to distract him, to drag him back to the sofa and pretend nothing happened, but before I can come up with a half-decent plan, the door is open.

Their voices mesh, and I feel two pairs of horrified eyes zero in on me. It's like I'm the target, white and red, and they're the arrows. Isaac's goes askew as he sighs and runs over, offering a hand. I accept it, my eyes fixed to the floor, and he yanks me into his chest. A wave of lemon and lime washes over me, and the scene from earlier falls into place.

It was the church. Our church.

"I'm guessing this is Spencer," Isaac says, turning away from me.

"Yes."

"And you are?" Spencer asks, his eyes flicking between us.

"This is Isaac," I say. "Isaac Harris. Our parents are old friends."

"Oh," Spencer laughs, shakes his head and offers his hand. "Nice to meet you."

My palms curl in on themselves, and my jaw clenches. Thankfully, Isaac shakes Spencer's hand, saving me from a doubly awkward conversation.

Oh, who am I kidding?

With these two, it'll be a confrontation. A messy WWE match that ends with not one but two potential walkouts.

"Am I interrupting something?" Isaac asks, his gaze fixing on me.

I say no just as Spencer says yes, and suddenly that three-way WWE match becomes a one-on-one.

"Can we just talk?" I ask, reaching for Isaac's hand.

"Talk?" he laughs. It's bitter, too bitter for him. I want to spit it out. "There's nothing to talk about," he says. "You've made your choice."

"I—"

"What?" he snorts. "You haven't?"

"I don't know."

"You never do. And the stupid thing is I thought that hug meant you did. I thought you'd made up your mind, but all this time, you were saying goodbye."

"It wasn't goodbye." At least it wasn't in the moment.

"I'm sorry," Spencer interrupts, his easy laughter cooling. "Am I missing something?"

"No. I'm the one who missed it."

"And what exactly did you miss?" I ask.

"Just how much you love him."

Isaac pushes past and crashes out of the summer house. I run after him, making a grab for his bicep just as we reach the path that leads to the house.

"Stop," I shout, tugging at him until he comes to an awkward halt.

"What?" His voice is ridiculously cold, like dry ice. "What is there left to say?"

"So much. You didn't even wait. You never wait!"

"I don't need to wait. You made up your mind. You don't need me anymore."

"That's...that's."

He smiles grimly and shakes his head. "I don't even care," he says. "You two deserve one another."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I wrap my arms around myself and glare at him.

"It means he'll always love himself above all else, and you'll let him."

"He loves me," I hiss.

"I don't doubt that, but don't come running to me when he puts himself first yet again. Face it, Lizzie, you'll always come second."

"No." I jut out my chin and stomp my foot. "If anyone knows about coming second, it's you. First with Lily, now with me."

He doesn't spare me a second glance before storming into the house. I half expect him to leave, to slam the front door behind him and throw the house into trembling chaos, but he stomps upstairs, leaving me to return to the summer house. I stop by the door and turn to look at Henry's bedroom window. The delicate lace netting twitches, and Henry appears.

He doesn't frown, or shake his head, or say anything. He simply stands and stares at me until Spencer grabs my hand and forces me inside.

"What the fuck was that about?" he asks, teeth gritted, eyes hard.

I rip my hand from his and fall onto the sofa. "I don't think you have a right to be asking so many questions," I mutter as I punch a deflated cushion.

"I know," he groans, running a hand through his thick brown hair. "It's just hard to see you like that with someone else."

"Like I had to see you kissing Penelope?"

"I told her not to post it, but she was pissed and—"

"So they weren't recent pictures?"

"No, they were from when we went on that break. I was pissed at you, at myself, and she wanted to make me feel better. It probably wasn't the best idea, but it's not like I thought you'd take me back."

"Of course, silly me. Here I was thinking you and Penelope were a one-time thing," I snort.

"We were. And then I made a mistake at that club, a mistake I'll never make again."

"How am I supposed to believe you?" I throw my hands in the air and swallow a scream. "How can I trust you when all you do is lie?"

"Because I'm me. You know me, Lizzie. The real me, not the idiot who kissed Penelope."

"So you admit you were an idiot?"

"A massive one." He takes a careful step towards me.

"And you promise to never do it again?"

"Never, ever again." He sits beside me.

"And you still love me?"

"I never stopped." His hand brushes against my cheek, and he turns my face until our noses drift across one another. "I love you," he whispers. "And I'm sorry, so, so sorry."

"You are?" My voice cracks. I wish it hadn't, that I was as strong as a bull, but I'm not. I'm just a pathetic dandelion drifting carelessly through the wind, used and discarded at every turn.

"More than you'll ever know," he says. He's earnest, sincere. I've never seen him like this before. So I let him kiss me. Allow him to brush his lips against mine, his touch soft and comforting.

I wriggle off the sofa and climb into his lap, fitting to the hard contours of his body. Then I pull away, watch as a beautiful smile blooms on his perfect face, and sigh.

"If we do this," I say, my hands resting on his muscular thighs, "there has to be rules."

"Rules?" He quirks a thick brow and draws teasing circles on my exposed hip.

"Yes, Spencer, rules."

"Like?"

"No cheating."

"Obviously."

"No lies."

"Definitely."

"And a hundred per cent. I don't want to be second to someone. I don't want to be your fallback option. Not anymore."

He laughs and runs his hands along my cheeks until he's cradling them gently. "What's gotten into you?" he asks.

I want to scream his name, hurl the painful truth at him, but I only shake my head and smile. "I don't want to lose you," I say instead.

"You never did."

"I know."

But I don't. Know, that is.

If he was out there, kissing Penelope, potentially loving her, was he mine? Isn't that the textbook definition of losing someone? Doesn't that mean I was second place? Second best? Second fiddle?

Just like Isaac said.

"This isn't about what happened out there?" Spencer asks, his brows furrowing.

"You heard all that?"

"Of course I heard. I didn't like it, but I couldn't stop listening. You two were screaming at one another."

"Then yes," I sigh, glancing at his thighs. "This is about what Isaac said."

"He doesn't know me."

"I know."

"He obviously doesn't like me."

"I know that too."

"Of course he's going to make you think you come second," he says, tilting my chin until my eyes meet his. "He wants you, Lizzie."

"I don't know about that."

"Look at you," Spencer laughs, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "You're gorgeous. Of course he wants you."

"And do you...want me?"

"Always. So can we put this behind us and start over?"

I should say no. I know I should. And part of me, the rational part, wants to. But the rest of me is saying yes. Singing, actually. The rest of me will riot if I don't pick him. My Spencer. So I swallow the correct answer and run into the fire with a churlish scream.

"Yes," I whisper, kissing him. "Let's do this."

He smiles against my lips and pulls me closer. "You made the right choice," he says.

I smile too and nod before losing myself in him. His heady scent of aftershave and clean linen, his thick, brown hair that tickles my cheek, his soft, supple skin. And then, as I pull away and stare at him, drinking in his pleasure, I can't help but wonder if he is and always will be the wrong choice.

But if that's the case, why does he feel so right?

***

Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie.

Do you think she made the right choice?

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

xxx