Car parks are the devil's spawn. Especially if they belong to an airport.

Trust me, I'm well aware of how ridiculous I must sound. But, if I'm certain of anything in this life, it's that Satan played a role in creating the airport car park. He had to. God is too kind to inflict such pain. At least, that's what I choose to believe. Maybe my understanding of good and evil is slightly skewed; perhaps the lines are far more blurred. Either way, I'm convinced that airport car parks were created to drive us to insanity.

Why?

Well, the answer is simple. Every year, we take off. The sky becomes our domain, and we drift towards the promise of a hotter climate and zero responsibility. And, every year, just before we cut through the clouds and glide above the white sea, my parents descend into a vicious argument with thousands of parked cars acting as witnesses to their rage.

For years I've wondered if it's the airport car park or the simple act of parking that sends their thinly veiled jabs nuclear. I considered my options, weighing up countless experiences and comparing the blowback until I reached a conclusion. A rash conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

It's the car park, not the parking, that causes their voices to raise and foreheads to crumple as they sling insults between the two front seats. If it were merely the parking, this argument would be a staple of every journey. Freaking Westfield would be privy to all their darkest moments. But it only happens when we arrive at the airport. They shout and scream until we come to a jerky stop in a tight spot, and all is forgiven—okay, half forgiven.

Mum's side-eying Dad; he's ignoring her. I've been roped into helping with the luggage, not that I mind. It's easier to deal with Dad and his gruff mumbles than Mum and her shrill demands.

Next year, I'm travelling with Paula and Henry. Paula offered to pick me up weeks ago, but I was the fool who muttered something about betrayal and insisted I'd be fine in the back of the family car. Now there's another option, and my guilt is scorched, I can safely say I'm never turning it down again.

"Is that everything?" Mum asks once we squeeze the suitcases down the narrow aisle between our car and the next.

"Yes, Natalie," Dad mutters. His annoyance whips the otherwise still air into a frenzy. "That's everything."

"You don't have to be so harsh." She shakes her head, almost in anger, but not entirely, before snatching her suitcase from Dad's grasp and striding towards the bus stop.

Oh, and that's another thing about airport car parks—the bus stop. I'm not a particularly impatient person, but there's only so much waiting you can do, and airports test your limits. They're all queues and wasted hours. Why add another long wait to the journey by making the car park so bloody far away? Not to mention, the bus itself simply trundles along, moving without any real sense of purpose.

Actually, I take that back. The bus can trundle all it likes, for if it wasn't for its trundling, we would've missed it entirely. But just as we make it, it pulls up, and the doors stagger open.

I mutter a subdued hallelujah and struggle onto the bus behind my parents. Dad ushers us towards a set of seats at the back while he places the suitcases on the storage racks before bounding down the aisle to join us. He collapses beside me and purposefully turns away from Mum. She sniffs and smiles at me instead.

"Paula and Henry are inside," she says, clutching her bag to her stomach like her life depends on it.

"How do you know?" I'd rather not have this conversation. It's not even meant for me, but Dad's being Dad, and if I ignore her, the holiday will start with a bang. And not the kind you get excited about either.

"Paula texted me." She shoves her phone in my face.

"Where are they waiting?" I ask, batting the offending bright light aside.

"By the check-in desk."

"Is the queue long?"

"Good question." Her fingers fly across the screen. "I'll ask Paula now."

Paula's Mum's favourite. It's a bold claim, I know, but it's also true. They're alike in every way that counts, which means Mum can forgive her for pretty much any misdeed.

She's not like that with me. I guess it's because I'm too much like Dad. You know, too opinionated and unforgiving and damn right confrontational. I can never let anything go. But I'm working on that, first by acknowledging it, then we'll see where it goes.

Henry's the perfect balance of the two of them, which is great cause he's the middle child. Even looks-wise, he has the best of both worlds. But Paula and I are all Mum. The only part of Dad we share is our dark soulless eyes that are more black than brown. Honestly, if it wasn't for the fact that, at twenty-three, she's five years older, we'd pretty much be twins.

"What's Paula saying?" Dad asks, finally joining the conversation so clearly meant for him.

"She hasn't responded." Mum refuses to meet his gaze.

This is perhaps her one pet peeve. Oh, who am I kidding? It's everyone's pet peeve. Paula is, for better or for worse, rather forgetful, and with that comes the uncommunicativeness. She never responds to texts, at least not in a timely fashion. And when she does, the answer is so jumbled you're better off waiting the three to five business days it usually takes her to respond.

Even now, with nothing to do but talk to Henry, she's failed to reply. By the time she does, we're struggling off the bus.

"Not too busy, although there's potential." Mum reads the message aloud and rolls her eyes before shoving her phone into the depths of her navy handbag.

"Typical Paula." Dad's low expectations are painfully obvious, and I can't help but snort in silent agreement.

I love my sister, I do, but she's the most flustered person I've ever met.

"She can never say what she means," Dad says, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Sometimes she does," Mum says without missing a beat. God forbid Dad snuffs out her shining light.

"Well, if by sometimes you mean never, then we're finally in agreement."

Just as I'm about to jump to Mum's, and by extension Paula's, defence, I spot my siblings and the words that burn the tip of my tongue disintegrate to ash. Despite Paula being the favourite and Henry being, well Henry, there's no love lost between us, and the moment I see them, I propel myself into their arms.

Paula's laugh is music to my ears. The ethereal notes I used to envy soothe away the fizzing energy from the journey until my insides are simmering rather than boiling. "I've missed you," she says as she squeezes me so tight I fear my insides might shoot out, drenching the scuffed floor with mushy entrails.

"I've missed you too," I say, glancing over my shoulder. Mum and Dad are staring at the departures board, muttering angrily between themselves. "A-Levels were a bitch."

"I told you they would be." Henry throws an arm over my shoulder and squeezes. "But how are you anyway?"

"Glad they're over."

"Is that all?" he asks. "Aren't you excited to see us?"

"I'm always excited to see you." It's embarrassingly true. Ever since Henry left for university, life has been woefully tragic. Honestly, I've never spent so much time hanging out with my parents.

Paula coos and wraps her arms around us, squeezing where she can. By the time we untangle ourselves, Henry launching into a story about his latest photography job, our parents are ushering us through the airport. Hurried hellos give way to panicked instructions and disapproving glares until Paula places a hand on each of their shoulders and reminds them to breathe. Henry and I trail behind, sharing a secret smile as we watch Paula do what Paula does best.

Check-in is a surprisingly quick affair, security too, and although we're left waiting for Henry because he's stopped for a random search, we're in the departures lounge in under an hour.

The first order of business is food.

Dad and Henry are stuck on Burger King. While the thought of chips makes me salivate, the smell of the oil too, I stupidly joined Mum on her health kick six months back and have been trapped ever since. When she suggests Starbucks, I swallow the craving and ready myself for the prospect of an unfulfilling salad or sandwich. It's only the promise of a sugar-filled drink that makes the rather dull plan glint a little under the harsh artificial lights.

"Who's going to find seats?" I ask before we separate. They falter, glancing at one another until Mum, unsurprisingly, takes one for the team.

"I'll snag a table in Burger King," she says.

"But what do you want to eat?" Paula asks.

"I'll have whatever you're having."

There's no time for my heart to sag in defeat. Despite supporting her for six long months, she still trusts Paula's tastes over mine. But, at the same time, I'm glad for Paula because she takes my hand in hers and drags me away from Mum's unthinking comment.

"She'll probably hate what I'm having," Paula says as we weave through the crowd.

"No, she'll love it, just like everything else you do."

"Come on, Lizzie." Her laugh isn't so welcome anymore. "You know she loves you."

"I never said she didn't, only that she prefers you and everything you do. You can do no wrong in her eyes."

"Trust me, neither can you."

We stumble into Starbucks. I pick the first thing I see and fiddle with the slick paper wrapping. Paula isn't so quick. It's another fatal flaw of hers—her indecision, I mean, but then I guess it goes with the forgetful, flustered person she's always been.

As she dithers, I turn from the display case and gaze out at the mass of people milling around departures. It feels like time has stopped; anything and everything is acceptable. Okay, maybe not everything. But so many things that should be wrong aren't—like day drinking, overly expensive products and shitty phone service.

Anyways, once you're past security, there's little you can do, but sit tight, eat and wait for your flight. Or, in my case, continue people watching.

I tear my gaze away from the makeshift pub and continue to scan the crowd. A man, no, a boy, breaks free from a huge group and slinks towards WHSmith. He's wearing an oversized denim jacket and has a non-descript buzzed haircut that is oddly distinguishable.

My head falls to the side, and I squint, following him until he disappears behind a magazine rack. There's only one person I know who rocks a cropped fade. He's a heinous beast.

He's back again, still turned away. His head tilts, and I catch a flash of his side profile. It's angular, his jaw a crisp line, his cheekbones high and gleaming under the harsh glare of the white lights. I step forward involuntarily and peer through a crack in the crowd. But, just as he's about to turn, Paula makes her decision and twirls me around.

"I think I just saw Isaac," I say, swaying slightly as her hands tighten around my biceps.

Paula snorts. "Isaac?" she asks. "As in Isaac Harris?"

"Yes, Isaac Harris. What other Isaac do we know?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I thought you hated him too much to notice him."

"I do. Maybe I'm just tired. I mean, it probably wasn't him. Right?"

"Yeah," she agrees quickly—too quickly. "It probably wasn't."

Except I can't help but think it was, is, which wouldn't matter so much except, as I said, he's a heinous beast.

~*~

The sun is setting when we finally leave the airport. While we wait in the sticky heat for Mum and Dad to collect the keys for the rental car, I tip my head back and stare into the sky. Indistinct flashes of pink and orange intermingle. They completely wipe out the few remaining patches of blue and send a tingle running down my spine. The more they encroach, pushing aside the day and welcoming the night, the sooner I'll be able to see the stars. It's too clear not to.

"What are you grinning at?" Henry bumps his hip against mine. I hurtle aside and shoot him a menacing glare.

"Nothing," I say, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in my shirt.

"Sure," he snorts. "It's nothing."

"I'm serious, Henry."

"Whatever you say." His teasing voice niggles through my skull and settles down, taunting me so much so that I'm glad for our parents return.

The car keys dangle from Dad's index finger. He beckons for us, and we follow him into the car park. I can feel another argument brewing between my parents. It simmers between them, threatening to overspill. Thankfully, before the mumbled comments can explode, we find the rental car, shove our suitcases into the spacious boot of the SUV and pile in, with Paula, as the shortest, stuck in the middle.

"How far to the villa?" I ask once it feels like we've been driving forever. Honestly, there's only so much motorway you can stare at before it blends into a drawn-out stretch of grey nothingness.

"Not long yet," Dad says. He catches my eye in the rear view mirror and winks. I force myself to smile before turning to the window.

It's nightfall already. The sunset, as beautiful as it was, did not last long, leaving the car's headlights to carve out a path on the slick black tarmac for Dad to follow. I lean against the window, and my eyes flicker upwards. I was right about the clear sky, by the way. The stars wink defiantly and whisper promises of an hour or two spent out in the warm breeze. I'll kick back, headphones in, and bathe under the diamond droplets until the novelty wears off. Or maybe it won't, and I'll fall asleep out on a sun lounger. Either way, I'm enjoying the stars and the warm night. Lord knows we don't get this at home.

I don't know how long it's been, how long I've been stuck in the freezing car, but eventually, we arrive. Dad parks rather awkwardly and throws open his door. Festering heat infects the interior. Henry springs out, revelling in it, and Paula follows suit. I cautiously open my door and tiptoe out into the warmth. Compared to the car, it feels like I've stepped into an oven. Then I see the villa, and it no longer matters.

There are two, ours and its twin. They both have rustic front doors, large windows with faded shutters painted an off-white shade that borders on beige, and brilliant stonework, the bricks rugged and hulking. Thick shrubs line the far sides of the shared driveway, and the cicadas hum in the canopy of trees that hang overhead.

The neighbour's lights are off, and there is no car in the driveway. They must be out. Or, better yet, there are no neighbours.

"Wow, guys," I mumble under my breath. "You've really outdone yourselves this time."

"Wait until you see inside." Dad squeezes my shoulder before leading me to the boot.

As he opens it, another car pulls up. Gravel crunches under their tyres, and I whip around to stare. I peer in through the windscreen, and although I can't see much, a sense of knowing washes over me.

No, not knowing, foreboding. Which, given that I can't see anything, is a bit weird.

I turn to Dad, but he's grinning, and everything makes even less sense. He slams the boot shut without getting any of the suitcases and joins Mum, who's beaming like a fox on rubbish day.

Paula and Henry have disappeared. It's as good a warning sign as any and means I'm left alone when the car stops beside ours.

The passengers tumble out unceremoniously; it's an orgy of grinning and shouting and hugging. I should join my parents. Should rush in for a hug and let a pretty smile find its way onto my face as prettier words flow past my lips.

But I don't.

Don't smile or wave or even say hello.

I freeze and breathe, and breathe and freeze until I feel some semblance of control. Then it fizzles away, and I freeze again.

Why you may ask?

Well, you sure do have a lot of questions, but you deserve an answer—like me.

Anyway, I'm getting wildly off-topic.

The source of my shock is simple.

Isaac.

Fucking.

Harris.

***

Hey guys,

So this is the first chapter. What did you think?

Thanks so much for giving Bliss a chance.

Do you think Isaac is all that bad?

If you've enjoyed the chapter and are curious to find out how this summer vacation turns out, please continue reading.

Oh, and do remember to share, comment and vote. It means so much. I love hearing all of your opinions. 

xxx