I wouldn't say I'm a morning person. I don't like chirping birds or dewy grass. That is, I don't like them if there isn't a steaming mug of coffee involved. And yet, it's barely dawn, and I'm up. Bleary-eyed and coffee-less, but up.

Oh, and there's no chirping birds or dewy grass. There's almost no sun either. Just murky darkness, cicadas and Isaac. I'm a good meter behind him, watching as he marches up the trail like the grand old Duke of York. With every surefooted step, his arms swing and his calf muscles tense. They're sharp and smooth all at the same time and jut out rather attractively.

Don't get it twisted; I'm not a leg person. And if I were, I certainly wouldn't be into his legs. But looking at them reminds me just how much he's changed. Physically that is. After all, he was never really the type of guy who had sexy legs, more like the guy with kind eyes, but nothing can stay the same forever. Us out together at the crack of dawn is proof enough of that.

Isaac stops rather abruptly and spins around. He grins down at me, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hurry up," he bellows, his laughter bounding down beside the words.

"We've been walking forever," I shout back, increasing my pace anyway.

"You're being dramatic."

"That's easy for you to say. You seem to enjoy this shit."

He only laughs harder. "We're almost there," he says, offering his hand to yank me up a steeper part of the trail. "And the view is totally worth it."

That's how he got me up, by the way. Whispered promises of a beautiful sunrise, and I slipped out of bed without a second thought. Little did I know, it required a gruelling hike up an ashen trail at a thousand miles per hour with general dickface.

Honestly, who moves this fast this early?

"Have you done this before?" I ask, speeding up once the assent levels out.

"I come most mornings," he admits, slowing down to match my shorter strides. "That is when strange girls don't fall asleep in my bed."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about that." I'd never expressly asked him not to, but then I don't think it requires an ask.

"Who said I was?" He wriggles his eyebrows.

I falter and trip over my own feet.

"Steady on." His hands curl around my waist as he hauls me into his chest. "What is it with you and falling?"

"It's not my fault," I huff, shoving him away. "And anyway, we aren't talking about me."

"We aren't?"

"No, we're talking about you and the girl from the club."

"What about her?"

"Well, if I'm not the strange girl, who else is it but her?"

It's pretty impossible even then. I mean, I woke up in his bed two days ago, and we're here now. But then Henry did sneak her friend in last night. If he got with one of them, it's a given that Isaac got with the other. Right?

Oh, what does it matter? It's not like it's my business or that I care. Because I totally don't care, and it's totally not my business. Still, Isaac laughs a little too loudly, and I kick my foot out to trip him. Not to hurt him, just to shut him up.

"I was taking the piss," he says once he regains his footing. "You're the only strange girl out there. And even if I wasn't joking, she's not exactly my type."

"Stunningly beautiful women aren't your type?" He's lying. He has to be. That girl is everybody's type.

"She's good looking," he says, his words slow and considered. "But physical attraction only gets you so far, you know."

As much as I hate to admit it, I do. Look at Spencer and me. Physically, I yearn for him. For the way he'd hold me close, placing lingering kisses along my jaw and nipping at my neck. Or how he'd stare at me, not through me, before he brushed his mouth against mine and the world slipped away. But I don't think we ever took off emotionally. There was always something missing—common ground, maybe, or respect. I don't know. He just wasn't my perfect piece.

Then again, who said perfect pieces exist.

"Physical attraction helps," I say, disregarding Isaac's words entirely. "It draws you to people, makes you fall in love."

"Maybe. But it's not like I was physically attracted to Lily. She was too perfect."

"Too perfect?" Is there such a thing? Surely the closer to perfection, the better.

"She was textbook pretty," he says, smiling wistfully. "The kind of girl you're taught to find attractive. You know, long blonde hair, bright eyes, rosy cheeks. That sort of crap."

"Kinda like Cinderella," I say.

He laughs and nods. "Exactly like Cinderella."

"So why did you date her? You know, since you're not into that."

"Because I got to know her. I saw beyond the perfection."

"Is it that simple?" I ask, laughing a little in disbelief.

"Of course. We just make everything complicated."

"Maybe Spencer never got to know me," I say, shrugging my backpack higher. "Maybe that's why he cheated." At least that explanation is better than thinking he didn't like me enough.

"Spencer got to know you," Isaac says. "He's just a dick."

"How do you know?" It's not like Isaac ever met him, not like he knows him. Not the way I do, anyway. As a matter of fact, it's not like anyone knows him. They all know what I've told them, and in light of recent events, I haven't exactly painted a pretty little picture.

"Trust me," he says, stopping and turning me to face the cliff's edge. "You can't not get to know you."

I want to ask what he means, point out the double negative and grill him for answers, but the moment I see it, the promised view, nothing else matters.

The sun kisses the ocean's edge in a perfect dome, and a glittering reflection wobbles on the restless surface. It's a glowing halo, sending a short, intense amber beam into the brightening sky. The light creates a rupture in the usual pale blue swathes and splits it into a pink, violet, indigo haze, with a dash of orange creeping in.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, watching my words drift towards the horizon.

"I know."

His breath is warm against my neck. I turn, expecting to see a smug smile, but any pretence is dropped, and the Isaac I see is the Isaac I used to know. The happy Isaac, easy Isaac. The Isaac I looked forward to spending time with. Who I teased and chased and obsessed over. For one moment, he's the Isaac of my childhood.

He lays out a tartan blanket and sits down, patting the space beside him. I sit cross-legged and unzip my backpack. Handing over the box of croissants I stole from the kitchen, I accept a bottle of orange juice Isaac stole from his. We divvy up the food and eat in silence. The sound of the waves floats up, subsuming us until the croissants are finished, and the bottles of juice are drained.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asks, smashing through the silence as he stuffs the rubbish into his backpack.

"Nothing, why?"

"Come out with us," he says, grinning broadly.

"Did Henry put you up to this?"

He laughs but shakes his head. "Henry said you'd say no."

"Well, there's your answer."

"It's fireworks," he says, his fingers reaching for my waist. He tickles lightly, and I jerk away, my laughter spilling out just when I want to be serious. "You love fireworks."

"Since when?"

"Since always. You used to draw the displays we'd see on Guy Fawkes Night."

It's true. Pages and pages of old sketchbooks are dedicated to the bursts of coloured lights that fill the sky on November 5th. I loved to draw sparklers too. Loved to retrace the golden glow and the messages Isaac and I wrote to one another in the icy winter air.

"I can't believe you remember that," I say, wriggling away from him still. His fingers are a little too poised for my liking.

"I remember everything."

So far, that seems to be true.

"So will you come?" he asks.

"If Paula does."

"Seriously?" The word is delivered with a gruff groan, and I laugh and nod.

"I don't want to be a fifth wheel, Isaac."

"To who?"

"You, Henry and your summer flings."

"Summer flings?" he snorts. "The only one of us with a summer fling is Henry, and even then, I don't think he wants it to end when he gets home."

"Wait, what?"

Henry isn't a relationship person. He likes his freedom, hates anchors. He's never had a girlfriend, and I don't think he will for a while. That is unless what Isaac is saying is true.

"I've said too much," he grins, placing his hands in the air.

"You can't do that to me. He's my brother. I have a right to know!"

"Well, promise you'll come tonight, and you'll see just what's going on for yourself."

"You're evil," I say, but he laughs and shrugs.

"Fireworks on the beach?"

"Fireworks on the beach it is."

"Well, now that's settled, let's get out of here."

"Already?" The sun has barely risen. It's still unsure, hovering low in a pale sky.

"We have to get back before everyone wakes up," he says, offering me a hand. "That is unless you want to explain what you were doing out with me this early."

I laugh and take his hand. His fingers tense around mine. They're warm and strong and dig into my skin as he pulls me up, lingering even once I'm standing.

It's a weird feeling. New. Not horrible, but odd. It continues as we walk, the backs of our hands brushing against one another.

We're a lot quicker this time. At least I'm a lot quicker. It's easier too. So easy I can speak without draining the world of air. Isaac leads me off the trail as we reach the bottom, and we spill out onto the beach rather than the roadside. It's empty, save for a few joggers and an older couple and their dog. It's peaceful too. We fall into an easy rhythm beside one another.

"How's Jess?" he asks rather abruptly, glancing down at me and shielding his eyes from the rising sun.

"She's good. Has a boyfriend now. Matthew. They're perfect for one another."

"Perfect?"

"Equally unproblematic. Equally kind. Literally, they're the same person. It's so sweet it's nauseating."

He laughs, and I find myself laughing too. "How long have they been together?" he asks once our giggles subside.

"Almost a year. He's Spencer's best friend. It just made sense."

"But won't it be awkward?"

I haven't thought about that. Haven't thought about what Spencer's cheating does to us. To Friday nights spent watching movies or Saturdays eating waffles and cream. To afternoon coffee runs or double dates in the park. To my social life. To everything I enjoy. To the world I created for myself—the world we created for each other.

"Jess is my best friend. That won't change."

"Of course not. But what about everything else?"

I shrug. "I'm not a vindictive person. I can be perfectly civil."

His eyes widen, and he snorts. "Are you serious?"

"Okay," I say, punching his shoulder. "I can be vindictive. But it's just not worth it."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't care. He's made that perfectly clear. Why waste my time trying to make his life hell when he couldn't care less that he ruined mine?" But in saying this, I realise something. Something almost as nauseating as Jess and Matt's relationship. I always cared about Isaac.

Gosh. How bloody sad.

***

This chapter ran a little long so it'll appear in two halves.

Can you believe that Elizabeth always cared about Isaac?

Or, has it been obvious that she cares in her own way?

Do you think he cares about her?

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

xxx