The car jolts forward, and Mum pumps the handbrake. Her fingers are taut as they collapse against the wheel, and we all take a deep breath. In true Paula fashion, she asks if Mum's alright, but I tune out her shaky response and shimmy out the car instead. It's not that I don't care, more that I know she's exaggerating, which might sound like I don't care, but I do, honestly.

Either way, caring, not caring, it doesn't matter when compared to what's on the edge of the cliff that towers over the marina. Or rather, what sits on it because there, gazing down at us, is an array of multicoloured homes. The blues, pinks, yellows all melt into a vibrant haze, and my eyes buzz with excitement.

Transfixed, I follow behind in a daze. For the first time in over a year, I feel my fingers twitch. I have the itch—the artist's itch. You know, the one that forces you to pull out your supplies, sketch a quick outline and get to work. The one that's plagued me my whole life, until suddenly it didn't, and the wonderful spark I loved was lost to...

Well, I don't know exactly what, only that it was gone.

But it's back. Or rather, it was because quickly as it comes, my fingers go numb, and I turn away from the inspirational material that dangles on the precipice.

Everyone seems oblivious to my inner turmoil—okay, not turmoil, that's a bit dramatic. Let me rephrase.

Everyone seems oblivious to my despair. Yes, that's what it is. Because rather than turn around and ask what's wrong—the attention whore in me screaming in desperation—Mum and Paula walk ahead without so much as a second glance back, leaving my disappointment to become absolute distress. And although I long for them to take notice, I'm glad they don't. I know, I know, I need to make up my mind. But it's one thing to have to discuss my lack of artistic vision with them, and a whole other thing to discuss it when there's a spectator in our midst. Oh, and by spectator, I mean Mrs Harris.

She's an unexpected addition to our lunch plans, and although I hate her son, the same cannot be said for her. Perhaps the only questionable thing she's ever done is give birth to Isaac.

Actually, I take that back. You can't pick your children after all.

So, with his birth struck from the record, she's virtually perfect. I've always thought so, always liked her more than my parents' other friends. I think we get along because she's kind. Everyone else would've witnessed my meltdown two days ago and been both parts offended and horrified that an eighteen-year-old could behave in such a way, but she simply took it in her stride and told me that sometimes Isaac drove her crazy too. If I'm honest, her response solidified her position as one of my favourite people in this world, and it's damn near impossible to get onto that list, so you know she's an absolute legend.

Mum calls my name. The three of them seem miles away. Rather than continue to mope—if I did, and I want to, they would surely catch on to the fact that I'm upset and expect an explanation—I run forwards and thread my arm through Paula's.

"Have you guys decided where we're eating?" I ask. My voice is surprisingly steady, and my smile stretches naturally. With it, the pressure of anguish dissipates from my cheeks—you know, since the whole artist thing doesn't seem to be working out, I should be an actress because they don't suspect a thing.

Want to know how I know?

Well, it's easy. Mum continues as if nothing's changed, and rather than turn to me, brow raised and a ready frown waiting, she says, "Danielle and I don't want anything too heavy, but Paula is insisting on the restaurant over there." She points it out, and I squint. The glare of the sunlight disrupts my view.

"What do you think, Lizzie?" Mrs Harris' question surprises me.

I straighten up and shrug. "Food is food."

"Oh, come on," she laughs, "you must have an opinion."

"The café over there seems alright." I gesture towards a smaller establishment. The action lacks any sense of purpose, but they don't turn down my suggestion. In fact, they do the complete opposite, and before I know it, we're seated at a table beside the waterfront.

My eyes trail down to the deep blue of the Atlantic. Small waves lap against the raised slab of concrete that houses the restaurants and cafes dotted around the marina. The foam of the waves catches my attention, and just with the houses, I'm mesmerised.

It's not that the white bubbles are as beautiful as the multicoloured homes, or that they inspire the itch, just that they remind me of life. One minute you're there, full of wonderment, and the next, you're gone, deflated and replaced by the next best thing. Or, in this case, foam. And sure, while Spencer didn't exactly replace me, I'm like the foam because I existed, all puffed up and excited, only to be ruined.

"Lizzie.

"Lizzie.

"Elizabeth, are you even paying attention?"

Blinking, I shake myself and drag my eyes away from the jaunty sea. Mum's eyebrows are furrowed, Mrs Harris' too. Only Paula seems alright, although she does take my hand in hers, suggesting a level of concern. Not major, more like amber alert, but it's too much. I'm fine.

"Is everything alright?" Mum asks.

Scratch the actress plans. I'm useless at everything these days. Still, it's worth one more shot. "Why wouldn't I be?" I ask, lie, even.

"You seem a bit out of it," Mum says.

"I'm fine, I promise."

They all take one good look at me, and I can't help but squirm under their collective gaze. Then a waitress appears, and I'm saved. Saved from the truth, at least, not that I know what it is.

"And you miss?" She turns to me, and I'm startled all over again. "What will you be having?"

I trail my finger across the laminated pages of the menu and shrug. "What are you having?" I ask Paula.

"A Bifana. It's honestly the most heavenly sandwich I've ever had."

"Okay, I'll have a Bifana too. Oh, and a Coke."

The waitress scribbles down my order and backs away, leaving Mum to resume her investigation. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks. "Sure you're not still upset about Spencer?"

"Yes, Mum. Just leave it. I'm sure Mrs Harris doesn't want to hear about Spencer anyway."

"Don't worry about me," she says, waving a hand through the air. "If you need to vent, be my guest."

"No, honestly, I'm good."

"You're just like Isaac," she mutters, laughing a little.

"Pardon?" I ask, my eyebrows raising as my hands curl into fists under the table. "What do you mean I'm just like Isaac?"

"He doesn't like to talk about his breakup either."

"His breakup?" When did he manage to get a girlfriend?

She nods, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips. "Lily texted him, and then he hid in his room for a week."

"A text?" Paula's mouth hangs open. It's not a good look on her, and I want to tell her as much, but it seems like we're being serious now.

"Yes. Can you imagine?"

"So what?" I ask, pushing away my burning desire to tell Paula to close her mouth. "That doesn't mean we're alike. I mean, for one, he got dumped. I didn't."

"It's just that you both clam up when people ask about things."

"I don't clam up."

"Oh no?" Mum quirks a brow. "So why was finding out about Spencer like pulling teeth?"

"Because I didn't want to talk about it, and I shouldn't have to."

"Okay, okay." Mrs Harris is quick to intervene, but Paula decides to take it one step too far.

"How about you prove you and Isaac are different," she says, the challenge too much to turn down.

"Fine." I shrug as if it'll be easy, as if I don't care, but my heartbeat is erratic, and I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead.

"Great." Paula grins. "All you have to do is answer a couple of questions."

I cough, and my left hand snakes up to rub against my clammy forehead.

It's a trap. Yes, it's definitely a trap, like what she did yesterday. Bloody Paula.

Talking about him isn't going to prove anything. In fact, all it'll do is mean I'll break my vow yet again. But what if not talking proves everything? What if not talking means I'm exactly like Isaac?

Fuck, they've got me.

"So?" Paula's voice is light and teasing. It doesn't help. "What will it be, Lizzie?"

Tell them.

No! Don't.

Tell.

Don't.

Te—"Fine, you guys win."

"We do?" Mum's eyes narrow.

"You do. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

I expect a cheer, a smile, something, anything, but they remain silent. Mum and Mrs Harris exchange a glance. Paula simply smiles.

"You don't have to tell us anything if you're not comfortable sharing," Mum says. Her voice is soft, her eyes too, and if I were more like her, I'd bow out of the spotlight. But they've pushed me into it, and my stubbornness doesn't allow for defeat, so I'm shining it on myself.

We'll finish this whether they like it or not, which is why I entreat them to ask me a question, any question.

"Okay." Paula takes the bait. "Have you spoken to him recently?"

"No." Not since I broke up with him.

"Why not?" Mum asks. Any worry that plagued her moments before seems to disintegrate with the realisation that this is her one and only chance to receive the unaltered truth.

"Because." I pause and consider disappointing her. She'll probably feel too much shame to push me to reveal anything else, but we're here now, so I might as well get it over and done with. "I haven't spoken to him," I say, "because it'll probably end with him apologising, and I don't need his apology. I don't need him to come in a fix this. I can fix it for myself."

"You really are like Isaac," Mrs Harris sighs.

"I'm not—"

"You both hide behind others, behind a façade and then let the very people who keep you hidden do as they please no matter how much it hurts."

"I don't hide," I say, something in me cracking. "I just don't want Spencer to apologise because it'll be fake, and I'll cry, and for a moment, I'll think it was all real, and I'll be back at square one."

With that, they leave me alone. I guess the truth is more than any of them wanted to hear. It's certainly more than I did.

~*~

The rest of lunch passes easily, and the awkwardness of my admission drifts off in the light breeze that swirls through the marina. We eat and speak and laugh, and although my heart is clenched tight the entire meal, I make it through.

But now I want nothing more than to forget, and as I bound down the hallway and burst into my room, I'm impossibly close to doing just that. Then my phone rings, and the prospect of forgetting disappears entirely.

At least it's Jess. I don't think I can handle anyone else.

Her curly locks fill the screen, and she beams at me. Her smile is infectious; it takes less than a minute for my own lips to curl up and mirror hers.

"Lizzie," she screeches, collapsing onto her lilac bedspread. "I've missed you."

"It's only been a few days," I laugh.

"A few days too many."

"You're crazy."

"Well, how are you getting on?" she asks as she rolls onto her side. "I've seen an oddly familiar face in a lot of Henry's snaps."

"I'm getting on fine. Fantastic, actually."

"You sure?"

"Of course, I'm not going to let Isaac ruin my holiday."

Her eyes flit from side to side, and she purses her thin lips, but I ask how she is by way of distraction before she can poke holes in my reassurance.

"I'm amazing," she says rather dreamily while I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead prepare myself for the story, because although I know she's forgotten about last night's antics, I never will.

"I'm guessing you and Matt finally got together after Penelope's party," I say, her gasp making me laugh all the more.

"Who told you?"

"Snapchat."

"Wait, what?"

"You really don't remember?"

"No."

"You're such a sloppy drunk."

"Lizzie." My name comes out as a cross between a moan and groan. I laugh a little more at her expense. "Stop holding out on me," she says, kicking out her legs like a petulant child. "How do you know?"

"Don't worry, it's not that embarrassing. You just happened to send me like ten videos pre-sex."

"What?" The screech is back.

"Yep, it was a full-blown movie. Excitement, fear, anticipation. Was it worth the wait?"

She laughs, the sound dripping with relief, and assures me it was. "Honestly, he was the perfect gentleman."

"But you were super drunk."

"So?"

"So, you shouldn't have to get drunk to sleep with him."

"Liquid courage. I was scared, not coerced."

"Okay, but next time you better be sober. Otherwise, Matt and I are going to have to have a very uncomfortable conversation."

"I will be, I promise."

The conversation stalls, and I want so badly to ask if he was there. I mean, I broke my vow yesterday, and lunch didn't really help me make any progress towards keeping it, so I might as well just give up and ask. That is if Jess even remembers, she was—

"He didn't come," she says. "Penelope wanted him too, she said she didn't, but I could tell she did, and then he never showed, so it didn't matter. In fact, she hooked up with someone else."

"She did?"

"Yeah, some guy that came with Dayo and Arjun."

My lips tug up into the slightest of smiles, and it's my turn to be relieved. I know him not showing doesn't make anything better. I know he still cheated. But at least I know he doesn't like her, not the way he liked me, because, with me, he always showed up.

"Thanks, Jess," I say, smiling.

"Anytime. But I have to go. Matt's picking me up in an hour." She bounces off her bed and hurries to her dresser.

"Well, I love you, and have a great time."

"Love you more."

Her face disappears. It's my turn to collapse onto my bed. The soft mattress catches me, and I can't help but wonder if knowing is any better. I mean, if he liked me, loved me the way he said he did, why did he kiss her?

Why did he throw it away?

Why wasn't I enough?

***

Who knew Lizzie and Isaac had anything in common?

Anyway, I promise that you'll finally meet Isaac next chapter, so stay tuned.

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

xxx