You know how Stella Got Her Groove Back?

The movie, with Angela Basset?

Well, this is how Lizzie got her itch back. And not in the teasing, elusive way I hate. But in a real way.

It's here, baby. Sparking at my fingertips, coursing through my veins, beating in my heart. Cliché, maybe, but very, very true.

I wake up to it. To a tingling, fizzing sensation that bubbles up and spews forth like pink sparkly vomit. It surges through my body, leaving me a restless, jittering mess.

I want nothing more than to rush to the beach with a sketchbook and HB pencil. No shoes, no bikini, nothing. Just me and a few blank pages. It's not like I need anything anyway. Not if I'll be doing the one thing I've been dying to. But the sensible part of me jumps in, leaping forth like a nervous frog, and forces me to the bathroom.

I bump into Essie on my way. She's wearing one of Henry's old t-shirts and a sheepish grin. "I didn't realise you were staying the night," I laugh, hoping to take the edge off.

"Neither did I." She shuffles from foot to foot. "But Henry said your parents had an early start." Her voice trails off, her eyes firmly on the hardwood flooring.

"It's alright," I say. "I doubt my parents would care anyway. Henry's not a baby. He's allowed to have girls over."

"You sure? I don't want to cause any problems."

"Of course, and even if it was a problem, I'd never snake. Henry used to catch my boyfriend sneaking out all the time."

"You're boyfriend?" Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline.

"Sorry," I laugh, "I mean my ex."

"Was it recent?"

"A few weeks ago."

"So you're still in the mourning phase?"

"Pretty much."

"It gets easier," she says, nodding. "Not right away, but then one day you wonder why you were even with them in the first place."

"Who broke your heart?" I ask, laughing awkwardly.

"No one. But Elle recently broke up with her boyfriend. They were together for three years, even survived the first year of uni, but long-distance isn't really workable, at least not for Elle."

"Oh." I should say poor Elle or something to that effect. Then again, if her glare is anything to go by, I doubt she'd appreciate my pity, sincere or otherwise.

"She's fine now," Essie says. "Scars heal, you know."

"Yeah, fingers crossed."

"Anyway, I should really be going. Henry promised pancakes."

"Seriously?" He must really like her. I mean, he doesn't cook for just anyone. Hell, he doesn't cook full stop. "Could you make sure he saves me a few?" I ask.

"Will do." She scuttles past, practically running towards the kitchen, and leaves me to slip into the bathroom.

It's like a sauna in here. I reach out for the mirror and wipe away the thick condensation until I see my distorted reflection. Staring through the steam, my fingers drift to my mouth, tracing a path around my lips. The moment I see it, my fingers pressed against my cupids bow, I jump back.

He almost kissed me.

An actual kiss—okay, almost kiss.

It's the closest we've been in a lifetime.

The first time we've shared the same air. The first time our measured breaths have found the same rhythm, blending together to create a steady beat.

But, as groundbreaking as it is, it's not the first time we've turned away. Not the first time we've stopped ourselves, our relationship, friendship or otherwise, crashing to a grinding halt. It's not special in all the ways it is. So I turn from my reflection, my hand dropping from my mouth, and step into the shower.

Tepid water spills over me, trickling down my back, seeping into my scalp. I run through my routine, banishing all thoughts of last night to the darkest reaches of my mind. That is until I run my hands through my curls, conditioner slipping along the strands, and I'm back on the cold sand, his fingers wrapping around a single coil as he tucks it behind my ear.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I quickly wash the conditioner out, finish up and jump out of the shower. The hot air clings to my body as I wrap a towel around myself and dash across the hallway to my room.

The door slams shut behind me. I make quick work of getting ready, sitting down only to tease out the knots in my afro and drench it in product. While I wrap a tie-die silk scarf around the front, I head for the kitchen, pausing only when I hear his voice.

Shit. I didn't think I'd see him so soon.

Well, maybe I did.

But...what...what do I do?

No. This is stupid.

I'll act like nothing happened. Just until I figure out how he feels about this. How he feels about me. I mean, one almost kiss doesn't change everything. Right?

A pair of hands land on my shoulders. I jump about a meter in the air. Thankfully, it's only Henry. He laughs like a maniac as he slips past, stopping only to ask if I'm coming.

"Of course," I say, running to catch him up.

"Yes." His laughter continues to dance tauntingly behind his dark irises. "Of course you were."

"Shut up, Henry!" I shove him. He trips into the kitchen, laughing harder as Essie rushes over to catch him.

"Are you okay?" Essie asks, glancing between the two of us.

"Yeah, we're fine." Henry's laughter persists despite her concern and my glaring annoyance. "Lizzie just cracks me up is all," he says.

"Fuck you," I hiss, plopping beside Isaac on a hard stool.

"Right back at you." He winks as he slips his hand through Essie's. "But as nice as this was, is, Essie and I will be out by the pool."

"See you later." Isaac waves them off. He stares after them. Well, that is until the French doors slam shut, the vibrations ringing through the house. Then his eyes are fixed squarely on me. Or rather my lips, to be more precise.

I squirm under his gaze, a guttural moan that sounds like his name escaping just when I want to be cool, calm, collected. My cheeks warm, and I turn away, my eyes squeezing shut, my heart ramping up until it's positively speeding. He places a hand on my knee, his thumb kneading into the thin skin. It sends an electric spark racing up my leg. I follow its path, smiling as it tumbles up my spine and disappears in my ribcage. Once it reaches my heart, it tangles with the erratic rhythm. Then it's shot out, stronger than ever, and shelved away in a growing rack of once locked memories.

"We can't do this here," I say, springing away.

"No," he sighs. "You're right. We can't."

"But I was planning to go to the beach."

He glances up.

"And I can't stop you from going to the beach too."

A slow smile creeps onto his face. I swallow my laughter, watching as he nods a little too enthusiastically.

"Meet by the white house in five?" he asks.

"How about ten?" It'll take at least five, six minutes to stuff a few pancakes down my throat and another five to get my things together.

"Okay," he grins, "ten."

He stands up, faltering for a second in the doorway before he rushes over. He cradles my face in his palms, beaming down at me, slowly inching forward. But, just like the night before, we're interrupted.

Essie barrels in, sending us flying in opposite directions.

"Sorry," she says, embarrassment colouring her tone as she places an empty glass in the large sink. "I didn't know you two were—"

"We're not," I say.

"Yeah," Isaac smiles. "We're not."

She nods and hurries back outside. I turn the moment she's gone, taking Isaac's hand in mine. "I'm sorry," I say, rubbing my thumb along his knuckles. "I just don't want anyone to know if we don't know. You know?"

He smiles. It's not up to his usual standards. Not blindingly brilliant, but it's a start. "I know," he says. "I don't want them to know either. We should be sure first."

"Of?"

"What this is."

"Exactly."

"So ten minutes?" he asks.

"Ten minutes."

I'm three minutes late, not through any fault of my own. Henry's the one who decided to subject me to the third degree in Paula's absence. He laughed at my half-truth, rolled his eyes and dismissed me with an imperious wave of the hand. It was infuriating, yes, but I was late, so I bit the inside of my cheek as I burst out of the house, holding back the tornado of insults that whipped around inside me.

Isaac is, surprisingly, unbothered. He throws an arm over my shoulder, almost as if I hadn't broken my promise, and steers me towards the beach. If it were Spencer, he would've gone berserk, extolling the virtues of good timekeeping. But Isaac's not Spencer, and Spencer's not Isaac.

The beach is bristling with families who fight over sun loungers, couples wrapped around one another and topless bathers. There's not a free patch of sand in sight, the once clear expanse of land covered in a patchwork of sturdy chairs and colourful towels.

Isaac laces his fingers through mine, tugging when I slow. We amble along the beach, sticking close to the wooden promenade until he spots a space. It's shaded, secluded from the rest of the holidaymakers by the craggy rocks that tower above us.

"What do you think?" he asks as I wriggle out of my shorts. "Too cold?"

"It's perfect."

"You sure?"

"Yes." I collapse onto my beach towel, unzip my backpack and tug out my sketchbook. Flicking through, a faint smile dances across my lips until a new page appears. "What's the date?" I ask.

"The date?"

"Yes, Isaac. The date."

He pulls out his phone and rattles it off before sitting beside me.

"No," I moan, shoving him.

"What do you mean no?"

"Sit over there." I point to a boulder in the corner.

He groans but stands up and walks towards it. "Why?" he asks, leaning against the mammoth rock.

"Because I'm going to draw you."

"Oh."

"Yes, now sit down."

"You're very bossy," he says, scrambling up the side of the rock. "You know that, right?"

"Yes—no, don't sit like that."

"How should I sit then?"

"Like this." I march over and tug at his hand until he hops off the bolder. Pushing down on his shoulders, I force him to sink into the sand and lean against the sturdy rock. "There," I say, grinning at him. "Much better."

"How long do you think this will take?" he asks as I return to my spot and scoop up my sketchbook.

I shrug.

"Do you ever work from photos?"

"Sometimes. If I have to. But the lighting can be funny."

"What about when you paint?"

"I haven't done that in a while."

It used to be my preferred medium. Watercolours, to be precise. I liked how the paint bled, creating a dreamscape across the page. It's a lot harder to replicate when I sketch. I have too much control over the pencil, and the lines usually emerge in a precise fashion, breathing life rather than magic into my creations.

But, somehow, someway, as the tip of the pencil kisses the page, I get it—that faint, wavering line.

"You haven't painted?" Isaac asks, interrupting the personable silence that builds between us.

"No."

"Why not?"

I shrug and draw my hand from the page. "I've been busy, I guess."

"When was the last time you did?"

I purse my lips, a catalogue of days, moments, flying through my mind, but I can't find it. Can't find the last time I locked myself in the summer house, brush and easel at the ready. At least, I can't be sure.

I remember it was cold.

I remember the little oil heater chugging to life, filling the air with a stale smell that was both parts rancid and comforting.

I remember the frost tinted windows and the sparkling grass, heavy with dew.

But I don't know the date, or the time, or even what I painted.

I just know that afterwards, it never happened again.

But I can't tell Isaac that. I don't want to. For the moment I do, I'll have to explain, and I still don't understand how the itch works. In fact, since it's here, I don't want to try to understand it. If I do, I might just scare it off for good this time.

"So?" he asks, his eyes searching mine.

"It must've been last summer," I say with a thin-lipped smile. "Before A-Levels truly hit."

"Oh. And sketching?"

"The same, I guess."

"So this is the first time you've drawn in a year?"

I nod.

"And you want to draw me?"

I nod again.

He runs his top two teeth along his chapped lip, barely concealing his smile. It struggles out, bursting forth like an intense beam of happiness. I can't help but smile too as I bask in the full effects of his magical grin. Then my phone rings, and the moment disappears. It's carried away in the soft breeze, fluttering out to sea.

I put my sketchbook down and pick it up. "You don't mind if I take this?" I ask, scrambling to my feet, my finger hovering over the large green button. "It's Jess."

He shakes his head, and I turn, hurrying a few feet away to answer the call.

"Jess," I hiss, my voice low and excited. "You'll never guess what I'm doing."

I expect a laugh, or a joke, or an incorrect guess. I expect something, anything. But instead, I get nothing. Well, that is if you count heavy breathing as nothing.

I repeat her name and strain, waiting for a whisper or even a change in the steady breaths.

It doesn't come.

"Jess," I whisper again. "Jess, are you there?"

The breathing continues.

"Come on, Jess," I laugh uneasily. "This isn't funny anymore."

Isaac's behind me in an instant, his hands resting on my shoulders, his lips brushing against my ear. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

I shrug.

"Jess," I say again, pleading this time as I squeeze my eyes shut and wait.

Only I wish I hung up, because the moment I repeat her name, I'm met with his voice. It's deep, raspy, almost as if he's recovering from a cold. It's one of the things I liked most about him. And, if the shiver that ripples down my spine is any indication, it's something I still like. Which makes me hate myself. I hate him too. Hate that, despite everything, we're still on the same frequency. Then I say his name. It's barely whisper. Barely a name. But it doesn't matter because the moment Isaac hears it, he hurtles past me and storms away.

I should probably run after him. Should explain, not that I know what's going on. The point is, I should do something.

But I don't.

I simply stand there, eyes closed, wishing it all away.

Spencer, my feelings, myself, everything. 

***

Nothing seems to ever go right for poor Lizzie.

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

xxx