I've done a lot over the years, like a lot, but Henry's never looked at me the way he is now. It's the essence of disappointment, dark and foreboding, made worse by my lack of remorse. Not that I need to be remorseful. It's not like I've done anything wrong. That is unless you consider staying true to yourself a bad thing.

"What did you want me to do?" I ask as I flick the switch on the kettle and grab two mugs. "Lie to myself? Pick Isaac's happiness over my own?"

"You think you picked your happiness?" he snorts, ridicule clinging to his words. "Hate to break it you Lizzie, but the only person who gets to be happy in this little equation of yours is the person who deserves it the least."

"Why do you hate him?"

"Spencer?"

"Yes."

"I don't hate him," he says. "I hate what he did to you, and you should hate it too. Why would you get back with him? What is it about that arsehole that screams pick me?"

"I love him." If I didn't, he'd be kicked to the curb, long forgotten the way everybody wishes he was.

"And I love Nutella," Henry says, "but I don't eat it every day."

"That makes zero sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"I don't even see how any of this is your business."

He laughs and shakes his head before collapsing against the countertop. "You're right. It's not my business, but don't come running to me when it all goes wrong. I don't want to hear it anymore. Any of it."

"Fine."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have something I need to do." He sweeps into the hallway and stalks upstairs.

Sighing, I return the second mug to the cupboard and drop two heaped teaspoons of coffee into the first just as my phone begins to vibrate.

It's Jess.

My finger falters over the bright screen, and for a second, I wonder if, like Henry, she's disappointed in me. Then I push my fears aside and answer.

She'll understand; she always does.

"What the fuck, Lizzie," she screams, her voice both parts exasperated and insanely worried.

"Jess?"

"You took him back. After everything, you took him back."

"Was I not supposed to?"

"No, not really. What on earth possessed you to believe him?"

"I—"

"No, you know what, I'm coming to get you. I'll be there in ten."

"I—"

"I'm not taking no for an answer, be ready to leave, or I'll get you ready myself."

She hangs up before I have a chance to agree.

Looks like she doesn't understand at all.

I leave the coffee behind and trudge upstairs. My room's a mess, a wasteland filled with heaps of unwashed clothes, half-finished hair products and stray items that belong in my makeup bag. I pick my way across it and fling open my wardrobe.

It's even worse.

Old leggings and long-forgotten skirts are trying to make a run for it, my school uniform is scrunched in a ball beneath a muddy pair of trainers, and I only have one clean pair of jeans left. They're unintentionally ripped at the knee and too big around my waist, but they'll have to do.

Once I've thrown on a clean t-shirt, I pull my belt tight and collapse in front of my mirror. I tug my bonnet off, throw it over my shoulder, and sigh. I had the good sense to subdue my freshly washed hair into two twists last night, making it ten times easier to slather a boatload of gel onto the front and pull it into a neat bun at the base of my neck, but beyond that, I can't really be bothered.

Just as I finish, the doorbell rings. I grab my phone and my keys before heading downstairs. My hand falters over the doorknob. It's practically shaking. I draw back and head for the antique mirror that hangs beside the coat rack. The girl looking back at me isn't a fool, or an idiot or a crazy person; she simply knows what she wants. I have to show Jess that girl. Maybe then she'll come back to my side where she belongs.

Still, if I don't face her head-on, she'll never see my point of view, so I head for the door and throw it open.

She smiles the moment she sees me and chucks her arms around my neck. Her bouncy curls tickle my cheeks as we rock back and forth.

"I've missed you," she says.

"I've missed you too."

"But I missed you more."

"We're not doing this," I laugh, squeezing her tight. "We missed one another, the end."

"But you have to admit that I missed you more. I mean, you were out there, living your best life—"

"And you were here fucking Matt."

"Lizzie." She pushes me away, an ultra-dramatic gasp lingering in the air, and shoves my shoulders.

"What?" I smile innocently. "You were."

"Yes, but you don't have to be so vulgar. Anyone could've heard you."

"Since when did you become so prim and proper?"

"Since Matt introduced me to his parents. Gosh, they're awful."

"Really? I want to hear all about it."

Her glossy lips open wide, and a strangled sound hurtles from the back of her throat, but then she falters and shakes her head. "Today isn't about me," she hisses, wrapping her hand around my wrist and tugging.

"It's not?"

"No, it's about you."

"You'll have to feed me first."

"That's fine by me."

Jess powers on, her feet moving at incredible speeds, and we arrive on Milton Street in record time. It's relatively quiet, but then it's a Monday. We hurtle past the charity shop and the sparkling fishmongers, the forever bustling Sainsbury's and the quiet bookstore run by a friendly couple who always wore faded dungarees until we reach the artisanal café.

I hate this place with a burning passion. The coffee is weak, the baked goods expensive, and their so-called artisanal lemonade far too bitter to be worth its four-pound price tag. But, for some reason unknown to me, it's forever full. Honestly, finding a table is an Olympic sport.

"Sit there." Jess shoves me into a sprawling window booth before pumping her fist into the air.

"Calm down," I laugh as I settle onto the firm pillows. "It's just a table."

"It's a gold table," she hisses as she rifles through her bag. "Do you know how hard it is to score a booth?"

"Impossible."

"Exactly, now what do you want?"

"Americano."

"Anything else."

I shake my head. She only rolls her eyes before running to join the winding queue. It bends around the smaller tables congregated in the centre and spills out onto the pavement. A freakishly tall man in front of Jess brushes against one of the hanging plant fixtures while she leans against a rustic bookcase filled with eclectic nicknacks. This queueing situation would be a thousand times easier if they didn't have so much crap in the way, but then I suppose it's what the owners wanted—an overstuffed, overpriced barn.

As long as the queue is, spatial wise, Jess orders in no time and returns with a brass number six that she plops on the edge of the table.

"What the hell is this for?" I ask, trailing a finger over the smooth edge.

"Our table number, you know, so they can bring the order to the correct people."

"Oh, cool, they're really stepping up in the world."

"Yes, while you're stepping down."

I wince and drag my hands away from the brass structure. "That's a little harsh, Jess."

"Well, what would you call it?"

"Being happy."

"You weren't exactly happy after he cheated on you," she reminds me.

"We've spoken about it. I know where he stands, how sorry he is, and honestly, it's enough for me to forgive him. He made a mistake, a massive one, but it was a mistake. It'll never happen again."

"And if it does?"

"Then it does, but I can't live my life wondering if it will. I just want to forget about it and move on."

"With him?"

"Yes."

"And you're sure this is what you want?" she asks, reaching for my hand.

"Of course. I wouldn't have taken him back if I wasn't sure."

"Then I guess I'm happy for you."

"You are?"

"You're my best friend, Lizzie. As long as your happy, I'm happy."

My eyes prick, and I rub a furious hand across them. Thankfully, a petite woman with cotton-candy pink hair rushes over and places an overfilled tray on the wooden bench.

"Jessica!" I leap across, hands poised to grab her shoulders. "Why did you order so much?"

She ducks. "I couldn't help myself."

"Let me pay half," I hiss once the barista returns to the counter.

"No way, it's your homecoming present."

"It was two weeks, Jess, not two months."

"It felt like two years."

"You're too dramatic for your own good."

"And your too stubborn, but I still love you."

I sigh and shake my head. "Love you too."

We're dividing the food when someone calls my name. I turn just as a pair of ridiculously long arms are thrown around me and inhale a mouthful of intensely floral perfume.

"Lizzie, what are you doing here?" Essie asks once she pulls away and sits beside me.

"I should be asking you the same question."

"Elle and I got back late last night, and she's such a grump after travelling. Honestly, the only way she's going to leave my room is if I buy out the whole store."

"Well, this is Jess, Jess, this is Essie. We met on holiday."

They shake hands, smiling, and Essie compliments Jess' hair just as Jess compliments Essie's beaded bracelet.

"Henry actually got this," she says, fingering the pale blue ties.

"Has he called you?" I ask.

She smiles wistfully and nods. "We're going on a date tonight."

"Thank God."

"Yeah, I really thought he would never ask."

"He really likes you," I smile, suddenly aware of the awkwardness of the admission. "But um, don't tell him I said that."

"Never. Anyway, I'm glad I saw you."

"You are?"

"Yeah, Elle's having a party on Thursday. You should come through, you too, Jess."

"Okay, cool, thanks for the invite."

"Oh, and you can bring your boyfriend."

"Henry told you?" I ask, my face falling as the realisation hits.

"Sort of."

"So he's pissed?"

"I don't want to get involved," she says. "But I do know that as a friend, I can't judge you. Bring him if you want."

"Okay, thanks."

"Anyway," she sighs, jumping to her feet, "I've got to go. Elle might just kill me if I don't get back with her coffee and croissant. It was nice to meet you, Jess."

Jess smiles and returns the compliment. We watch as Essie joins the queue before returning our focus to one another.

"Henry has a girlfriend?" Jess grins, eyes wide and wild.

"You have no idea."

"What the hell happened?"

"Too much. Far, far too much."

~*~

Jess is called into work to cover a last-minute shift, leaving me with a free afternoon and no way to spend it. I drift home, my earphones shoved in, and float towards the summer house. The sun's warmed the inside, and it feels like a glowing dream. I chuck my earphones onto the sofa, turn on the small speaker that sits on the three-legged table I propped up against the wall and stretch. It's paint time.

Three hours later, and I have nothing. Not a half-hearted line or even a clue as to what this painting is supposed to be. What felt like a certainty yesterday is nothing but an impossible dream, fluttering just outside of my mind's reach.

And the itch, my glorious itch, is gone. It's abandoned me in my hour of need, booked a long holiday and danced off into the glittering sunset. I'd claw it back if I could, but every time I try, it evades capture with a hop, skip and jump, and leaves me far more creatively depressed than before.

My phone rings, dragging my attention away from the tragedy that is my canvas. I answer it, smiling dopily at Spencer's raspy hello.

"What's up?" I ask, returning my pencil to the Heinz tin and dropping onto the sofa.

"I was wondering if you'd be up for a little adventure."

"A little adventure? Where?"

"It wouldn't be an adventure if I told you."

"Yes it would be."

He laughs; it's deep and comforting. It makes me want to fall down the line and into his arms.

"Just be ready in half an hour," he says.

"Okay." I pause, smiling to myself, and then say, "I love you."

"I know." He hangs up without so much as a second thought, leaving me to slip further into the sofa and squeeze my eyes shut.

Why didn't he say it back?

***

Poor Lizzie

Why didn't he say it back?

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