Where is both nowhere and everywhere. It's aimless at best, downright torture at worst.

There was the park about an hour back. The last vestiges of happiness clinging to the grass under the sprawling oak where Spencer and I laid not even four days before, immune to the truth of our relationship—that is its inevitable failure.

Then the grandstand, where we shared our first kiss when we were fourteen. It was a good kiss. Perfect in that there were no others to compare it to. It was also quick, blink, and you miss it, our lips brushing against one another for a fleeting second that managed to feel like it could last a lifetime.

We kissed once more in Jess' back garden on her fifteenth birthday, the pink fairy lights casting a playful glow across his pudgy cheeks. Then, in a move that took me by utter surprise, he asked me on a date when we were sixteen, and kissing him got better until it felt as natural as breathing.

Anyway, after the grandstand, I found myself on Milton Street. First in the bookstore, a hardback copy of The Great Gatsby capturing my attention. The cover was apt in its golden ode to modernism. It glittered in the same way as Elliot Duke's towering sculptures, but where he worked in silver, the lines that zigzagged across the cover were bronze. I flicked through, admiring the regularity of the printed word, before purchasing the book.

At this point, my wandering became aimless, for it was at this point that I ended up in the stupid artisanal café with one of their ridiculous lemonades. I've remained here ever since, alternating between over-indulgent self-pity and disgust.

I'm currently in the throes of a massive pity party.

A waitress brings over another lemonade. It's tinged pink with a thin lemon wedged onto the glasses edge. She glances at my impulse buy and trails a pastel nail along its spine.

"I love The Great Gatsby," she says as she perches on the seat across from mine, her short legs wrapping around the chairs. "It's so romantic."

Romance was perhaps the last thing I thought about when I read it for the first time. Nick's scathing critique, however, left a lasting imprint.

"Everyone's pretty heinous," she admits, "but I think the lengths Gatsby's willing to go to are sweet."

"Not obsessive?" My pity's on the brink of disgust, for like Gatsby, I'm far too obsessed with my Daisy.

"Oh no, he's totally obsessed. But like, isn't he supposed to be? If you love someone as much as he loved Daisy, don't you get a little obsessed?"

"I guess."

"If you ask me, his fatal flaw is that he loved the wrong person." She hops up, her words impressing themselves onto my mind. "Nick would've been a much better candidate," she says.

"Not Nick," I laugh. "Gatsby would've only let him down. Or trapped him. Nick couldn't see him clearly in the same way Gatsby couldn't see Daisy."

She considers it for a second before nodding. "You're totally right. Anyway, you must think I'm an absolute crazy person for bombarding you like that."

"Not at all." I force myself to smile. It feels good. Unnatural, but good.

"I actually stopped by to say that we're closing in like half an hour," she says.

"Oh, gosh, sorry. I'll, I'll go."

"You don't have to rush," she smiles, waving a hand through the air. "And this last one's on the house."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. You've been a dream customer. Quiet and well-read."

"Thanks for the drink," I say as I reach for the sweating glass.

"Anytime."

She returns to the counter and disappears into the back.

Eventually, I leave, my new appreciation for artisanal lemonade and copy of Gatsby in hand. I head home, my pace slow and lingering. It's not until I reach my street that I find a sense of purpose. I walk past it, continuing on until I reach a leafy stretch of road that boasts a small post office, a florist, a bakery and Spencer's house.

An over-pruned orchid sits in the bay window, surrounded by a soft golden glow that leaks from the overhead lights and spills out of the crack in the pulled curtains. It's matched by two potted fir trees that crowd the steps leading to the door. They are clipped closely, too, a few of the bottom branches laying bare.

I approach the cherry red door and reach for the antique brass doorbell before stepping back onto the paved path. I'm half expecting Spencer's mother or his step-father to open the door, but he's the one who appears, his hand reaching instinctively for his hair the moment our eyes meet.

"Lizzie."

"Spencer."

He stares at me, the edges of his eyes softening as he opens the door further and steps back. "Come in," he says, the slightest hint of a smile appearing on his face.

I shake my head and take another step back. "I don't need to," I say, my fingers curling around my thumbs.

"You don't?"

"No."

"So, what do you need?"

"To know how many girls it was."

He coughs, spluttering awkwardly, and then steps out, the door closing behind him. "How many girls?" he asks, taking an ill-advised step towards me; I back away.

"How many girls you kissed or slept with."

"When we were together?"

"Yes."

He clears his throat, an overly casual shrug rolling through his body, and I shake my head. "Don't worry," I say, backing onto the pavement. "I-I don't need to know."

"But—"

"No. I don't need anything from you. I don't need you. I'm fine. I'll be fine."

He calls my name, the syllables clinging close as I run. I want to shake them off, shake him off, but they seep in until I feel myself stopping and turning. He's still outside, his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt hurtling towards me as he shouts my name. It's like something out of a movie, all we'd need is the sheet of heavy rain and Maroon 5, and we'd be on our way. Then he gets closer, and I remember this isn't a movie, that my life isn't playing out on a large screen in a too cold theatre, and I bolt, not from him, but towards myself, towards my cliff, which isn't Isaac, but me.

In the same way I don't need to run from Spencer, I don't need to jump for Isaac; I need to jump for myself.

So I do.

Spencer's voice fades, his presence too, and suddenly nothing matters. That is, what happened with him doesn't matter, not in the grand scheme of things anyway. Not when I was expecting it, holding out for it. And along with this burning sense of indifference comes a flood, everything I'd shut out melting together to create pure relief. It's warm, fluffy, in pink tones that slip into yellow and orange, like a freshly dried towel. I want to roll in it, holding it close, then I reach home, and I throw it off, heading straight for the summer house where my true happiness lies.

The itch isn't even a question. It simply jumps forth, as if it's been lying in wait, and takes the wheel, steering me towards the abandoned canvas, pencil at the ready. I allow it to move my wrist, the pencil strokes sure and steady, until an outline takes shape. Then there's a knock at the door, and the itch slinks away. Not entirely, but it no longer needs to take charge, leaving me to push my limbs into action.

Henry's waiting, a box of Ferrero Rocher in one hand and two cans of coke in the other. He shoulders his way in and collapses against the sofa, the worn leather squeaking beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he says as he shoves the chocolate into my hands.

"Sorry?" I sit beside him and pick at the thin sellotape wrapped around the box.

"For earlier."

"Earlier?"

"Are you really going to make me say it?" he groans as his can of coke hisses.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry for saying I told you so," he sighs. "It was insensitive, and not the right time, and I didn't mean it. I don't care to be right, not about this."

"But you were."

"It doesn't matter."

"No." I smile as the sellotape finally gives way. "I'm over it."

"It's not even been twenty-four hours."

I shrug, the rustle of the packaging filling the silence, and throw a handful of chocolates into his lap. "We broke up weeks ago. Let's just think of this little indiscretion as me being stupid and Spencer whacking on the icing to a toppling cake."

Henry laughs. "It's me," he says. "You don't have to pretend."

"I'm not pretending."

"Lizzie."

"I'm serious, Henry. It hurts, of course it does, but I can't hold onto that forever. I have to pick myself up. I owe to myself after everything I did for Spencer."

"You do," he says as he scoots back. "I just didn't think you'd have it in you to see that."

"Ye of little faith."

"Hey." He pushes my shoulder gently, and we both laugh. "You haven't made it easy to trust your judgement."

"Pot, kettle."

"I fixed my mistakes, Essie and I are fine."

"You are?" I pull my legs into my chest and pop another Ferrero Rocher into my mouth.

"We are, but I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Why not?"

"It's weird is why not."

"So you can hound me about my relationship, but I can't ask about yours?"

"Yes."

I throw the foil wrapper at him. He bats it away effortlessly and throws his at me. Unfortunately, I'm not half so coordinated, and where his hand actually made contact with the glinting foil, mine simply clips my nose and allows the wrapper to settle between my boobs.

"You're so shit," he laughs, throwing another wrapper my way. This one bounces off my forehead.

"Fuck you, Henry," I grumble as I unwrap another Ferrero Rocher and try again. It makes contact with his nose.

"The student's become the master," he teases.

"Obviously."

At some point, Mum appears, her brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. She hurries Henry into the house but holds me back. I'm half expecting something close to a lecture, not that I've done anything, but then you can never be too sure. Except, she foregoes any words and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug.

"Danielle told me," she says as she strokes my hair.

"Mrs Harris?"

"Yes, although I wish you'd said something this morning. There I was prattling on about dishes, and you were heartbroken."

"Not heartbroken," I laugh.

"You don't have to pretend, Lizzie."

"You're like the fourth person to say that."

"Maybe because you have a habit of doing it."

"Pretending?"

She holds me closer and nods. "You don't always have to be so strong, you know."

"I know."

"And you can come to me, or Paula or Henry or even Dad. You don't have to wait for things to explode."

"I wasn't waiting for things to explode," I mutter. "They just happened to, and Isaac was there."

"Well, thank God for him."

"Yeah, thank God for Isaac."

"But next time, come to me. You don't know how awful it is to hear about you lot through other people."

"I will," I sigh, holding her closer despite the slight frustration she'd brought. "I promise."

She squeezes me again and then lets me go. "Come on," she says, taking my hand in hers. "Let's get inside. You know I don't like you falling asleep out here."

"I wasn't—"

"What was that, honey?"

"Nothing, Mum. It was nothing."

She's annoying, yes, but, in her own little way, she's helped because she's right. I don't need to pretend, and I won't, at least not to myself anymore.

I love Spencer. I will always love Spencer, which is pathetic but also true. Anyways, loving him doesn't mean I have to be with him. If anything, it means I owe it to myself to love someone else. If Gatsby's fatal flaw was loving the wrong person, surely I can learn from that and love the right one.

Surely, I can love myself. 

***

I'm so proud of Lizzie.

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

xxx