If there was ever a time to escape, it would be now. It's not that I don't love my family, but other than Dad, who's a pro at minding his own damn business, the rest of them are far too involved in my life. Which would be fine if I needed, or, you know, wanted their involvement. However, I don't need nor want it. If anything, I need/want them to leave me the hell alone. Unfortunately, the more I insist, the more embroiled they become.

If you need proof of their unnecessary concern, Paula's presence is more than enough. She arrives at nine on the dot with a box of pastries, a blinding smile and an apology. The pastries I appreciate, but the smile and apology can go to hell for all I care. Unfortunately, they stick around, following me through the house and into the kitchen.

"You were right," she says as I place the cardboard box on the kitchen counter and turn on the kettle. "I wasn't supporting you."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not." She snatches a mug from my hand and pushes me towards the stools that crowd the island. I sit down, knowing I can only deal with one area of contention at a time, and bury my face in my hands.

"Fine," I say, "it's not."

"I just want you to know that I support you no matter what."

"I know, Paula."

"And, I want you to know that you can always come to me," she continues, utterly oblivious to my acceptance of her unneeded apology.

"I know."

"Don't be scared to tell me anything, even if you don't think I want to hear it."

"Well." I unearth my face from my hands and turn to her. "In that case, you won't mind me asking you to stop."

"Stop?"

"The apology, the mothering, the nurturing. I'm fine, I mean it." I pause, taking in her frown. "Not fine," I say, swallowing a sigh, "but better. Working on it, even."

"Really?"

"Yes. In fact, I planned on working on it in the summer house."

Her face falls further. Honestly, it's positively sagging.

"But," I say, grabbing the pastries in the process. "I guess I wouldn't mind some company."

"As in me? Because I totally don't mind finding Mum. We need to start on Henry's birthday plans anyway and—"

"As in you."

"Okay." A bright smile finds its way onto her face. "I'll make the coffee and meet you out there."

"You do that."

I'm fiddling with the speaker, a crusty croissant dangling between my lips when Paula knocks. I open the door, taking one of the steaming mugs from her hand, and hold it open with my heel.

"You should really fix that," Paula says, nodding to the door as she nabs a danish and perches on the edge of the sofa. "It's not safe, the whole, one-way opening situation."

"What one-way opening situation?"

"You know, how you can't open it from the outside if the keys are on the inside."

"You can open it from the outside, Paula. It would be pretty stupid if you couldn't."

"So why does everyone knock?"

"Privacy."

She glances at the door, then me and back again. "You're telling me I've been knocking to give you privacy?"

"Not just me. Mum and Dad used to come out here a lot before it became my art studio." They're the ones who insisted on the whole knocking charade.

Wait.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Paula groans as she falls back onto the sofa, the last of her danish shoved into her mouth alongside a drag of coffee.

"You and me both."

She springs off the sofa and retches. "You don't think," she says, glancing at the brown loveseat.

"Well, it's not like there's anywhere else."

"The floor."

"Not the fucking floor, Paula. This is Mum we're talking about. It's the sofa or nothing."

"No." She raises a hand above her head and sits gingerly on the edge of one of the cushions. "I don't want to think about this anymore."

"You're the one who brought it up," I laugh.

"Yeah, well now I'm putting the matter to bed."

"Okay, okay." My laughter continues.

"So." She slips further back into the sofa and eventually settles down, but not before grabbing a croissant. "What are your plans?"

"I want to try and finish this." I gesture to the canvas, the faint pencil lines shimmering under the attention of a rogue sunbeam the pierces the window and spirals across the room.

"So you're painting again?"

I nod.

"That's great, Lizzie, honestly, but what am I supposed to do?"

"Don't you have work?"

She blinks three times before speaking, and even then, her voice wobbles. "It's the weekend," she says.

"Like that's ever stopped you before."

"But you're the one who's always complaining about how much I work."

I shrug. "It's up to you what you do with your time, just like it's up to me what I do with mine. I can't scream at you for not supporting me with Spencer and then not support you with work. Do whatever you want. It's your decision to make."

"You sure?"

"A hundred per cent."

A mind-numbing squeal fills the stale air. Paula crashes out of the summer house, returning in record time with her laptop and a stack of scribbled notes. She even manages to open the door from the outside. I try to make a joke about it, but she raises a hand and says, don't, her voice far too stern to mess with.

She settles on the sofa, notes in hand, and floats off into Paula land. I imagine it's very bright, in pastel tones of pink and blue. Post-it notes rule supreme, and there's an infinite supply of ink cartridges and staples. Depressing, yes, but what would make most people cry makes Paula ridiculously happy.

Case in point?

She's practically floating. If it wasn't for that pesky little thing called gravity, she'd be in the clouds by now. Which isn't so bad. It's very pretty up there.

I leave her to herself and return my attention to the sketch. It's still incomplete, hovering between two separate scenes. The only certainty is the angular side-profile of the man in the corner. His jaw is sharp, the edge of his eye wide and endearing, and the corner of his mouth is curled into a smile that's both parts teasing and comforting.

He's beautiful, in his own little way, and when Paula breezes by later, he's the first thing she notices.

"Who's that?" she asks, her finger hovering over his broad shoulders.

"No one."

"You don't paint strangers."

"Maybe I do."

"Okay, so where is this, then? Or do you paint strange places you've never seen too?"

Shit. She's got me there.

"It's a church," I whisper, my pencil completing the final strokes of the roof's timber frame.

"A church?"

"In Portugal."

"We didn't go to a church."

"Isaac and I did."

A smattering of laughter fills the air, and she twirls around and heads back towards the house, her angelic laugh swanning behind her. I chuck my pencil onto the sofa and join the procession, only I'm shouting rather than laughing, which seems to make her laugh harder.

Henry's in the kitchen, boiling an egg. He glances at us and raises an eyebrow. "What's going on?" he asks.

"Lizzie's painting Isaac," Paula says rather unceremoniously as she leans against the sharp counter edge beside him.

"I'm not painting, Isaac," I mutter, throwing open the fridge. "I'm painting a church."

"Which Isaac just so happened to take her to." Paula winks, and Henry starts laughing too. "He makes an appearance in the painting, all coy and mysterious," she says.

"It's just a man," I hiss, the fridge door slamming shut. "It's not Isaac."

"Sure it's not."

"You haven't even seen it, Henry."

"I don't need to see it to know that your little secret obsession has made its way onto that canvas."

"I'm not obsessed with Isaac."

"Oh yeah?" Challenge drips from his words; I never back down from a challenge.

"Yeah." I cross my arms and raise a brow.

Henry only laughs. "He told me about Thursday night," he says. "About how he wasn't opportunistic."

I swallow.

"So, how do you feel now, Lizzie?" Henry asks, his smile growing. "Still want him?"

"Fuck you Henry."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't shoot the messenger."

Paula looks from me to him and sighs. "I'm lost," she says, her eyes jumping like a ping-pong ball.

"Don't worry about it," I mutter, heading for the garden. "I'm sure Henry will catch you up."

The door slams shut behind me, and I run across the damp grass, slamming the summer house door too. I fish a fresh pencil out of the Heinz can and turn to Isa—I mean, the man.

All it'll take is a few quick strokes to turn his closely cropped hair into a high top. Then, any resemblance will be nothing but a fairytale, for Isaac favours a short hairstyle that's both slick and relatively practical in that it requires minimal maintenance. Besides a trip to the barbers, there's not much he can do. Not that he'd look bad if he let his hair grow. He does have one of those faces, after all. You know, one that looks good with anything.

I wish I had one of those faces.

Anyway, I could also add a beard or glasses, anything to make the man less Isaac like.

But, when I reach out to do so, my finger seize up, and the itch threatens to abandon me. I feel it edging to the outskirts of my soul and leaving my executive function up to me. The sensation grows with every attempt to turn Isaac into someone else. So I give up.

It's Isaac, I guess.

Not that it means anything.

Right?

No, of course, it doesn't.

Isaac's Isaac, and although we're not something more, we're not exactly enemies. Not that we were enemies in the first place. Just two people who had a lot of confused feelings. Not that my feelings were that confused.

Now though, now they're confused.

Very, very confused.

For I don't love Isaac, obviously, but I don't hate him, and I'm not indifferent.

What I feel for him is warm, buzzing with potential, but it's also a little dull. At least it is when compared to what I feel for Spencer. Which is stupid because I don't even like Spencer as a person, but the draw is still there. I think it might be there forever, pulsing away every time I think about him. Thankfully, he's too much of a prick to have me running back anytime soon.

I guess the real question is if Isaac can brighten. If he can go from pale yellow to blinding gold. If we have a chance.

Which is scary in its own way. But if I know anything, it's that I wish he were opportunistic the other night. Not because I needed someone new to get over Spencer, but because I need him.

Not more than I need myself.

He'd just be nice to have around too.

If I learnt anything in Portugal, it's that Isaac and I are not so different.

And, if I learnt anything since coming home, it's that I'm an idiot for ignoring that. 

***

Lizzie's finally coming to terms with her feelings for Isaac!

Do you think they have a future?

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

xxx