There was a time when I couldn't bear to leave Spencer. Honestly, I'd physically recoil at the notion.

It drove Mum insane. She didn't understand the need to be with someone constantly. Didn't get why I felt like I couldn't breathe without him, or why I wore his faded jumpers religiously, and she especially didn't get why I'd call him before I went to bed, why I lay in the dark, giggling until I finally fell asleep.

She did, however, accept it. Begrudgingly, I'll admit, but acceptance is acceptance, and with Mum, you have to take whatever you can get.

But now, as Spencer and I approach the house, it's safe to say my obsessive need to be with him has come and passed. In fact, the thought of saying goodbye, of kissing him, holding him close, and then walking away makes me...dare I say, excited?

Okay, not excited, that's cruel, but not depressed either. It's more of a mellow hum of freedom.

No, not freedom, alone time.

Time I've never had before.

Time I've earned.

Time I deserve.

Because as much as I love Spencer, he can be a little exhausting.

We reach the rusted green gate. It swings in the breeze, squeaking through the movement. Spencer holds it open, ushers me inside and recaptures my hand as we amble down the cobbled path that leads to the midnight blue door. He pulls me into his chest as I reach for my keys and brushes his lips against my forehead.

"I really missed you," he murmurs.

"I missed you too." I laugh despite the dark urgency that clings to his words and slip out of his grasp.

"But I really, really missed you," he says. "The others aren't like you."

"Others?" He hasn't mentioned others. Then again, he rarely mentions anything.

"I think I should be asking you about others," he says, his face scrunching up unattractively as he deflects like a pro.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"What others?" I want to laugh; honestly, I do, but I know any show of ridicule is pretty much an admission of guilt. An admission I don't have to make.

"That guy at the gallery," he hisses.

I can't hold it in, not anymore, leaving my laughter to gush forth in tsunami-like waves. It floods the neat front garden, pooling beneath the hedges and falling through the cracks in the concrete path. Then I stop, and it dries, the soil rubble-like rather than muddy, the path dull rather than shiny. 

"I'm sorry," I say, "but Elliot Duke?"

"Yes." His indignation embeds itself into his pores, sinking in until it becomes part of him.

"I was complimenting his work, Spencer, not flirting with him."

"Okay." He runs a hand through his hair, the accusation waning a little. "What about Isaac?"

My eyes narrow, and I take a step back. "What about Isaac?"

"Don't lie to me, Lizzie," he mutters. "I know something happened between you."

"And so what if it did? You cheated on me, Spencer."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Are you fucking with me right now?"

He crosses his arms.

So he's not fucking with me; he's just a massive dickhead.

"You don't get to cheat on me," I hiss, taking a step towards him, "and then dictate what I do afterwards. Yes, I kissed Isaac, but I chose you, so stop acting like a jealous prick, and just be happy with us.

"You kissed him?"

"I did."

He nods, the movement slow, controlled, psychopathic almost, and turns on his heel. I watch, mouth open, as he marches down the path, across the pavement and round the corner, disappearing onto another residential street. He doesn't stop to smile, not that I was expecting a smile, but he doesn't even stop to grimace. He simply moves with the grace of the terminator, leaving a string of explosive expletives to escape as I stuff my hand into my bag and hunt for my keys.

My fingers curl around the warm plastic of my dolphin keyring. I play with the chain, still silence washing over me, and then stick the key in the door.

Fucking Spencer.

Dad hurtles out of the living room as I lock the front door behind me. His burgundy shirt is untucked, and his black tie loosened. He must've just gotten in.

"What happened?" he asks, his eyes softening a touch as I step into his warm embrace.

"Boys," I mutter, "boys happened."

"They're a disappointment, every single one of them."

"Are you a disappointment?" I laugh. It's hollow, incomplete, but it's all I can muster.

"Of course, but not for you."

"Never for me."

"Never for you." He squeezes me one last time before turning me around and nudging me towards the stairs. "Now clean your room before Mum gets back. It's an absolute shit-tip."

Shit-tip is too nice a word for what awaits me.

The carpet is non-existent, replaced instead by a sea of clothes, most dirty, some clean. Then there's my dresser, my unmade bed, and unpacked suitcase. Not to mention the pile of shoes at the foot of my bed and the heap of belts beside my leaking wardrobe. It's a shit-tip times ten, mammoth in its construction and entirely unwanted.

I drop my jacket and bag by the threshold and wade in.

Halfway through, Dad drops off a plate stacked high with nuggets. "For my favourite nugget," he says, winking cheesily as he closes the door.

I devour them, thankful for the little pots of ketchup he left, before returning to my room. It's no longer a shit-tip, more of a manageable mess, with only the wardrobe and suitcase left to tackle.

I'm finishing up with the wardrobe when Henry returns. He practically floats into my room and collapses onto my freshly made bed, a goofy grin lingering on his lips.

"I take it, it went well," I say as I kneel in front of my suitcase.

"Better than that."

It's sweet seeing Henry like this. Happy, I mean. Well, happy and besotted.

I kind of miss the feeling, not that I'm not happy with Spencer, or besotted. It's just not new.

What I mean is that we're past the honeymoon phase. Way, way, way past it. I don't know why I ever thought it would last forever.

"You really like her," I smile as I unzip my suitcase.

"I do, but we agreed to take things slow. No need to rush anything, you know. But what about you?" He refuses to meet my gaze, fixing his on my clean dresser instead.

"Dad told you then," I groan.

"Yes, but are you alright?"

"What," I scoff, "there's no I told you so?"

"Of course not. I'm a kind person."

"Kind my arse."

He rolls his eyes. "I told you so. There, you happy?"

"Immensely."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing, he's just a little...uncertain, I guess."

"Uncertain?"

"Distrusting."

"Of you?"

"Yes."

Henry laughs, howels actually, like a manic hyena. I have to throw a t-shirt at his head to shut him up, and even then, a slimy smirk remains on his annoying face. "Why you ever took him back, I'll never know," he says as he rolls onto my fluffy pink rug. "But you've made your bed."

"So I have to lie in it?"

"Pretty much."

"It'll be fine," I say, more for my own benefit than his. "I mean, it has to be fine."

Henry's smile softens, and he places a hand on my shoulder. "Everything will work out," he says. "It always does."

I wrap my middle finger around my index and wave it in the air. He only laughs and disappears, his door slamming shut moments after mine, leaving me with nothing but my suitcase for company.

It's relatively easy to unpack; that is, it's easy to grab everything and stuff it into the laundry basket. Well, everything but Isaac's t-shirt. It's hidden at the bottom of the suitcase, lying beneath one of Spencer's jumpers, which is kind of fitting when you think about it. The placement, I mean, not its presence.

Its presence is a minefield, if anything.

I have to return it.

No. It needs to be returned.

That's it. I can't have it, but it doesn't mean I have to be the one to give it back. Henry, on the other hand, will have no qualms turning up at the Harrises with the t-shirt, and Isaac will have no qualms welcoming him in.

Me?

Well, let's just say I can't paint a world where he welcomes me with open arms. Then again, I can't paint at all.

I ball the shirt up and head for Henry's room. He's strewn across his bed, his phone in one hand, a steaming mug in the other.

"Who died?"

"Are you going to Isaac's anytime soon?" I ask.

"Why?" He tosses his phone aside and cradles his mug. Or should I say my mug? After all, Jess bought it for our friendiversary.

"I need you to give him this." My hand shoots out, and the t-shirt falls into an indistinct heap on the floor.

"And what is this?"

"Isaac's t-shirt."

"And you can't give it to him because?" His voice trails off, the last syllable hanging teasingly over my head until I bat it away like a pinata and reach for the shirt.

"You know why I can't give it to him," I hiss.

"I do?"

My eyes narrow as his widen. The shared darkness of our irises intensifies until I bite and throw my hands, shirt included, into the air. "Fine," I huff. "You win!"

"Of course I win. I always win."

I swallow my scathing retort and reach for the shirt again. "I can't give it to him because Spencer would hate the idea," I say as I twist the shirt into a complicated knot. "And Isaac."

Except I don't know how Isaac would feel. Spencer, I can anticipate, workaround. I've spent years jumping through hoops and clinging to silken strips that dangle at impossible heights, but Isaac is a mystery. And not a fun, sexy one at that, but a million piece puzzle with all the edges missing.

"Sorry Lizzie." Henry takes a sip from his mug and shrugs. "You'll have to give it to him yourself."

"But—"

"You'll be fine. Trust me, nothing is ever as bad as it seems."

"Why do you hate me?" I wail as I run towards the door.

"If I hated you, I'd give it to him myself," he shouts after me.

"Then hate me." I hurtle back into his room.

He laughs and walks towards me. "It'll be fine, Lizzie."

"Hate me, Henry."

"No." He places two firm hands on my shoulders and steers me out of his room once and for all, going so far as to walk me to my own. "You have to do this for you and him."

"I don't want to."

"You owe it to him, Lizzie. You can't just avoid him forever. You have to face what you've created head-on."

"But he might hate me, Henry, like really, really hate me."

"He's never hated you, and he never will. I can promise you that."

He props me against my doorframe. It's not until I hear his door slam that I force myself into my bedroom, not until I can blink that I reach for my phone and click on the bright green-backed icon.

Isaac: p.p.p.s I'm annoying...I know

His last message seems to swell, its grey background encroaching onto the white until all I can see is his words, his truth. A truth that's far more true now than it was then. He is annoying, not because it's an innate quality that festers within him, dribbling through his molten core, but because he's a bright stain that's smeared across my life. A mistake, a regret, something left unresolved. A constant burden, unstable and fizzing.

There are two options if I turn up on his doorstep with the black cotton t-shirt and a lopsided grin. Either I detonate him, or he detonates himself. I'd much rather the former. There's no knowing how Isaac will explode.

Or is it implode?

No, he'll definitely explode. He blames me, after all. There will be no internal collapse, no subdued mutterings or twinging frown, just an external blast of shrapnel. It'll hurt, more than hurt, especially with my inevitable guilt, but I can't escape it. It would be cowardly, and I can't be a coward. Like Henry said, I've made my bed, so I might as well lay in it, explosions and all.

***

I'm not so sure Isaac will explode.

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

xxx