I'd love to say I woke up pretty and poised with sunlight filtering through the pastel shutters and birds singing in the branches outside. But my day began with dream fragments flitting in and out of my consciousness. The shards were shrouded in darkness and filed to a sharp point like the remnants of a nightmare. They grew, the foggy clouds parting, and I realised they weren't from a dream or a nightmare, but reality.

They were fragments of last night. Of the pure and utter carnage. Of the shouting, my shouting, and Mum's mortified gasp and his smirk. They were the dirty details laid out unpretentiously by my traitorous mind.

It was awful. A literal bloodbath, complete with the dripping guillotine and wolfish smile of the mammoth executioner, a pool of scarlet liquid and my head sitting in a stained wicker basket.

I can only imagine how dramatic this must seem to you, and for once, I can forgive you for that. Honestly, if I didn't know Isaac half so well, I'd ridicule myself for the melodrama, but it's not so simple.

I know Isaac. I've known Isaac my entire life. And, in the most cliché turn of events, the one person in this world I truly dislike is the son of my parent's nearest and dearest friends. Yes, my life is that basic.

If he weren't so heinous, perhaps I'd try to dodge the stereotype, but he is, so I can't. The only good thing about hating him is that I'm in no danger of loving him, saving myself from falling into a second trope-y trap. After all, I've watched enough romcoms to know the only thing worse than hating someone like Isaac is loving them.

I know you're going to tell me there's a thin line between love and hate, everybody does, and maybe there is, but Issac is—and always will be—the most dreadful person I've ever met. Knowing this, it's safe to say no matter how thin the line, I'm too far in hate to tread anywhere near love.

Thinking about him ruins me. I crumble into a heap and burrow under the thick cream duvet until I regain some semblance of normality. Once I find it, sink my teeth in and cling onto it for dear life. I even throw a smile onto my face for good measure before shuffling out of bed.

The villa is silent, eerily so. That is until I pass Henry's door. His snores burst out like a live grenade, and I hurry past, slowing down once I step out onto the warm patio.

Paula's outside lying on a sun lounger. Her left leg dangles over her right, and her fingers fly across her phone screen at a bazillion miles per hour. Taking advantage of her distracted state, I creep over, grab her shoulders and shake. She squeals, and her toned legs thrash through the air. The high-pitch sound of her scream intermingles with my laughter as I collapse beside her on another lounger.

"Good morning." I snatch her phone out of her hands. My nose crumples in disgust. "Why are you working so early?" I ask. "In fact, why are you working at all?"

"It's one email, Lizzie. It has to be sent. You'll understand when you start working."

I raise a sceptical brow but return it anyway. Paula is something of a workaholic. I've heard the important email speech one too many times; annual leave isn't going to change her unhealthy work habits, so I lie flat on my back and turn my focus to the sky.

This morning's blue is pale, hollow, and filled with clouds that are sparse and almost translucent looking. They remind me of marshmallows, undercooked marshmallows, but marshmallows nonetheless. Staring straight through one convinces me I need to float up and poke it, just to see if it's as flimsy as it looks. Without thinking, I raise my right hand, extend my index finger, and try.

Paula's laughter startles me back to reality, and my arm recoils. "What are you doing?" she asks, her giggles teetering out.

"Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not, but you look ridiculous."

"Gee, thanks, Paula."

"Oh no." She reaches out for me. I flinch, half-jokingly. "I thought you were in a good mood this morning," she says, placing a hand on my bicep and rubbing like I'm a frightened cat.

"What, and I wasn't last night?"

Her hand flies back. "You're joking, right?"

I shrug.

"You have to be joking," she says. "It was awful. You know that, right?"

I shrug again.

She wriggles up and rolls off her lounger until her feet are planted firmly on the ground, and she's staring at me with a scary intensity. "I know you don't like him," she says.

It's the understatement of the century.

"The thing is," she continues, "I'm not asking you to. But can you at least be an adult about the situation? You're both eighteen for flips sakes, can't you just put it, whatever it is, behind you?"

"I would've been an adult if I'd been given some warning, but you all chose to lie to me." It's the perfect out, I'll admit, but it's also dripping in sweet, sweet truth.

"We didn't lie," she chuckles. The sound is taunting. "We omitted."

"Same difference."

"No, very different."

"Whatever, it was an ambush. You can't take me by surprise and expect me to be an adult. It's not fair. I'm only just getting used to the idea."

"Okay, well, now you know he's here, are you at least going to try and get along with him?"

"No. I've decided the adult thing to do is avoid him."

"For two weeks?"

"Yes."

"That's crazy. Come on, Elizabeth, can't you just try and be civil?"

"Why should I have to?" Although I'm whining, and I hate whining, the question is valid. Why should I have to?

Before Paula can continue badgering me, Mum calls out to us, and the inquisition is cut short. Jumping up, I stick my tongue out at her and skip into the house, following the sound of Mum's voice. She's in the kitchen with a cluster of brown paper bags pooling at her feet.

"You went shopping?" Paula glides past and busies herself unpacking, a quick kiss landing on Mum's cheek before she begins.

"I woke up early and thought, why not. We didn't have any food after all. Well, that and I needed to pick up the ingredients for chocolate chip pancakes."

My head snaps up, and a reservoir of saliva begins to collect at the back of my mouth. Chocolate chip pancakes. For the past six months, I could only dream, and here they are. But I've been an arse, so there's no way they're for me. No, they're probably for Henry. After all, they're as much his favourite as they are mine.

"Where's the cereal?" I ask as the prospect of chocolate chip pancakes shoves itself out of my mind and sharpened images of last night take their place instead. Long gone are the fluffy, speckled pancakes. Now all I can think about is how I called Mum and Dad liars, him an arsehole and my siblings' traitors. It was one of my worse tantrums, the worst if we're talking recent years, and although minutes ago I could justify my behaviour, now confronted with it in front of Mum, I just can't.

"Cereal?" She laughs. The light tinkle absolves me of some of the guilt that's finally beginning to sprout. "Why would you want cereal when I'm making chocolate chip pancakes?"

"Because I was terrible yesterday, which I'm sorry for, by the way. But also because we're being healthy, and even if we weren't, I don't deserve your pancakes. I was so rude an—"

She coos and pulls me into her arms. I allow myself to fall limp against the soft contours of her body. "Lizzie, you were pretty awful last night," she says, patting my matted curls. "And I'm not excusing your behaviour, it was terrible, but I am sorry for not telling you. Although, can you imagine if I did? You'd never come."

I open my mouth to protest, but she simply shakes her head.

"Anyway," she says, "on a happier note, just because we've decided to be healthier doesn't mean you can't have a treat every now and then. All I wanted to do was stop your pity binges, not completely stifle your diet. Eat whatever you want."

"Thanks, Mum."

"You're a good girl, usually. Just don't slip back. You're eighteen, not a five-year-old."

I bite my lip and think about all the times I've ended up alone, stuck in a room or with a teacher breathing down my neck. My general insolence has always led to unnecessary trouble because, as Mum likes to remind me, I don't have the luxury of being sassy. So, I nod and push the memories aside. I'm not five anymore; I can't just throw a tantrum and get away with it.

~*~

The day passes a little smoother than expected, and although I thought Mr and Mrs Harris would come over, devil incarnate in tow, they never do. It makes things easier. Well, everything but Paula.

Although the Harris no show means I can avoid Isaac to my heart's content, Paula's staying here, so there's no ignoring her. I've been on my guard all day, running and hiding in the hope I'll avoid her version of the Spanish Inquisition. But when I wake up from my afternoon nap, she catches me off-guard.

"Shit," I screech, the sight of her bare legs sending a shock straight through me. "What are you doing in here?"

"Mum said you have extra adapters."

"Yeah, they're in my suitcase."

She doesn't say a word, and I stupidly think she's let go of the investigation, but then, adapters in hand, she joins me under the thin cotton blanket.

"Paula, fuck off."

"No."

"Please?"

"Fine."

I'm too naïve for my own good and heave a sigh of relief, the sound cutting short with her caveat.

"But," she says, "you have to answer one question."

"If I must." I'm too tired to fight.

Her eyes widen slightly, and a moment of silence passes. "Why won't you try?" she asks.

"Try what?"

"Try to get along with Isaac."

Huffing, I roll over and ignore her. If that's her question, she can stay. At least that's what I think until she begins prodding me. It's gentle at first, more like a graze, but then my arm starts throbbing, and I have no choice but to turn and bat her finger away.

"Fuck off," I groan, hoping this time it'll take.

"Not until you tell me why you won't give Isaac a chance," she says.

"Why are you so desperate to know?"

"You know why."

The room falls silent. The sound of my sigh fills it the moment I realise that Mum and Paula have been having one too many conversations of their own during my purposeful absence.

You know how I said we were close? Well, we are, but sometimes it's not enough to make me want to talk. Or rather, it's not enough to make me want to talk about certain things. And by certain things, I mean boys. And by boys, I mean...

No.

I promised myself I wouldn't think about him. He doesn't deserve it. But she's staring, and she knows. If I don't tell her, she'll think I'm worse than I am—what if I am—and if I do, she'll be out of my hair. I mean, the benefits of the latter far outweigh those of the former, but I made a promise to myself.

You know what, she wins.

I shuffle into a sitting position, and she joins me, her hand snaking out and grabbing mine. She offers me an encouraging squeeze, not that I need it, and fixes her expectant gaze on me.

"I don't want to try with Isaac because I'm over dealing with trashy guys." The words tumble incoherently, and my voice wobbles, but they're out, and I can never take them back.

"By trashy guys, do you mean Spencer?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Is that all I get?"

She squeezes my hand again. This time I don't answer. The affirmative gets lodged in my throat, and I have no choice but to nod, the action weak and pathetic.

"What happened?" she asks.

I shrug.

"Lizzie, you can trust me."

"He sucks, the end," I say, yanking my hand out of her grip.

"There has to be more to it than he sucks, the end."

"What did Mum tell you?"

"That you spent last weekend crying."

"I spent Saturday crying and Sunday facing him."

"Well, what happened?"

"He went out, I stayed home, and he kissed Penelope. I wasn't surprised or anything, but that doesn't mean it hurt any less. I'm fine now, though." It's crazy that this big thing can be reduced to a couple sentences, a footnote, if you will. Inconsequential and tiny when you think about the grand scheme of things. Which is pretty embarrassing given how snot-ridden and tear-streaked I was. Still, it's out there. Hopefully, it's enough.

Oh, who am I kidding, it was never going to be enough, and so when she continues questioning me, I'm expecting it. Prepared even.

"Why weren't you surprised?" she asks.

"Because I knew he liked her."

I think that's the worst part of the whole situation. Suspecting it is one thing, but knowing, like genuinely knowing, is another. It's hell, pure hell, and maybe if I were smarter, I would've freed myself from the mental shackles before he acted on impulse. But I'm not smart, just a fool in love.

"How did you know?" Paula asks.

"Truth or dare. Someone asked who he found most attractive other than me. He promised he'd never act on it, apologised for embarrassing me in front of everyone, and I believed him."

"It's not your fault," Paula says. "He's the one who wanted to have his cake and eat it. Not you. You did nothing wrong."

I know this in a vague, incomplete sort of way. The rational part of me certainly does anyway. It holds onto this fact so tightly I fear it'll splinter under the pressure until it's no longer true. The rest of me isn't so sure. It flicks through memories, sticking the worn records on the gramophone, and pinpoints every single thing I missed—their shared jokes, momentary touches, burning stares. All the moments I should've known he'd kiss her, all the moments I ignored.

"It doesn't matter," I say, pasting my patented brave face on over the pain. Time for tears and pity is over; I'm better than this. "And even if it did, after dealing with all of it, the last thing I want to deal with is Isaac. He and Spencer are the same. They're total arseholes, and I'm done with it. Done with boys and their shit."

The possibility that I'm throwing this way out of proportion is high. Trust me, I know. But after dealing with Spencer, I don't want to deal with Isaac and his crap. I deserve this vacation. No, I deserve a stress-free vacation, and playing nice with Isaac isn't going to give me that. If anything, it'll give me the exact opposite. So yeah, maybe I'm being overdramatic and making things far more complicated than they need to be, but I'm not dealing with any more boy bullshit. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. 

***

What do you think about Lizzie's decision to not to deal with 'boy bullshit'?

Will it last?

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

xxx