I honestly hadn't realised how much Bailey had changed over the past few weeks, since she started hanging out with Alex, until she stopped hanging out with Alex. Gone is the almost tolerable teenager who sometimes, on the odd occasion, would crack a smile. Back is the introverted devil spawn who likes to pick fights and make people miserable – at least, that's when she's not holed up in her room, ignoring the piles of homework that keep stacking up.

Stella and George are at a complete loss with her, not understanding the sudden shift in her behaviour, or how she's somehow gotten worse. Whenever they try and broach the subject with her, she yells at them. Actually, she yells a lot – at everyone. It's exhausting.

It's only been a week since I caught her and Alex in the park, barely seven days into what she thinks is only a two-month hiatus from the Coleman's, and already she's unbearable. I'm doing my best to find every excuse under the sun to get out of the house when she's at home – like now, for example.

I walk the aisles of our local bookshop – Books 'n' Stuff – to kill an hour before my evening shift at work. Surprisingly, I've found quite a few books that could come in handy for some pre-study for the Psychology course I want to apply for, so at least it's not a wasted trip. By the time I've got my hands on them all, I can barely see over the top of the pile as I lug them over to the counter to pay.

The cashier offers me a 10p carrier bag but I think of the turtles and politely decline. The walk to Wilson's isn't that far; I can manage. As soon as I get there, I'll dump the books in the staff room until Stella or George can next pick me up with the car. Paul and Ellie won't mind being used for storage.

However, barely five minutes after I've left the shop, I'm already starting to regret the decision severely. Carrying the stack of books is a bit of a faff, restricting my vision to my feet as I stumble along the uneven cobbles. I step on something crunchy that sounds suspiciously like glass, and try not to listen to the protest of my arms as their strength starts to falter. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the smartest decision I've ever made, tiring out my arms with a bunch of heavy textbooks, right before the start of a six hour shift.

I try to reassure myself that the purchase is worth the struggle, looking down at the book resting on the top of the stack – 'Psychology: A Complete Introduction'. I let my mind wander as I walk, imagining the freedom of finally moving away to university, the girl I once was soon to be fully reborn into the life I choose.

It has been a dream of mine for years and soon – after one more year, three (hopefully, fingers crossed) passed A-levels, and a lot of praying – I'll be free to go.

Away from Greencliff, away from the memories of what was – just away.

I can't wait.

"You really should start watching where you walk," a familiar voice says, deep and rich, if not slightly gruff. There are textures to the voice that I'm ashamed to recognise, layers that I shouldn't know well enough to recognise – but I do.

I glance up just in time, jolting my legs to a halt before I smack straight into Lucas. The sudden pause in movement causes the top textbook to slide away from its friends, landing with a graceless thud only an inch or so away from Lucas's boot-clad foot. I wince.

"Sorry," I mumble awkwardly, bending to retrieve the deserter. Of course, that only results in two more crashing to the floor. I wince again.

Why am I always such a klutz in front of this guy?

Lucas seems to be thinking something similar as I hear his quiet chuckle – a rare phenomenon, I'm sure.

Much to my surprise, he crouches down to collect the books off the floor, carefully placing them back atop the others. His fingers accidentally brush against the back of my hand as he retreats a step and I am horrified to feel my cheeks flush.

I shift awkwardly, uncomfortable and confused by my own immature response. I try and adjust the weight of the books into a more comfortable position for my arms, determined to power on through.

"Thanks," I mutter awkwardly, offering up a small smile before I move to step around him.

"How's Oscar?" Lucas asks suddenly, once I've already started to walk away.

I turn back to face him, almost swinging another book free from my arms in the process. He stands with one hand stuffed into the front pocket of his grey jeans, the other awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he waits for an answer. An inky strand of hair falls in front of his eye and his hand moves from his neck to scrape it backward, the movement stiff and impatient.

"Um," I start, more than a little surprised. I'm not sure what surprises me more, though: the fact that he cares enough to ask, or the fact that he cares enough to remember Oscar's name. Either way, the question is completely unexpected. "He's doing alright. Better than I thought he would be."

It's the truth. Oscar is coping with everything much better than anyone had expected him to. I'm extremely proud of him.

"Thanks again, by the way," I feel the need to say. "You know... for helping me find him and everything."

My gratitude appears to make Lucas a little uncomfortable, his lips thinning into a line as his eyes drop from mine. His gaze lands on the books in my arms.

"Want a lift?" he offers, completely out of the blue, as he sizes up the hefty stack of books. Again, it's a curveball question I don't see coming, missing my bat completely and conking me straight on the head as I stand in a moment of dancing star stupidity.

My stupidity seems to amuse him again, his mouth curving into a barely-there smirk as he waits for my answer.

"Er..." I start dumbly. "I've... got work." I assume the words will make him change his mind – the café is much further away than my house, and in completely the wrong direction for his – but, as with everything in this conversation so far, Lucas doesn't do as I expect.

"So, is that a 'yes'?" he asks, raising his eyebrows a fraction.

I narrow my eyes as his smirk grows more pronounced, unsure whether his amusement should offend me or not. I'm not sure what he finds so amusing, or why I feel so insecure about it. Is he mocking me? Is he discreetly being an asshole? Why do I even care?

My silence stretches on, leaving his question unanswered and, eventually, he shrugs. "Right," he says, his mouth smoothing into its usual impassive line. "Never mind."

And now I feel like I'm the asshole.

"Wait!" I call after him as he turns and continues on his way, the word popping out like the worst jump-scare of my life – quick and unforeseen as it leaves my heart racing. Lucas turns back, surprised, and I bite my lip as my brain starts to scream at me.

What are you doing? You made a deal with Owen and Oscar!

But I can't shake the feeling that I've offended Lucas somehow, and that makes me feels strangely guilty. It's only a lift to work, right? No biggie. And carrying these books all the way really would suck...

"Aren't you busy?" I ask.

Think of your family. Think of Karen and Noah. Think of everything you told Bailey last Saturday!

"Nothing that can't wait," he replies with a shrug. He tucks his hands back into the front pockets of his jeans, rolling forward on the balls of his feet a fraction as he awkwardly waits.

Lead by example, Charlotte had said. Have some wisdom to share...

Say no! Say thank you, but no!

"Okay, then. If you're sure you don't mind. A lift would be great, thanks."

***

Thankfully, it's barely a two-minute walk to Lucas's car. I recognise it shamefully fast when it comes into view, parked by the curb outside of some extremely dodgy-looking dentistry office on the next road over. Honestly, the sign alone is enough to put me off sugar for life.

Want a lollipop, Jade? I think the fuck not.

"Here," Lucas says, rounding to the back of the car to open the boot for me. Before I can catch a look at whatever's already inside, however, he slams it shut almost immediately, both his palms flat against the top. "Fucking Finn," he hisses under his breath. He looks at me and sighs to himself. "Boot's full," he mutters, clearly choosing not to elaborate. He moves to open the back door for me so I can dump the books down onto the seat.

I'm curious to see what's inside the boot but, at the same time, I really don't want to know – so I don't ask.

"Thanks," I mumble awkwardly instead, closing the door on my books and climbing into the front passenger seat.

As Lucas climbs in next to me, I try not to notice the scent of his cologne – something rich and intoxicatingly smooth, like cedar wood mixed with fresh leather. It hits my nostrils as I breathe in, settling somewhere in the region of my lower stomach as my intestines coil with a flutter of... something. Nerves, anticipation... excitement?

I don't know what it is exactly, but it's definitely not welcome, and it shocks me so deep that the recoil almost has me launching myself from the car, taking off at a Usain-level sprint. I fight the urge to run, though – if only to avoid looking like a complete prat.

Instead, I hone all my focus into buckling my seatbelt as Lucas does the same. Then, he sticks the key into the ignition and starts the engine, the car purring to life around us. Freddy Mercury's voice serenades from the speakers as the lyrics of 'I Want to Break Free' float through the air, breaking the silence.

"So," Lucas clears his throat as we pull away from the curb, turning the music down a notch or two. "...Psychology?"

It's a safe (albeit unexpected) question. He intends it as an ice breaker, I think, as I sit stock-till in my seat, motionless as Michelangelo's David.

"Yeah," I reply, a little relieved by the distraction. It loosens my limbs, relaxing my knees enough to be able to cross one leg over the other. "It's what I plan to study at university."

He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement, keeping his focus on the road ahead. "Uni girl, huh?" he mumbles under his breath, flicking the indicator on as we take a left. Then, louder, he asks, "So... any ideas where you're gonna apply, yet? You're... what," his eyes quickly flicker in my direction, appraising me, "Brad's year?"

I try not to let my frown show, confused by his sudden interest. The guy usually speaks barely five words to me each time we're together, and even then it's only when he has to. What's changed?

"Yep," I confirm with a nod, looking out the window next to me as the streets of Greencliff swim past. "So I don't have to apply until next year. But the plan is to go to Kent – or maybe Bath. I'd be happy at either."

I'd be happy anywhere that's not here.

"Not bad choices," he says.

Pricey choices, as George keeps reminding me. Neither area is the cheapest of places to live.

I shrug, uncrossing my legs as my right knee jiggles up and down a little. "Yeah, well... it's no Oxbridge, but it'll sure beat this place."

Lucas makes a low sound of agreement in his throat, distracted.

"But you're eighteen, you say?" he asks suddenly, trying to downplay his curiosity. I turn to look at him, surprised by the question, and watch as he does the mental calculations.

Eighteen, yet in the same school year as his seventeen-year-old brother.

"Yeah," I say, my voice falling flat. I don't elaborate or offer up any explanation, and Lucas doesn't push the subject any further.

We fall silent as the car crawls to a stop at a red light, the pair of us distracted as we watch some guy biking along the pavement, one hand on the handlebars as the other drags along an open wheelie bin behind him. Inside, the bin appears to be full of the majority of his belongings: a ratty duvet with a six-pack of beers sitting on top. Very classy.

Inside the car, Freddy still sings away, belting the lyrics of 'We Will Rock You' as I fight the urge to tap my foot to the rhythm.

"I have to admit, I never pegged you as a Queen fan," I tell Lucas as he reaches for the handbrake, still idling at the light. He accidentally catches my thigh with his hand and I jolt so violently in response, there's no way he doesn't notice. Our eyes meet briefly – awkwardly – before he returns his concentration to the lights.

"Music taste can say a lot about a person," he says eventually, his words dissolving some of the tension. Somehow, he manages to keep a straight face – and I'm not sure if he's being serious or not – as he says, "I don't trust anyone who doesn't like Bohemian Rhapsody."

"You sound a bit like Bailey," I tell him as the lights start to change.

Lucas drops the handbrake back down and the car rolls forward.

Then, as a joke, I add, "So, what happens when I tell you that I don't like Bohemian Rhapsody?"

I notice the way his lips curve at the question – only slightly, but definitely a smile – and try not to marvel at the way his eyelashes catch in the sunlight as he blinks.

"I'd have to kick you out of my car."

It's a joke. Lucas Coleman is actually making a joke.

"Damn, that's harsh," I play along, looking away from him when I realise I've been staring for a few seconds too long. "Would you at least pull over first?"

"Nah," he shakes his head, his smile more pronounced. "I'd slow down for you, though... just enough."

"Well, that's alright then," I reply sarcastically, snorting a laugh. "As long as it's just enough."

"But I wouldn't give you your books back," he warns.

"What a monster," I sigh dramatically. "You would keep my books?"

"Mm-hmm." He nods.

A cheeky grin slips past my lips as I drop the dramatics. "In case you fancied a little 'light' reading?"

It's the first time I hear Lucas properly laugh. Not just a chuckle, but a genuine, bellowing laugh. One of his hands leaves the steering wheel, reaching up to briefly readjust the rear-view mirror as he glances at the mass of heavy textbooks slipping about on the back seat.

"Exactly," he nods, resetting the mirror and dropping his hand back to the wheel, his voice lighter than I'm used to, still laced with amusement.

This is the most animated I've ever seen him – open and relaxed – and it's weirdly... not awful. Some (not me, of course) might even stretch so far as to say it's nice.

"Well, I guess I'd better tell you I like the song, then," I say, amused.

"I'd say that's a wise choice," he agrees, nodding. His words verge on teasing, something I'm more accustomed to hearing from Finn. "It'd save us both the hassle."

Again, our eyes meet as we both steal a glance at each other, ill-timed as ever which makes it a little awkward. We both look back out the front window – fast – and I hear Lucas clear his throat quietly as I bite down on my lower lip, my smile slipping as I try to control the sudden nervousness I feel.

We lapse into an electrified silence, one so palpable it makes my skin tingle and my heart thunder. The light-hearted talk of Bohemian Rhapsody falls heavy between us, suddenly as suffocating as a thin sheet of plastic, leaving us nowhere new for the conversation to flow.

Who knew talking could be so damn difficult?

Lucas must be wondering the same because I see the way his body language changes: his shoulders tensing, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. As fast as the animation started, he soon stiffens back to his usual, blank mask – closed off and cold.

It's an odd thing to witness, the way he's perfected isolation so accurately. It's no wonder why he's always so difficult to get a read on.

"I've told Alex to stay away from Bailey," Lucas says suddenly, his words curt, with no trace of the teasing from only moments ago. He's back to the Lucas Coleman I'm used to, all bark and business, as if talking to me is some kind of chore.

And, just like that, the electricity sparks out – his attitude tripping a fuse that leaves us in the darkness of a late-night power cut.

"Why?" I ask, equally as blunt.

The information doesn't surprise me – I had deduced as much, from what Finn had said to Alex in the park – but it does confuse me. It doesn't make sense to me.

Sure, he'd heard about our situation with social, but that didn't mean he had to help because this battle with social isn't his to fight. He chose to help, though. He told Alex to back off without me even asking him to, so that my fight with the pair wasn't lost before it started. With Lucas's help – and subsequently the help of Finn, Andrew, and Bradley – I have a much better chance at keeping Alex and Bailey's connection off social's radar. But why?

"Because you needed me to," he replies, as if it's obvious and I'm an idiot for even asking. "So you don't end up as some forgotten care kid reject, stuck in a crappy council flat, living in a town you can't stand."

It's completely ludicrous, how such cold words can warm my heart. He hadn't just let me rant my fears out that day, as we'd driven to find Oscar – he actually heard me. The realisation leaves me feeling strangely conflicted, guarded yet grateful.

But it still doesn't really make sense.

If he told Alex to keep away from Bailey for me, for our family's reputation...

"...Then why did you offer me a lift to work?" I have to ask, at the risk of sounding ungrateful.

If he wants to help by staying away, why contradict it? Why didn't he just pass by me on the street in his usual, icy silence?

Lucas remains quiet, his face impassive. The tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel (completely out of time with the music) is the only indication that my question makes him uncomfortable. Instead of answering, he counteracts it with a question of his own.

"Why did you accept?" he asks.

And that, I guess, is the million-dollar question, isn't it?

Why am I in this car right now? Why am I risking it?

Because my books were heavy. Because I felt bad turning down the offer when you were only trying to be nice. Because it feels wrong to freeze you out so suddenly after you helped me save my brother.

But none of those seem quite right, somehow, which means I don't have an answer for him.

"Do you think they'll do as they're told?" I ask instead, choosing to avoid the question completely.

I'm relieved to hear the indicator tick away as Lucas approaches the turn to West Street – home to Wilson's. There can only be about five more minutes of this car journey to endure (if that) and then I can escape out into the fresh air, free from all this uncomfortable tension.

"Only time will tell," Lucas mutters under his breath, barely audible, as he makes the turn.

Unfortunately, as we tootle down the road, with Lucas expertly weaving between parked and oncoming cars, his front wheel clips a crater-sized pothole that's near impossible to miss. The first indication is the loud thunk as his wheel takes the brunt of the hit, shortly followed by a clunk as the glovebox drops open in front of me, dislodged by the sudden bump.

Instinctively, I move to lift it closed again, but when I see what's inside my hand freezes in place. I stare, wide-eyed and horrified, at the gun inside the glovebox.

My stomach turns to lead, just like the bullets inside the sleek, black death-trap that sits a mere half-meter in front of me.

A gun. There's a gun!

There's no faulting his reaction time; Lucas is quick to reach over and slam the glovebox shut again. The resulting loud bang makes me jump inside my own skin, like someone's just zapped my inner nerve network with a cattle prod.

I think Lucas starts to say something but I don't hear a word and, before he's even fully stopped the car by the curb, I've unbuckled my seatbelt and thrown open the door.

"Shit," I hear Lucas curse as I climb out and slam the door shut.

I don't even pause to collect my books as I make my way inside the café – and I definitely don't look back.

Charlotte's right: I really need to wise up.

*********