"Jolly's was broken into on Saturday," Ellie explains, her voice weary.

It's Monday evening, now – a day on since what Ellie and I have aptly named the 'Megan-gate' fiasco – and we're basically both zombies, by this point. For some reason, today has been just as hectic at the café (if not, more so) and it's only been within the last hour that things have started to wind down for the night.

All morning, Paul, Ellie and I had been wondering the exact same thing: What the heck is going on?

One busy day is a coincidence; two is a correlation. We just hadn't known what was causing it.

That is, until Carl turned up for his lunchtime shift and gave Paul the lowdown. At some point, Paul managed to fill Ellie in, as well. So, it seems I'm the last to find out.

"Apparently, the place is completely trashed," Ellie continues as she loads mugs into the dishwasher. Thankfully, the plumber came out early so that was one less problem for us today. "Some gang bullshit, I think. Carl walked past on his way to work and says the front door has been tagged as a warning."

Jolly's – a small diner that lives a few streets over from Wilson's – is the closest rival we have. Despite the name, the place is pretty shady. It's known best for its illicit dealings of contraband – weapons, mostly, although I've heard rumours that they also sell crystal meth on the sly.

All hearsay, of course – but I wouldn't be surprised if the rumours are true.

The hospitality side of the business is probably more of a front than anything, but the owner, Jolly (I don't know his real name), is known to make a mean milkshake. If the place is closed – and from the sounds of it, it could be for a while – then our foot-traffic will likely double until it reopens.

"Things are going to be pretty crazy here, for a while," Ellie mumbles, voicing my exact same thought aloud. She closes the dishwasher with a little more force than necessary, pressing the 'Start' button.

Ignoring the few tables still waiting to be cleared, I lean a hip against the counter and watch my friend for a moment. There's something mildly concerning about the way she frowns at the machine in front of her. She chews on her bottom lip until she notices my gaze, her mouth lifting into a small smile as her eyes meet mine.

Something's wrong.

Something has been wrong with Ellie for a few weeks now. At first, I had thought she would open up in her own time but, the more she chooses not to, the more I start to doubt she ever will. She may be a talker at heart, but she obviously doesn't want to talk about this – whatever it is that's bothering her.

"What's wrong, El?" I have to ask because – despite it making me a hypocrite – I hate that she won't open up.

Her smile slips and she glances towards the kitchen, her expression suddenly anxious.

Is it Paul?

Has she seen what I saw in the kitchen yesterday? Is she worried that her dad isn't coping – that the café is slowly making him miserable?

Because that's definitely what I got from yesterday's exchange.

Has Ellie noticed it, too?

"Nothing," she sighs eventually. She turns from the dishwasher to lean her forearms across the top of the counter, her eyes surveying the café and the few tables still waiting to be cleared. With barely an hour left before closing, we should (hopefully) have no more mad rushes for the night. She sighs again. "Everything's fine."

But, quite clearly, it's not.

"El, seriously..." I say, nudging her with my elbow as I copy her stance, leaning against the counter next to her. "You can talk to me. I'm your friend."

And I'm worried about you.

"It's just..." she starts, trailing off as she appears to contemplate her next words carefully. Then, she rolls her eyes, lowering her voice as she mutters under her breath, "I got into university."

They were not the words I'd been expecting to hear and I raise my eyebrows, surprised and delighted in equal measure. She'd never even told me she'd applied.

"What? That's amazing!" I exclaim, to which she quickly hushes me with her hands, motioning for me to keep my voice down. I morph my voice to a whisper as I say, "Congratulations!"

But Ellie doesn't look happy about the news. In fact, she looks about ready to burst into tears at any moment.

"That is amazing..." I say slowly, confused. "Isn't it?"

It sure seems like the sort of thing she ought to be celebrating. If I were in her shoes right now, I'd be buzzing.

"Well," Ellie starts, the single word betraying her as her voice wobbles. She blinks back her sadness in a façade of control that I'm all too familiar with, running a hand through her hair. "I mean – well, yeah but – but I can't actually go, can I? The place is almost three hours away."

I watch her teary eyes scoot towards the kitchen door quickly, before dropping to the counter as she picks at a chip in the wood with her nail. And, just like that, her glum expression starts to make sense.

It is about Paul – just not in the way I'd thought.

"You don't want to leave your dad," I murmur, summing up the heart of the problem for her.

Pressing her lips together in a sad, almost wistful smile, Ellie finally looks up at me. I can see the answer in her eyes, even before she speaks the words.

"He needs me."

Oh, El...

"Have you told him?" I ask, even though I'm pretty sure I know the answer.

"No," she admits, heaving out a big sigh. Her voice is a bit steadier now, her eyes drier as she talks. "I need to confirm my place soon or I'll lose my offer. I mean, not that I am confirming my place. I'm not going..."

"Do you want to go?" I ask, voicing the most important question of all.

Her following silence says it all.

"It's supposed to be the best art programme in the country," Ellie tells me in a hushed voice, her words conflicted. "I wasn't actually supposed to get in. I just thought... ugh. I don't know what I thought." She shakes her head with a frown.

"I think you should talk to your dad about it," I try to encourage her, even if my words fall on deaf ears. "He'll be proud of you, no matter what you choose to do."

"But then he'll just feel guilty when I don't go," she sighs. She tips her head back in frustration, staring at the ceiling as if the damp-stained tiles hold all the answers. "And I won't go because I can't go. I would have to leave by the end of summer, it's too soon. Besides... what if something goes wrong here and he needs me?"

She leans her elbow on the counter, her chin resting on her hand as she mumbles, "What if something happens at Jolly's again, and he's forced to face the mad rush alone? What if this place gets trashed? He can't deal with that all on his own."

"He won't be on his own," I remind her. "I'll be here to help."

"You can't be here all the time, Jade," she sighs.

Neither can you, El. You're allowed a life, too.

"Ellie, you've dedicated the past two years of your life to this place – you both have. It's okay for you to want something different."

"Yeah, maybe..." Ellie mutters glumly, not sounding convinced. Then, the corner of her mouth twists into a broken smile. "I just wish she was still here, you know?"

My battered heart completely shatters at the look in my friend's eyes. I throw an arm around her shoulders and squeeze her in a one-armed hug, trying to alleviate some of her grief – even though I know it's an impossible task.

Ellie doesn't talk about her mother much. It's always too painful for her.

"I know. Me, too," I murmur, because I'm not sure what else to say. Then, I add, "I really think you should talk to your dad about all this, El."

Because you might just find that he wants something different, too.

"Yeah, maybe..." Ellie repeats, squeezing me back before pulling away from my embrace. She sniffs and forces out a chuckle, shaking off her sadness with an unhealthy level of ease. "Now, can we please talk about something else, before dad comes out here and finds me being all mopey?"

"Sure," I agree, moving to help her unload the dishwasher now that the cycle has run its course.

"How are you doing, anyway?" she asks, giving me a knowing look.

Ah, and the shoe always feels so different when it's on the other foot – uncomfortable and restrictive, like I'm the evil step-sister trying to squish my fat toes into Cinderella's glass slipper.

"I can't believe I'm here, burdening you with my dumb problems," Ellie sighs when I don't answer her question. "As if you haven't already got enough of your own."

"Okay, firstly," I reply, giving her a pointed look. "You're never a burden; you're my best friend. You can tell me your problems any time. Secondly..."

I trail off as I contemplate her question, trying to figure out how to answer.

How am I doing?

"I'm doing better than I was yesterday."

Which is the truth.

After I finished work yesterday, feeling utterly drained from the day's events, I went home and did a bit of a Bailey. Once I'd stopped to check that my sister had gotten home okay – which, thankfully, she had – I skipped out on dinner, avoided my family, and shut myself in my room for the night.

Then, I cried – a lot – and my god had I needed it.

It was very cathartic, actually. And then afterwards, for the first time in about a week, I actually slept. No nightmares, no nothing – just sleep. This morning, I woke up feeling more rested than I have in a long time.

It felt great.

I think Megan turning up here had been the final straw – the one that broke the camel's back, if you will – and so, in a way, at least she did something right. It was a closure I hadn't realised I'd needed, one that helped me vent out all my other problems, too.

After bottling so much stuff up, it had sort of all just... poured out. Like a pressure valve inside me had somehow opened, releasing the weight I hadn't even noticed I'd been carrying. Once the tears stopped flowing, I had been left feeling much lighter – better.

Hopefully, the feeling will stay.

The sound of the front door chiming halts mine and Ellie's conversation, a last minute straggler entering the café. I glance over, surprised to see the familiar face of Mike Langford.

He grins when he sees me, offering up a small wave in greeting as he walks towards me at the counter.

"Hey," I say, smiling. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a friend," he answers with a cheerful smile, leaning an elbow on the counter, "and ordering a..." he glances at the board behind me, his eyes scanning the options, "Mocha frappe?"

He poses it as a question and I laugh, ringing the order through on the till.

Ellie walks off to clear the last few tables, a buss tray in her hand and an obvious smirk tugging at her lips. I try not to roll my eyes at the look she gives me when I catch her eye.

"How did your Chemistry exam go?" I ask, making conversation as he digs out his wallet to pay. "It was your last one for the year, right?"

"Don't ask," Mike sighs, shaking his head. "I completely cocked it."

"I'm sure you did great," I assure him.

"I missed an entire page of questions," he tells me, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish wince. "I didn't think to check the back of the paper until after time got called."

Ah, yes. He has, indeed, cocked it.

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh because it is not funny – at all.

"I'll pray for you," I promise and he laughs.

Ellie returns with a tray of dirty dishes and I decide to introduce them while I make his drink.

"This is Mike. He's a friend from school."

I put a little more emphasis on the word than necessary, trying to stop her from getting any ideas. Whatever she's thinking – and I can tell she's thinking something – it's completely off base.

Mike is one of my ex-boyfriend's best friend's and, ergo, completely off-limits.

Besides, I'm nowhere near ready to jump back into anything with anyone. As much as I'd like to tell myself otherwise, I know deep down that I'm not over Dylan. My heart still hurts whenever I think about him; I'm just getting better at pretending it doesn't.

I mean, I hate him – but I also don't. I should but I can't.

Does that make any sense?

"Hi, Mike," Ellie greets, her usual chirp cloaking her previous sadness like a protective blanket. "I'm Ellie."

"Hello," he replies, smiling. "Thanks," he then says to me as I hand him his drink. He glances around the café, leaning forward a bit as he says, "Actually, I was hoping we could talk for a minute. I don't suppose you're going on a break anytime soon?"

"She's on a break now," Ellie chips in, lying through her teeth.

She schools her face into an expression of pure innocence as I shoot her a look that quite clearly says, 'Stop.' I can't be too mad at her meddling, though. This is the first genuine smile she's worn all day.

"Really?" Mike asks, waiting for me to answer. He offers me a small smile, unsure.

"Yeah," I sigh, much to Ellie's delight. I nod towards an empty table and the two of us head over, my colleague no doubt watching us the entire way.

"What's up?" I ask curiously, settling into my seat.

I watch as Mike takes a tentative sip of his drink. He decides he likes it and takes another, smacking his lips together before he answers.

"So," he starts, leaning an elbow on the table. "A little birdy told me that you have a sister who loves the Atomic Arsonists."

There's only one person that Mike and I both know, who knows that little bit of information.

Dylan.

Again, my heart still hurts at the thought of him. The hurt pisses me off rather than upsets me, though, so I guess that's a new development. One brought on by the appearance of Megan yesterday, I have no doubt.

"Let me guess," I say, sitting back in my seat with a sigh. "The birdy would be Dylan, am I right?"

Mike winces. "Yeah..."

Why the hell would Dylan talk to Mike about my sister?

"Did he ask you to come and talk to me?" I can't help but ask.

Dylan gave up on calling me a while ago – I never answered the phone, not even once. Maybe this is his new way of trying, by sending his friend to talk to me in some last-ditch, pathetic attempt at an apology.

"No, no," Mike replies hurriedly, his eyes widening. "Well," he relents, tilting his head a little, "kind of – but it's not what you're thinking."

He looks immensely uncomfortable and I don't blame him. Talking to your friend's ex-girlfriend about your friend can't be much fun, especially when your friend's ex-girlfriend is also your friend.

I mean, the sentence alone is enough to give anyone a headache.

"Look," he says, reaching for his wallet once more. "I have some tickets that I'm looking to get rid of. He said maybe you'd be interested?"

He pushes two tickets towards me across the table, and my eyes quickly skim over them, picking out the key words.

Atomic Arsonists.

Wednesday, 23rd September, 2024.

Birmingham, NEC Arena.

"Dylan told you to give me these?" I ask, shocked.

This is the concert that Bailey wants to go to, the one that had her in a bad mood all those weeks ago because George and Stella wouldn't let her go.

"He lightly suggested," Mike corrects, carefully stepping around the minefield to avoid blowing his legs clean off.

Poor guy.

I shake my head, trying to reassemble my thoughts into something akin to order.

Dylan lightly suggested for Mike to give me these tickets. Dylan knows that Bailey loves the band. Dylan also knows that Bailey's birthday is fast approaching, and that I struggle to buy her gifts.

Smooth, real fucking smooth – but still a prick.

"You're not going?" I ask, glancing up from the tickets to look at Mike. He watches me carefully from across the table, gauging my reaction.

"Well," he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I was meant to be going to this show with some girl but – as it turns out – she's not so great."

"Sorry to hear it," I mumble distractedly, trying to think.

"My cousin's scored us some tickets to their London gig, instead," Mike continues, a grin brightening his face. "Tickets, back-stage passes to meet the band, and a night in a swanky-ass hotel – all expenses paid. He won some radio competition, apparently."

"Not bad," I admit, his excitement contagious as I hone back in on the conversation.

"Yeah, well, so..." he points at the tickets on the table and shrugs. "Those ones are yours if you want them."

Do I want them?

Stella and George have already said no to Bailey. If I take these tickets and give them to Bailey for her birthday, I would have to talk them round first. Bailey needs a supervising adult to go with her; I'm an adult. I could take her. Stella and George might not trust Bailey but they do trust me. I could probably convince them – maybe...

And it would be a great way to sugar-coat the permanent Coleman ban that Charlotte and I are about to slap on Bailey. A sort of, 'So, you're not allowed to talk to Alex anymore but, hey! I'll take you to see Atomic Arsonists!'

That could work... right?

Sod it.

"How much?" I ask.

"Forty for the pair," Mike says with a shrug. "I'll throw in the friend's discount."

It's an absolute steal and we both know it. One ticket alone costs closer to that, if I'm remembering the prices right from when I checked on the website. He's practically giving them away.

"I'll take them," I say with a grin. "I'll just go get–"

"Don't worry about the money now," he says when I move to stand up, intending to grab my purse from the staff room. "Just get it to me whenever. There's no rush."

"Thanks, Mike," I say, leaning back in my chair as I grin down at the tickets. "You're an absolute legend."

If I can get Stella and George on board (and I hope that I can) then Bailey's going to go mental. There's no way she can't like this present.

"No worries," he chuckles, nodding his head at the tickets. "I'm just glad they're going to good use. I'd hate to see them wasted. Atomic Arsonists never tour–"

"In the UK," I finish for him, nodding. "So I've heard."

From Bailey, every time she mentions the band.

"I never took you as a groupie," I then tease, laughing as Mike rolls his eyes.

"You got me," he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Just promise you won't tell anyone," he brushes a non-existent piece of lint off his shoulder. "It'd kill my cred."

"You're such a dork," I laugh. He grins, not offended by the insult.

"Well," he says eventually, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. "I should probably head off and let you get back to work."

But he doesn't make a move to stand up.

Instead, he stares at me from across the table, looking conflicted as he presses his lips together.

"Dylan's an ass," he eventually decides to say. My smile fades and he shakes his head, sighing. "You deserved better, Jade."

Without waiting for a response, he stands up from the table.

"Enjoy the concert," he says before leaving.

I don't have time to dwell on his parting words, suddenly distracted by the ping that sounds from my phone. Pulling it from my back pocket, I quickly check the message.

I only get as far as reading Stella's name before Ellie's voice distracts me.

"Oi, Taylor, off your phone at work!" she calls out. She gives me a disapproving shake of her head, which is entirely contradicted by the amused smirk that accompanies it.

I raise an eyebrow and laugh, slouching back in my chair. "I'm on a break, remember?"

She walks towards me and settles in Mike's recently evacuated chair. "So," she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "He's cute."

"He's a friend," I remind her, looking back at my phone. "One of Dylan's, actually."

"Oh," Ellie's tone changes and she wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Never mind, then. What'd he want?"

"It's not like that," I mutter distractedly, trying to make sense of Stella's message.

'How's she doing? Hope it's going well. Glad you're starting to get along better. Xx'

I haven't got a clue what she's talking about, so I ask,

'How's who doing? Xx'

'Bailey. Isn't today her first shift at the café? Xx'

Of course.

"Fuck sake," I breathe, leaning back in my chair with a defeated sigh.

In all honesty, I'm not even surprised. This is just so Bailey. Lying to Stella about where she is whilst dragging me into the mess, as well – it's exactly what Charlotte was talking about.

And, as for where Bailey is? It doesn't take a genius to guess.

Why is she like this?

She had promised me last night, when I stopped by her room to check on her before hiding away in my own. She promised that she would stay away from Alex until social's probation was up.

And I had believed her.

"Everything okay?" Ellie asks, worried.

"Bailey," is all I say.

Ellie holds her hands up in a gesture of 'say no more' and returns to the dishwasher.

I should rip up these tickets. I should set Stella straight. I should tell Stella that Bailey's not with me and let the girl reap the consequences. I should but, instead, I call Bailey.

Ring ring, ring ring, ring ring....

The phone rings out before eventually hitting voicemail. I hang up and try again.

Ring ring–

This time, I get hung up on before the third ring, the call dying with a resounding beep.

Unbelievable.

I send her a text instead. It only takes two words to get my sentiment across.

'You're dead.'

*********

(Gosh dang it, Bailey... not again!

Updates now returning to Thursday (9am, UK time) as usual!)

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