When I woke the next morning, the sense of dread hit before the headache.

Even before my eyes were open, I could tell that something was wrong. For starters, the sea was too loud. I could usually hear it from my room, but being ten minutes back from the seafront dulled the waves into comforting background noise. Here, through an open window somewhere, the sea sounded much closer than it should've.

Slowly, my eyes fluttered open. A stream of light filtered through an inch gap in the curtain, landing on my face, and I couldn't help but squint. Shielding my eyes, I sat up.

This was a living room I'd never been in before, but one I had a vague recollection of buried in the back of my mind. The second-hand tartan print sofa that had been scratching my cheek all night, the TV held up by a stack of thick textbooks in the absence of a stand, the mismatching chairs at a dining table in the corner. All the hallmarks of a first home furnished on a budget... and then it hit me.

This was Owen's apartment. I'd slept on his sofa. I'd got so out-of-my-mind drunk that this had seemed like a better option than going home. Even though, in any universe, it certainly wasn't.

Oh, God, what had I said? I racked my brains for leftover snippets of conversation, but they were too hazy to pick out words. The wine had done too much of a good job covering my tracks. Had Owen offered to let me stay here, or had I been a complete intrusion and begged my way in? As much as I didn't want to think about it, a slightly nauseating gut feeling pointed me in one direction.

And then something else came to me. An image, suddenly clear as day among the haziness of last night. Katie, stood there in her comfortable, everyday, we've-been-together-so-long-I-don't-need-to-impress-you-anymore pyjamas. With her arms folded, looking very much like I shouldn't have been there in the first place.

The thought made me want to die. Things had been going so well, and now they'd been ruined by a few too many glasses of wine. Katie seemed to like me before—and though admittedly I'd struggled to stomach their new life milestones while mine was at such a standstill, I'd kept that all inside. There hadn't been a reason for her to dislike me; we were just polite acquaintances brought together by Owen. Except now I'd transformed into something she definitely had a reason to dislike: the clingy ex-girlfriend, getting a little too close for comfort.

I wasn't trying to get back together with him. We were just friends—but my actions now didn't make it look that way.

One thing was for certain: I needed to get out of here. Glancing around, I noticed my bag and shoes abandoned on the floor beside the sofa, and didn't hesitate to snatch them up. I kind of needed to pee, but no urge from my bladder could be strong enough to keep me in this apartment a moment longer than necessary. I needed to get out, get home—and then, unfortunately, get to work.

I'd slipped my shoes back on and was making a beeline for the door when the noise stopped me in my tracks. I heard a handle rattling, and then the door on the opposite side of the room opened.

There stood Katie.

"Um... hi," I said, willing my voice to sound normal, though it still came out a lot squeakier than intended.

"Hey," she said coolly. She was still in her pyjamas, but had since tied a robe around her waist. First thing in the morning and she still managed to look put together—all while I was looking completely worse for wear. Just another difference between Katie and I to add to the list. "How are you feeling?"

There weren't enough words for me to read into the tone behind them, and the suspense was killing me. How much had Owen told her, in hushed voices behind their bedroom door? He wasn't the sort of person to lie, so there was no danger of a false accusation of me throwing myself at him, but the truth could do its own damage. I had gotten too drunk, I had needed help getting back, and I had invited myself over. That alone spoke volumes.

"I'm okay," I told her, choosing to leave out the headache currently drilling through my skull. "I'm, uh... really sorry about last night. Crashing here, and everything. I'm really embarrassed about the whole thing."

She was quick to respond. "Don't worry about it," she said, probably reassuringly, though I couldn't get myself to hear it that way. "No harm done. Believe me, we've all had one of those nights."

It was the same thing I'd said to Owen, and yet looking at her, I couldn't imagine she'd had anything of the sort. She was just so effortlessly calm and composed—I couldn't see her drunk and stumbling over her own feet. The rule about that night supposedly applied to everyone, but she had to be exempt.

"Well, I have to go," I said, already reaching for the handle of the front door. "Like I said, I'm really sorry. Tell Owen that, too."

"I will, but honestly, don't worry about it."

I managed a weak smile in her direction, but there was no way I was staying a second longer. That only meant time for Katie's insufferable niceness to make things even more awkward—I wouldn't put it past her to invite me for a home-cooked breakfast, or something of the sort. So I made a beeline for the door, passing through and closing it firmly behind me, only allowing myself to pause for a sigh of relief when I was safely on the other side.

What had I learnt from this whole ordeal?

Perhaps the same thing Owen had on that night in second year: never trust wine, no matter how harmless it seemed.

***

As if the morning needed to get worse, I was late for work.

Turns out, without an alarm clock, it was actually pretty difficult to wake up on somebody's sofa with enough time to dash home, have a shower, cram in whatever breakfast my hangover could deal with and make it to the arcade before nine.

And also not possible. I stumbled through the door, dishevelled and windswept, at fourteen minutes past.

Erin was at the prize counter; I could spot the purple ponytail from the other side of the room. It was just as difficult to ignore the knowing smile that crept onto her face as I went past.

"You're late," she said in an almost sing-song tone.

"I know," I told her, adjusting the bag that was digging into my shoulder. The office door—and some peace—was just a few steps away, and if I could make it there without any further conversation, I'd consider it a success.

But this morning, as I probably should've realised, was destined for failure.

"You're very late." The voice sounded behind me about five seconds after I'd made it into the office, when I'd dumped my bag on the chair and was making a beeline for the kettle to make the coffee I so desperately needed. When I turned, Erin was in front of the door, arms crossed over her chest and a smirk on her face.

"Only a little."

"Not for a girl who's been on time for work every day so far," she said, taking a couple of steps into the room. "Now that makes it suspicious."

"Erin," I said, resisting the urge to rub my temples to soothe the rapidly worsening headache. "There's no way I can deal with this conversation before I've had a cup of coffee."

"So make some." She shrugged, before dragging back a chair from the desk and collapsing into it. "I haven't got anywhere important to be—well, except work. And, hey, while you're at it, could you make me one too? Pretty please?"

With my back turned, I rolled my eyes. "Is this about to be another interrogation?"

"Oh, Sydney. Let's not be so dramatic. It's just a conversation."

"A conversation where you'll be asking all the questions and I won't get away without giving an answer?"

She smiled. "Precisely."

Thankfully, she held up on the questions at least long enough for the kettle to boil, and for me to spoon heaps of instant coffee into chipped mugs from Greg's cupboard. I did try to put it off for as long as possible—stirring the milk into each one with painstaking precision, making sure the cap on the bottle was screwed back on tightly and the fridge firmly closed—but there was no avoiding the inevitable. After setting Erin's coffee down in front of her, all attention was on me.

"Fourteen minutes past," she said, shaking her head in mock disapproval. "Greg would be so disappointed. And what might you have been doing in those fourteen minutes? The walk of shame maybe?"

I hadn't expected the bluntness—at least not so soon. My eyes almost bulged out of my head. "How about I just overslept? Didn't that one occur to you?"

"It occurred to me," she said, pausing to take a sip. "I was just going for most likely."

"And you think me doing the walk of shame is most likely," I said. "Should I be offended?"

"Nope. It's not personal. Just based on circumstance."

"That circumstance being...?"

"That you saw Owen last night."

Well, I couldn't deny that one. There were times when I wondered whether sharing so much with Erin was a mistake, but then again, I wasn't sure I'd survive the summer without her. Sometimes I just had to grin and bear it.

"I did see him," I said, "but you can't jump to that conclusion. Are you forgetting he has a girlfriend? Where do you think she was in this fictional hook-up? Watching TV in the other room?"

"Okay, okay. No illicit affair. I believe you." She paused. "But there's got to be something."

"Why?"

"Well, for starters, you went bright red at the mention of his name," she said matter-of-factly, which of course only brought on a more intense round of blushing. Goddamn my giveaway pale skin. "I believed you when you said nothing happened until then. There's something. One hundred percent."

I groaned loudly, trying as best I could to hide behind my mug. "Look, it wasn't my finest hour, and I really don't want to talk about it. But I have a feeling you're not going to let this go, so you can't speak of this to anyone. Not that there's really anyone you know who'd be interested in my personal life, but still... the point stands."

"Deal," she said quickly, leaning forward in her seat. "Now tell."

"I got way too drunk. Like, embarrassingly drunk. And it all gets a little fuzzy around the point we left the pub, but I woke up on his sofa this morning just in time to have an awkward encounter with Katie."

"You're joking."

"I know." I grimaced. "It's up there on the list of some of the most tragic things I've done in my life. And to top it all off, I'm hideously hungover this morning."

"Why didn't you just go home?" she asked. "Did he invite you over?"

"I can't really remember." I put a hand to my forehead. "I'm pretty sure I was stumbling all over the place when we got out of the pub. I just remember really not wanting to go home, and I'm thinking maybe I convinced Owen that staying on his sofa would be the easier option."

"Well, his place is a lot closer."

"His place is also where his girlfriend lives." I shook my head, though just the movement was painful. I really needed to find some paracetamol, and fast. "Ugh. The whole thing was just a mess. I need to forget about it."

"I'm sure it's just the hangover making things worse. Plus, nobody gets a good night's sleep on a sofa. By tomorrow it'll be like this whole thing never happened."

"God, I hope so. He's not scheduled to work today, is he?"

"I don't think so. He wasn't on the rota."

"Thank God. There's one upside."

Just then, there was a knocking at the office door. Both of us looked up at once, frowning, before the voice sounded from the other side. "Uh... Erin?"

It was one of the other summer staff—too young to be Greg, so at least we weren't about to get told off for slacking.

Erin paused, glancing over her shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Are you going to come back out here and help?" he asked, a little tentatively, like he was scared he might get an earful from the girl in question. I kind of couldn't blame him. "There's no one at the prize counter."

She looked completely at ease in the office—leaned back in the chair, feet propped up on the desk, like getting back to work was the least of her concerns. It was early in the morning, which lacked on customers, but she had a tendency to bend the rules perhaps more than she should've. Especially when it came to the latest gossip about my life. "I'm coming," she called, though this was accompanied by a roll of her eyes. "Just give me a minute."

We waited for an answer, but nothing came, which seemed to suggest he'd walked off. With no intention of rushing back, Erin turned to me. "Look, this whole thing is going to be fine. It'll blow over in no time—if you want it to. The question you should really be asking yourself here is if you do want it to."

"What are you talking about?"

"This thing with Owen," she went on. "I mean, I know you keep telling me there's nothing going on, but all the other signs seem to point otherwise. You get weird when you talk about him. Especially when it comes to his new place, his new job, or Katie. For me, it's plainly obvious... but I don't think it's something you're willing to admit to yourself. Maybe you should start with that."

Now she was just confusing me. "Admit what?"

"You tell me."

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be telling you."

"Okay, okay. I'll make it simple for you: do you like Owen? And don't give me a straight no. Think about it."

The temptation, of course, was there—in fact, it was more like a reflex. Even times when I dared to think about it inside my own head, something always pushed back. Always there to reassure me that of course I didn't like Owen. I'd broken up with him. It wouldn't make sense.

But it didn't always convince me.

Other times, it was all I wanted to think about, even though instinct wouldn't let me. Owen was just so different from everybody else, from every other guy I'd met. So much so that it was difficult to even make a comparison. Who else got so absorbed into a newspaper crossword that they missed their stop on the train—on more than one occasion? Who else would've driven two hours outside Walden to find a garden centre that stocked my favourite flowers on Valentine's Day? And who else would still be here in Walden when so much bigger things beckoned, just because they loved their hometown that much?

And who was, potentially, the only reason I might ever see myself sticking around?

"Okay!" I said, the words escaping me with more force than expected. "Okay, okay. You want to know the truth? Well, the truth is that I don't know. In fact, I don't have a fucking clue. What's that weird fluttery feeling I get when we hang out? Why does the thought of him and Katie curled up in their cosy little apartment make me want to stab something? And why, every time he makes one of his stupid little jokes, do I kind of want to grab his face and kiss him? I've got no fucking idea. If you've got one, then please tell me, because I'm open to suggestions."

The outburst left Erin without words, and for a second, all she seemed capable of doing was staring back at me. With that out in the open, a strange shaky feeling had come over me, and I half-wished I could take them back. Just like that, I'd said too much, and now I was vulnerable.

There was another knocking at the door.

Erin came to life then, looking over her shoulder once more. "I told you, Jamie, I'll be out there in a minute! Can you try and cope without me for more than three seconds?"

For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then I heard a click of the handle and we both looked over just in time to see the person standing there. It wasn't Jamie, who'd been asking for help earlier. It wasn't even Greg, coming to tell us off.

It was Owen.

"Uh... hi," he said. Stood there in his red polo, a laptop tucked under his arm, he couldn't have looked more awkward—which made my heart drop to the pit of my stomach when I thought about why. "Greg called and said there was an issue with the office computer, so I told him I'd drop by to take a look."

"Um..."

It seemed we'd both been rendered speechless, struggling between us to find the words to string a sentence together. The longer we stared, the deeper the awkwardness set in.

"I should, uh, get back to work," Erin said, seizing the opportunity to leap out of her seat, "otherwise Jamie's going to kill me. Speak to you guys later."

And with that, she was gone, removing herself from the situation with an exit strategy I couldn't mimic. There was no choice for me but to stay put, stuck in a room with the guy who'd just heard quite possibly the most embarrassing confession of my recent life. Not to mention after everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

In that moment, I could only think one thing.

Kill. Me. Now.

-----------------------

Hi, everyone! This chapter didn't take as long to write as I thought. I wrote a couple of bits on a slip of paper during the week (I'm getting really into writing by hand, which is weird for me, because I've always hated it), and then had a free Saturday so I sat in the garden with my laptop and tapped this out. Not too shabby.

I'm also really excited because I haven't got work for another week and a half, and in a couple of days I'm jetting off for a week holiday in Tenerife! I'll be so grateful for some time to relax in the sun, which hopefully might lead to some inspiration for Sunburn. It's my goal to get this finished before the weather turns too cold, and it might be the first time I've actually finished a summer story during the summer, but we'll see. A writer can dream, right?

Let me know what you're thinking! Seems like Sydney's finally admitting to herself that she might like Owen... but do you predict a happily ever after or not so much?

- Leigh