Bliss

nineteen

I've missed the summer house.

I've missed its narrow windows and the old oil heater that smells of mothballs.

I've missed the stretches of canvas piled in the corner and dried pans of watercolours that sit on the windowsill.

And I've especially missed the view. The house looks special from down here. All its oddities, like the cracked roof tile beside the chimney and the dip in the bathroom window, stand out, glinting cheekily under the setting sun. I miss staring through the kitchen windows, watching as Mum cooks and Dad whines about something or the other. I miss how she smiles, laughing silently at his unnecessary complaints, and how he huffs and puffs until she places a hand on his shoulder and he falls into her.

I also miss Spencer.

We used to spend hours in here, cuddled up on the worn leather sofa pressed against the back wall. We would come by straight after school. He'd always loosen his tie, unbutton his crisp white shirt, and throw his navy blazer on top of his bag. We'd start with our homework, pretend for as long as we could, but eventually, it would join his blazer, and I'd be in his lap, my lips pressed to his until he sucked the air out of me or one of my parents returned from work.

I miss how easy it was—like second nature. And, if I'm completely honest with myself, I miss how much I loved him. It's not that I stopped; it's just that I question it, and I don't want to question it anymore. I just want the answer.

Yes or no.

Isaac or Spencer.

Old or new.

But then, life isn't as easy as that. If it was, I'd know already.

Sighing, I turn from the window and collapse onto the sofa. It sinks beneath me. I tug my sketchbook out of my backpack and flick through, smiling as old sketches mingle with the new. It's an incomplete landscape that pulls my attention. I'd blocked out the space, started on Isaac's angular profile, but the pencil strokes teeter out, leaving a ghost image in its wake.

I drop the open sketchbook beside me and head for the largest canvas available. A thin layer of dust dribbles off it as I place it on my easel, and for a second, I think of the itch. As if to reassure me, it sparks, pushing aside the memories of its dormancy and reminding me of its presence as I grab the sharpest pencil from an old Heinz can that sits on the windowsill.

The pencil is heavy in my hand, and my wrists are suddenly stiff. I stare at the canvas, rolling my arms this way and that, until I'm transported, and the summer house isn't the summer house anymore. I'm not certain of the scene unfolding around me, not sure of the memory I've recalled, but if I know anything, I know that it's Isaac's figure dancing in the centre.

As the recollection fades, I place my pencil on the stretched surface and allow it to glide across. The first stroke is faint, uncertain, the second the same, then I hear my name.

"Lizzie?" I drop the pencil and rush to the door. "Lizzie, hurry up. I think your Mum saw me."

My heart seizes as I wrap a hand around the brass doorknob and twist. Then I see him, my Spencer, and it all falls away.

He hurtles past, collapsing onto the sofa, and laughs. It's loud, full of life, and wraps around my body until I'm laughing too.

When he laughs, he looks like an angel. His eyes squeeze shut, his lashes flutter perfectly, and his lips, thin and pink, purse as deep smile lines curve around them. And then, just like that, the sweet innocence I love is replaced with a storminess that festers in his hazel eyes.

"I've missed you," he says, his hand bridging the gap between us and wrapping around mine.

"Missing me isn't enough."