Bliss

twenty

I've done a lot over the years, like a lot, but Henry's never looked at me the way he is now. It's the essence of disappointment, dark and foreboding, made worse by my lack of remorse. Not that I need to be remorseful. It's not like I've done anything wrong. That is unless you consider staying true to yourself a bad thing.

"What did you want me to do?" I ask as I flick the switch on the kettle and grab two mugs. "Lie to myself? Pick Isaac's happiness over my own?"

"You think you picked your happiness?" he snorts, ridicule clinging to his words. "Hate to break it you Lizzie, but the only person who gets to be happy in this little equation of yours is the person who deserves it the least."

"Why do you hate him?"

"Spencer?"

"Yes."

"I don't hate him," he says. "I hate what he did to you, and you should hate it too. Why would you get back with him? What is it about that arsehole that screams pick me?"

"I love him." If I didn't, he'd be kicked to the curb, long forgotten the way everybody wishes he was.

"And I love Nutella," Henry says, "but I don't eat it every day."

"That makes zero sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"I don't even see how any of this is your business."

He laughs and shakes his head before collapsing against the countertop. "You're right. It's not my business, but don't come running to me when it all goes wrong. I don't want to hear it anymore. Any of it."

"Fine."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have something I need to do." He sweeps into the hallway and stalks upstairs.

Sighing, I return the second mug to the cupboard and drop two heaped teaspoons of coffee into the first just as my phone begins to vibrate.

It's Jess.

My finger falters over the bright screen, and for a second, I wonder if, like Henry, she's disappointed in me. Then I push my fears aside and answer.

She'll understand; she always does.

"What the fuck, Lizzie," she screams, her voice both parts exasperated and insanely worried.

"Jess?"

"You took him back. After everything, you took him back."

"Was I not supposed to?"

"No, not really. What on earth possessed you to believe him?"

"I—"

"No, you know what, I'm coming to get you. I'll be there in ten."

"I—"

"I'm not taking no for an answer, be ready to leave, or I'll get you ready myself."

She hangs up before I have a chance to agree.

Looks like she doesn't understand at all.

I leave the coffee behind and trudge upstairs. My room's a mess, a wasteland filled with heaps of unwashed clothes, half-finished hair products and stray items that belong in my makeup bag. I pick my way across it and fling open my wardrobe.

It's even worse.

Old leggings and long-forgotten skirts are trying to make a run for it, my school uniform is scrunched in a ball beneath a muddy pair of trainers, and I only have one clean pair of jeans left. They're unintentionally ripped at the knee and too big around my waist, but they'll have to do.