Bliss

twenty one

"My little holiday?" I try to smother the accusation that drips through his voice under an unassuming smile.

"Come on, Lizzie."

So I'm Lizzie again.

"Nothing happened if that's what you're asking," I mutter, glaring at the cracks in the pavement.

"It's just that you sure as hell seemed to meet a lot of people, people that want to hang around."

"What's this about?" I sigh, pressing myself into his body.

"Nothing...just forget I said anything."

The temptation to push flickers just as brightly as my desire to forget. Thankfully, the latter wins out, and I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. "Consider it forgotten," I say.

"Now come on." He picks up the pace and steers me towards the station. "If we're any slower, we'll be late."

I hate the tube, especially in the summer. It's hot at the best of times, but there's something about the sweltering air that becomes unimaginably unbearable between June and September.

Spencer and I squash onto the first available carriage nonetheless. I swallow a mouthful of sticky air and a frown along with it. Spencer's hand finds mine as I grip onto the slick red pole, and he presses a wet kiss onto my collarbone. An older woman across the aisle rolls her eyes. I return the favour and watch as her thin lips pull down into a cold sneer. The tube doors stagger shut, and the train jerks forward. The woman stumbles, half falling into the lap of another passenger, before righting herself and grabbing ahold of the first available pole.

"Serves her right," Spencer whispers, his voice just loud enough to contend with the roar of the tunnels.

I turn around and wrap my free hand around his neck. He lowers his head until his ear is millimetres away from my lips.

For a second, I consider giving the woman a real show. I'm sure she'd turn five shades of red—or is it fifty shades of grey? All it would take is a very obvious lick, a quick nibble and a kiss.

No.

No, no, no.

I'm not going to become an exhibitionist at eighteen. Mum might just kill me.

"Don't be mean," I say instead, my lips brushing against his sweaty skin.

"Me? Mean?"

"Yes," I laugh, burrowing my face into his neck. "You, mean."

"You wound me?"

"Happy to be of service."

Eventually, Spencer twirls me around and hurries me off the carriage and onto the busy platform. We slip through the crowd, my hand wrapped firmly in his, and follow the streams of people onto the escalators. His arms encircle my waist, and I lean against his chest until his arms drop and my hand is in his again.

"So?" I grin as we hurtle out of the stuffy station. "Where are you taking me?"

"An exhibition."

"What kind?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not. But I do rather like to know what I'm getting myself into."

He purses his lips, a silent war raging across his face, and then sighs. "It's abstract, I think," he says, the words rushed and uncertain. "But I'm not telling you any more than that."

"I love abstract art."

"You do?"

"Of course. If I could do it, I would, but my brain just isn't wired that way."