Bliss

six

If Paula's anything, it's persistent. It's a good thing when you want that expensive Christmas gift Dad scoffed at or permission to disappear midway through the annual family barbeque to spend time with your boyfriend, not so much when you're trying to avoid thinking about anything bar working on your tan, terrible television and Nutella filled cookies. But then I'm the idiot who told her about the whole Spencer Penelope fiasco, so I guess I only have myself to blame.

The moment she found out, she convinced herself I was in desperate need of cheering up. In the grand scheme of things, her desire to make me smile wouldn't have mattered so much if I actually needed it. But, as you've probably guessed, I don't—need cheering up, that is.

After spending an entire day bawling, torturing myself with a cringy photo slideshow I made for his birthday, I realised that nothing I do is going to change the fact that I'm here, alone, and they're out there, together.

My silent acknowledgement of the truth was hard enough, but Paula's constant desire to psychoanalyse is making it worse.

All I want—no, all I need—is for us to have a normal, non-Spencer related conversation. I'd kill for it at this point. Probably her, but can you blame me? She really is like a dung beetle; I'm the shit—a down-trodden, misunderstood piece of shit.

A shit who, despite flinging herself onto a lime green inflatable to hide from the beetle, now finds herself beside it.

"Stop being a martyr," Paula says, her foot brushing against mine. "I only want what's best for you."

"Then leave me alone."

"I don't think that's for the best."

"How convenient."

"I'm serious, Lizzie," she says, somehow paddling closer. "I just want you to be happy."

"And I will be the moment you stop going on about this."

She sighs, paddling away, and I relax.

Kicking through the water, I push myself further away from her until I'm under the bustling branches. Thin, delicate leaves twirl through the air, falling onto the shaded patio. The ones that cling to the branch are a brilliant green, made brighter by the piercing sunbeams that twirl through them and cast an imposing, earthy shadow across the terracotta slabs surrounding the pool.

Back when the itch was a constant in my life, I'd be desperate for featherlight strokes of a pencil against a textured cream page or the swipe of a sopping brush against a fresh canvas. Now it's gone, I turn away before the artache settles in. I can only regret one thing at a time.

But in turning away, I have to face Paula. Her eyes latch onto mine. There's an air of determination which intermingles with her concern. It's dangerous, too dangerous to ignore.

"What now?" I ask, a groan hiding beneath my words as I wriggle up and stare.

"Let's go clubbing!" She clasps her hands tight and nods like a bobblehead gone rogue.

"No way," I snort. It twirls and twirls until it's a laugh.

"What do you mean, no way?" she asks, entirely ignoring the bemused smile painted onto my face.

"I mean no, fucking, way." My smile drops.

"But you love clubbing," she insists, kicking my inflatable until it turns.

"No, you love clubbing."

"Come off it, Lizzie, you love clubbing."

"Who loves clubbing?" Henry interrupts, and I jump six feet into the air. My inflatable bobbles on the water as I clutch at my chest and glare at him.