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“Down, down in my bones

Somewhere I’d never ever known

Right at the back of my head

It hit me like a beam of light

Hit me like a hook with a right

And I could have fell to the floor
 
‘Cause you talk to me and it comes off the wall

You talk to me and it goes over my head

So let’s go to bed before you say something real

Let’s go to bed before you say how you feel
 
Cause it’s you, I always knew, always knew

Oh, I always knew, oh, it’s you
 
I try my best to unwind

Nothing on my mind but you

Oblivious to all that I’ll owe

I’m hanging on to what I don’t know

So let’s go to bed before you say something real

Let’s go to bed before you say how you feel
 
Cause it’s you, I always knew, always knew

Oh, I always knew, oh, it’s you”

-

I Always Knew

by The Vaccines
 
2005

I get to the Fat Cat far too early. It’s my nerves, the adrenaline– so I order myself a pint to calm down.

It’s a quiet Tuesday night, but the pub is filled with the usual clientele– elderly gentlemen mostly, eating fish and chips and drinking ale, arguing about football and complaining about their wives, their retirement. I sit across from the bar, next to the fireplace, perched on the faded, velvet cushions of a booth, and I spin a penny on the tabletop– my fingers manic, nervous, fidgety.

Every time the door opens, I crane my neck to see if it’s Alex, and my stomach clenches, flutters, relaxes every time it’s not.

I’m going to tell him I love him.

After eight years of friendship, five years of fighting how I feel, trying to hide it, trying to gauge if he could ever feel the same– I’m just going to tell him– and I’ll have to deal with whatever happens.

But, I don’t mean that necessarily, because I’m

terrified

of what could happen. More than fearing his rejection, I’m terrified that I’ll lose Alex’s friendship– that this will change things so irreparably between us that I’ll lose what we do have, just because I hope he might love me back.

I think of when I met him at age eleven, when we were sat next to each other in maths on the first day of school, and we shared a moan about how shit we were at it. And then when we had music together that same day, and gushed about how much we liked that instead. I was so bloody reserved– perpetually anxious since my mum had up and moved to Spain the year before, perpetually quiet and shy since Dad and me moved from London to Sheffield– but Alex was too. Something in our commiserating unlocked the flow of words between us, built something that neither of us had with many people.

Before I knew it, we were thirteen, practically inseparable, walking home together and eating the crisps and soda out of each other’s kitchens while we watched reruns of

The Vicar of Dibley.

He wouldn’t call me his best friend, but I knew he was mine– and he spent just as much time with me as his best friend Matt, so I knew the truth. Boys were just weird that way, and I knew that. We sat on the phone for hours, moaning about school, our parents, sharing music suggestions and mixtapes, and it was the best friendship I had ever had– no crushes, no drama, no worries about getting my heart broken.

Maybe I shouldn’t tell him.

No! Bloody hell, Lily! I have to do this once and for all! There’s no use sitting–

“All right?”

I’m pulled from my own thoughts by Alex sitting down abruptly in front of me, bringing a gust of chilly, fresh air with him as he sits and grabs my glass to take a huge drink. My mouth goes dry at the prospect of what I’m about to do– as the sight of him makes everything excruciatingly real.

“You want another?” he asks before I’ve even said a word, because he’s just finished the remains of my glass.

Wordlessly, I nod.

I watch him at the bar, and I think of the moment where it all hit me at age fifteen. We went to a school dance together– not as dates, his mum just dropped us off together. But then we spent ages milling around together, making fun of the music and the teachers’ clothes, and how forced everyone looked when they danced. Until Vanessa Rawley’s friend came over, saying that Vanessa wanted to dance with Alex, and they spent the rest of the night playing a game of cat and mouse– nervous and immature, speaking solely through friends– until the last song of the night, when they slow danced together. And I stood off to the side of the gym, and I couldn’t really understand why my chest was tight, or why my eyes were burning, but when my dad dropped Alex off later, I realized– in the dark of the moving car– that I might have a crush on my best friend. I didn’t recover– or talk to him, or look at him directly– for days.

He comes back with two pints, and the sight of him– the shaggy fringe falling into his big, brown eyes, the bright blue polo under his zip-up hoodie– makes my chest hurt from how much I love him, how far we’ve come, and I gulp my ale, feeling like I’ve just missed a step going downstairs.

“Why d’you look like you just seen a ghost, Lil?”

I shake my head, try to smile, laugh it off.

“Did you want to get summat to eat?” he asks, hooking a thumb at the bar.

“Alex,” I start suddenly, because if I don’t do this, I never will. “I have to tell you something.”

It’s been eight years of fighting these feelings for him, of growing closer to him, back and forth, never knowing, and I don’t think I can do it anymore.

“I do too, actually.”

My stomach somersaults.

“What?” I ask, stalling.

A smile is suddenly lighting up his face, and he dives in, saying, “We’re going to release an EP– the Arctic Monkeys! And then we’re going on a tour all over England! It’s already being arranged!”

He looks like a kid on his birthday. His whole body is emanating excitement, happiness– his eyes bright and big. All of his dreams are coming true and it makes my heart swell with pride, with genuine happiness

for

him– after everything he’s worked for, everything he’s done to get here. I can’t help but beam across the table, grab hold of his wrist and give it a squeeze.

“Al, that’s amazing!”

His cheeks are pink, and he looks bashful suddenly, but he laughs it off, saying, “Yeah– it’s brilliant!”

His words suddenly link together in my mind from another angle.

Tour. All over England.

People at their shows are already singing along with their songs. They already have a following and they don’t even have a label. The Arctic Monkeys touring all of England is going to be huge.

Alex

is going to be huge. My best friend is going to be a celebrity.

I’m happy for him, but it clashes against something in my head– how I’ve known him, who we’ve been since age eleven.

“What did you have to tell me?” he asks, taking a drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.

My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in my chest. What would telling him do now? He’s leaving for tour, he’s about to blow up with the Arctic Monkeys I’m sure, will probably leave Sheffield forever. Even if he did have feelings for me too, would we stand a chance? This news changes things– tangles up the lines between us in a new way. I can’t tell him.

“I got into King’s College,” I say instead, because I did– I just found out today, but it had been pushed to the back of my mind with plans to talk to Alex in the forefront. “I’m going to do English.”

“That’s great! So you’re moving to London?”

I nod, feeling sick to my stomach, but the resignation is setting in. This is for the best. I will continue to be his best friend– the way we’ve been since age eleven– I’ll support his music career from the sidelines, cheer him on, and I’ll move on from this adolescent crush–

truly move on this time.

There’s nothing keeping Alex tied to Sheffield– certainly not me– so I need to move out into the world too.

He raises his glass for a toast. “To a couple o’ High Green kids, strikin’ out in the world.”

We clink our glasses, and it cements my determination to move on, to truly strike out in the world and forget my romantic feelings for Alex Turner.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Be Here Now

2014

As I’m cleaning the last remnants of vomit from an ice bucket in the utility closet, I have one of those moments where I reevaluate my life– have a ‘how did I end up here?’ existential crisis within the span of sixty seconds. The question lingers in my mind, though of course I know the answer, before I’m back on autopilot, finishing the bucket and returning to the banquet hall.“Tossers,” Rosie says, when she sees me back at her side, clearing the rest of the table.I shrug, “Why go to the loo, when you can just be sick around your champagne?”“Yeah,” she responds in her raspy, South London chirp. “‘ow could’ya miss any of the shite dancing?”I laugh, folding up the edges of the silky, white tablecloth into a bundle as Rosie grabs the basin of dirty dishes.“When I get married, the place’ll be nuffin’ like this.”“We can’t afford a place like this,” I return, stuffing the tablecloth into a laundry bag as we finally move onto the last table in the hall.She takes a minute to check her phone as I begin stacking plates and silverware into the bin. “Yeah,” she says. “Even if I could– I’m goin’ to ‘ave it at the beach– in Spain or sumfin’.”Stuffing her mobile phone back into the pocket of her apron, she starts helping me.“What about ya?” she asks.“I’m not getting married,” I joke. “I’m going to wander the halls of the Mannerly like Miss Havisham, cleaning rooms until I die.”“That’s not funny,” she says, as if I’m serious. “When’s the last time you ‘ad a boyfriend, mate?”I roll my eyes. “I was joking, Ro.”“I’m serious,” she continues, and she’s stopped cleaning all together, so I stop too, face her. “When was that Greg bloke?”She’s referring to my last boyfriend– of a whole six months– who I broke up with at the end of the summer because his touch was starting to feel like a creepy uncle, and all his mannerisms were making me shut down– to the point where our conversations were completely one-sided. I had to dump him just so I could would stop feeling like such an ungrateful bitch.  “Too long ago,” she continues before I can speak, pointing at me. “You need a good shag.”Rosie is only ten years older than me, but we’ve been cleaning together at the Mannerly Hotel for nearly six years, and sometimes she feels like the mother figure I never had. Other times– like right now– she feels like a pushy, dirty-minded older sister.I roll my eyes and chuck a napkin at her face, going back to the cleaning.“My bruvva’s fit, mate,” she continues, but she’s cleaning again at least. “I could set you up.”“As soon as I want that, I will say the word.”We finish the tables in silence, and by the time we’re allowed to go home it’s nearly four in the morning, and we’ll have to be back to do our round of rooms in less than six hours.“Next time I want the extra cash from cleaning up after a weddin’, give me a slap,” Rosie calls back to me as we part ways for our respective tube stations, and I wave her away laughing.We both know we can’t say no to the extra cash.As I walk down the sidewalk toward my station, I’m shivering. The February air is sharp and pointed, cutting into the steam of my breath as it leaves my mouth. It’s that time of night that is so late that it’s also early, so strange that I can’t tell if I want a cigarette, a whiskey, or a coffee. I shove my hands into my pockets and hunch my shoulders against the cold, aching so badly for my tiny flat, my tiny bed, that it’s almost painful.My phone vibrates in my pocket, against my hand, and I pull it out, knowing it can only be one person at this time of night. I smile.“Hello Alex,” I answer.“Lils,” he returns, his voice raspy, tired. I can tell he’s just finished a show– he sounds equal parts satisfied, exhausted, and drunk. “I wasn’t sure if you’d answer.”
“You know me,” I tell him, skirting around the real reason for why I’m awake. “I’m all over the place.” I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, so I ask: “How are you?

Where

are you?”
He’s bad at volunteering that information– or remembering time differences– so whenever he’s on tour I either have to guess his location, or google him.“New York,” he returns. “Can’t sleep.”“Poor baby,” I joke. “All those screaming girls still ringing in your ears.”“Ah, piss off,” he sounds half buried in his hotel pillow, loaded up with lager and cigarettes.I pull a cigarette out of my bag– I still blame Alex for the habit– and light it up, take a drag.“How’s London?” he asks.“Good, cold,” I reply. “Gray.”“How’s the world of publishing?”I cringe, still elbow deep in the hotel I just spent all day cleaning at my real job– the vomit– and the sting of remembering that I’m caught in this lie hits me between the eyes, over and over and over again.“Fine,” I reply. “How’s the tour?”“Over,” he lobs back. “For now. We have a couple months off.”“That’s great,” I exhale some smoke into the cold night sky, nearing the Hyde Park Corner station. “So, back to L.A.?”“London, actually,” he says. “I’m coming home to do some writing with Miles– hopefully some new Shadow Puppets work.”“London?” I’m surprised, heart picking up speed in careful excitement. I haven’t seen Alex in months– maybe almost a year now– and the idea of him being in London for a couple of months is almost too good to be true. “That’s great! Is Arielle coming with you?”It doesn’t hurt to talk about Alex’s girlfriends anymore. I’ve worked really hard over the years of our friendship to reach the place I am now– the place where my romantic feelings for Alex have shrunk, have been pushed back into a remote part of my brain. It’s a part of my brain that rarely sees the light of day– only rears its ugly head when I’m drunk, or recently heartbroken– and only sometimes surprises me with its sharp existence still. Like when Alex calls randomly, just to talk, from across the ocean in the middle of the night.
“No,” he says, and I stop on the street, right at the entrance of my stop, shivering. The tone of his voice tells me everything, before he even goes on to say: “We broke up.”

“Aw, Al,” I sigh. “I’m sorry.” And I am, because he’s still my best friend, and this is the third break up he’s gone through since becoming

Alex Turner,

the Arctic Monkey
“Don’t be,” he brushes it off. “It weren’t right.”“Are you okay?”“I’m comin’ home, Lils,” he says, trying to sound jaunty. “Couldn’t be better.”I don’t buy it, but I’m not going to push it. He’ll be vulnerable if he needs to– though it’s been years since I’ve seen it, since he’s leaned on me like that.“I want to see you when I get in,” he says. “Next week– Can I take you to dinner? Catch up over some fish and chips?”Of course I want to see him– want to wrap him up in a hug and hear about his tour, and his break up, and everything in between, over a pint like old times– but I joke: “I’ll have to check my schedule,” yawning dramatically. “But I can probably pencil you in.”“Nah then, you can take time from your busy writing and publishing life for your best childhood mate.”I always get so comfortable, so happy talking to him, that I forget the guilt until the lies comes back nipping at my heels. Fuck.“I miss you, Lils.”The sudden softness of his voice– the image of him lying in his hotel bed, head buried in a pillow, eyes at half mast as he speaks into the empty room, just for me– makes the breath leave my body, leaves me feeling weak.I guess he can still do that to me, after all these years, after all the distance.“I miss you too, Al.”“I’ll see you soon,” he says.“See you soon.”And the line goes dead. 
When I get to my flat I want a cup of tea, but I know the kettle would wake my flatmate Tess, so I just grab the bottle of whiskey, and a glass, and shut the door of my cramped bedroom. I put my headphones in, listen to Oasis’s “Be Here Now” album while I sip my whiskey.
If I close my eyes, I’m eleven years old again, at the music shop on Fulwood after school, deliberating over which album to buy. Alex has picked up “OK Computer” by Radiohead, who a lot of the older kids at school have been talking about lately, but I liked “Wonderwall” so much, and I prefer the album cover of “Be Here Now”.We agreed to buy an album together over the weekend. We both wanted to start our very own music collections– not one that was our parents’– but couldn’t afford to buy anything on our own. So we agreed to split the cost of one, share it until we could afford more. Joint custody of a compact disc.
So we bought “Be Here Now”, and then we sat on the floor of his bedroom, with his family boombox, and listened to the thing from start to finish. And then in the days after, we listened to it again, and again, debated over our favorite songs, and made Matt listen to it. And in the weeks after, we grew our music collection, blamed the other when a CD went missing, when one hogged certain albums, until we could afford our own copies, and our tastes evolved, and we were able to introduce music to each other, to download music onto mix tapes and then iPods.

Sitting on my bed in London, my body going warm and heavy, eyelids drooping from the long day and the whiskey in my blood, I feel a physical ache for the nostalgia of my childhood– of the days tromping around High Green with my best friend. I feel a physical ache for

him

.
And the existential crisis comes right back around, with Liam Gallagher crooning in my ear.How did I end up a maid in a London hotel, broke, single, lying to my best friend about the failures of my life, in love with him still?How did I end up here?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2007

I feel ill as I sit in my London dorm room, spring sunlight streaming in through my window, staring down at the envelope in front of me. The final results of my latest exams are inside, and I can hear people outside, yelling, singing, celebrating, but it feels like even touching the envelope will burn me.

After two years at King’s College, fumbling my way through an English Literature degree, it’s beginning to become unbearably clear that something is going to have to give– and the contents of the envelope might just be the tipping point.

The truth is, I didn’t want to go to university. I wanted to read books all day, write whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I wanted to write novels. But I wasn’t like Alex, I hadn’t written anything that was worth a damn in college, and then had to make a decision– work, or university. So, I went to university, thinking I could get through– get a degree– get a job in the publishing world, write a book, be who I wanted to be. But the problem is, I'm not a good student. Academics have never come naturally to me. In fact, it's becoming clear how averse to them I actually am.

I struggle within the structure of academia, have found myself unable to concentrate in my classes, hate reading and writing what I have to read and write. I haven't been able to help myself from jotting down made up stories when I should be taking notes in my lessons, feel anxiety come crashing down around me as I spend hours revising for exams I know I can't possibly pass. Even when I really push myself to focus, to do my best, to reach out to my tutors, I fall short. The marks for my first year at King’s College were dismal at best, but the second year is drawing to an end, and I have been sliding into real failure since the fall.

So, I have to make a decision, I know.

Dad doesn’t have the money for me to continue to fail through school– and I don’t either. Not to mention, it’s bloody miserable to have to slog through something that I can never possibly succeed at.

It’s why I’ve decided that if these results are bad–

really bad

– I’ll withdraw from King’s College, get a job, and figure it out. I won’t waste any more time or money. It’s not worth it.

I lift the envelope with a wince, holding my breath.

I open it. I read.

My stomach tightens into a hard ball.

I’ve been expecting it– have been struggling for two years now– so it shouldn’t come as a surprise, especially when you’re bracing for it. But, failing is never easy, never painless.

I have to withdraw from university.

I’m on the verge of actually crying when my phone rings, distracting me.

Alex.

“Hello?”

“Lils!” his voice is light, high. “What are you doing the end of June?”

My eyebrows pull together. I haven’t seen Alex since Christmas. He’s been so busy with the Arctic Monkeys, writing, performing, recording– and they just released their second album, have been walloped with a huge amount of press and success– that I’m surprised to hear him ask about my schedule.

“I don’t know, why?”

“We’re doing Glastonbury!”

For a moment, I’m confused. He and I are doing Glastonbury? Is he asking me to go? And then– of course– he means the Arctic Monkeys are performing.

“I want you to come,” he goes on. “It’ll be a piss up!”

I’m looking down at my exam results, eyes unable to focus, stomach still tight.

“We’ll celebrate the end of exams, yeah?” he says, because I still haven’t said anything. “I’ll get you proper pissed and we’ll see The Who, and Amy Winehouse– it’ll be brilliant!”

My throat constricts. I haven’t told Alex anything about how bad university has gone. He’s been so busy, and so successful– that every time we speak or see each other he’s floating on air, or we’re not alone, we’re drinking, out at a club– and I just don’t know how to tell him. And then there’s the part of me that doesn’t

want

to tell him, feels embarrassed that I’ve failed out of university– feels ashamed to admit that to my best friend who has one of the fastest-selling debut albums in British music history, and a #1 selling second album. It’s not a competition– I’m

happy for him

– it’s  just pathetic in comparison, and something stops me from revealing it to him.

And I’ve been reminded of it constantly, have never told him about my struggling in London because of it.

Since starting at King’s College, since leaving Sheffield, it’s been a surreal dream. While coming to London and trying to truly move on from my feelings for him, do well in school, I’ve heard people saying his band’s name in passing– in the library, at the cafe– heard his songs playing in pubs, and I kept thinking of the boy who practiced in a warehouse in Sheffield, who went from pub to club to lounge begging for gigs with Matt. And while he’s invited me to several shows, to meet his (now ex) girlfriend Johanna, I hated to admit I still loved him– and I felt more and more embarrassed.

Not only was I failing at university, I couldn’t move on from my famous best friend who had a girlfriend.

Pathetic felt like an understatement.

“That’s great, Alex!” I finally manage to get out, feeling a wave of nauseous anxiety crash into my stomach.

If I’m going to tell him, now would be the time– when I’m about to withdraw, when everything is coming to a head and forcing me to make a major life change. But something stops my tongue, keeps the truth strangled within my chest.

“What’s wrong?”

Fuck.

“Nothing,” I say, forcing myself to sound brighter. “I’d love to come to Glastonbury! It’ll be great!”

He doesn’t sound convinced when he presses, asking, “How’s university?”

Fuck fuck FUCK.

I don’t want to talk about it, feel the burn of tears again, feel the weight of how pathetic everything is fall into my stomach. My best friend just told me he’s playing Glastonbury, I’m not going to dampen that by telling him about my failure and withdrawal from school. I’ll tell him later, after Glastonbury, once I’ve found a job and everything is settled.

"It’s fine,” I tell him. “Everything’s fine.”

There’s a pause, a beat of silence that makes my palm go sweaty against my mobile.

“So do I get in for free?” I joke, referring to Glastonbury, hoping to bring him to that happy lightness from when I first answered the call. “Or are you not that important?”

He immediately jabs back at me, laughing, and the moment has passed, though the exam results still lay in front of me, reminding me of the truth.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

All The Rage Back Home

2014

Before the weekend, I have two days off in a row, so I go home to Sheffield.I take a noon train out of St. Pancras, put my headphones in and listen to Interpol, Albert Hammond Jr., and Nick Cave, wrapped up in an oversized jumper and parka, wishing for a hot coffee as rain hits the window in intervals. London disappears behind me, gives way to suburbs, then melts into countryside over the course of a few hours. And when the train finally passes into Yorkshire, I flick my thumb against the tiny Yorkshire rose on the inside of my wrist on instinct, relaxing as familiar landscape comes into view.
Glancing down at the soft-looking, English rose, I smile.
In secondary school, Alex and Matt and I had a stretch of several weeks where we talked about what we would get if any of us were to get tattoos. Matt had announced, unabashedly, that he would get a heart with the word “Mum” in it, because his was the best. Alex and I had gone back and forth, trying out lyrics, and shapes, and images, until we both landed on the Yorkshire rose. For days, we fought about it– as if, at fourteen, either one of us was going to actually get a tattoo– about the other one needing to find a different design.It wasn’t until two years ago, on my 26th birthday, that it actually happened. Rosie and my boyfriend at the time– a guy named Liam  who would end up cheating on me after we dated for a year– as well as a couple of good friends from King’s College, all took me out and got me proper pissed.As we were leaving the second bar, I decided I wanted a tattoo.Liam tried to talk me out of it, knew I was nearing blackout drunk, but Rosie made a couple of calls, urging on the one and only moment of impulsivity and recklessness she had ever witnessed from me. We were at her cousin’s friend’s tattoo parlor near Covent Garden in under an hour– the place crammed in between a sex toy shop and a bar– and I was laughing hysterically, drunkenly, at the pain in my wrist, as I finally got my Yorkshire rose.
The next morning, I woke up at Rosie’s hungover, angry texts from Liam about my impulsive behavior overloading my phone, but I saw my rose, and I laughed. From between the sheets in Rosie’s bed, her sleeping figure behind me, I snapped a selfie of my bleary-eyed, makeup smudged, grinning face, Yorkshire rose on my wrist held up in pride, and sent it to Alex.

Beat you to it,

was the only thing I said in my text.
The very next day, he got his in L.A., bigger, on his forearm, with ‘Sheffield’ in a ribbow below it, and he sent me a picture as well.

Couldn’t let you have it alone

, he wrote.
The train pulls into the Chapeltown station, and I get off, start the walk to Dad’s.Soft, thick flakes of snow begin to fall as I enter High Green, and I pull my hood up, shove my hands deep into the pockets of my parka.
High Green feels so different from London– quieter, smaller,

home

– and it still surprises me, because up until age 10,

London

had been my home. We had lived in a small two bedroom in Kensington, right near the park, before Sheffield. On weekends Dad took me to the museums, and to Kensington Palace, and to the Peter Pan statue. Sometimes we walked around Harrods, looking at all the gorgeous displays, laughing at the crazy things people would buy. And then Mum left– the spring where she drifted further and further away from both of us, fought with Dad every day, snapped at me, until one day she was gone, before summer, moved to Barcelona.

When Dad moved us to Sheffield that fall– his childhood hometown– I thought it was just another way that my world was ending. Mum was gone, my friends were in London, and I was living in a semi-detached in the suburbs, going to a brand new school where I didn’t know anyone. I wasn’t angry in the slightest, just so bloody

scared–

so anxiety-ridden that I had a hard time talking to anyone but Dad. And then Alex.

Now, High Green is home, Dad is home, Alex is home. Well, when he’s

home

, anyway.
My toes and fingers are numb by the time I reach Mortomley Lane, and I stamp my boots up the walkway of Dad’s, trying to get some feeling back.Dad opens the door before I can even reach for the knob.“Bills!” he yells my silly nickname, even though it hasn’t been more than two weeks since I’ve seen him, only twenty four hours since we spoke on the phone, and less than an hour since we texted. His dark-rimmed glasses and pale ginger hair, stubbly chin, make me walk right into his open arms. I smile against his warm body, breathing in the smell of his soap, mint tea, and tobacco.“Good trip?” he asks, closing the door and walking into the kitchen.I follow him, shedding my parka and scarf, tossing them onto the armchair in the front room, as delicious warmth hits my body, saying, “All right.”He’s got tea waiting for us– mint for him, strong, milky, sweet PG Tips for me– and some bourbon biscuits, and I sink into a kitchen chair, wrap my cold fingers around the familiar mug.“What’s new, Lilly Billy?”I swallow down a mouthful of tea before I say, “Alex is coming back to London next week.”“The prodigal son returns,” he declares, mock-serious.“Doing some writing,” I shrug. “In between tour stops.”Dad watches me for a moment, considers my face, reads me, and then says, “Are you going to see him?”“Of course.”He just stares at me, a knowing smile playing at his lips.“What?”“Does he still think you’re in publishing?”I groan. I can’t lie to Dad. He knows almost everything, whether I want him to or not. It took him about two weeks after my own revelation at age fifteen to ask me if I liked Alex, and I burst into tears in the kitchen at breakfast, standing in my school kit with a piece of toast in my hand– because I was so distraught over what to do. And Dad gave me a hug and laughed, telling me there were worse blokes I could like, and that I would figure it out over time.Still waiting for that to happen.It was much the same when I withdrew from King’s College. I went home to Sheffield and told Dad right away, started blubbering right there on the sofa. And when my omission of the truth started to become a lie to Alex, I confessed that to Dad too. And he’s tried to urge me to come clean– to make things easier on me, to mend what can only be called a wedge in my relationship with Alex– but I just haven’t been able to bring myself to do it– get shoved down with fear every time. And so he’s had to listen to me moan about it instead.“Don’t you think it’s time you tell him the truth, Lily?”
“Dad, where do I even

begin

?”

“With the

truth

,” he says. “Buy him a pint and just tell him.”

“I

can’t

.”
“Well, you’re going to have a very difficult time with him in London if you keep carrying on with this,” he says, and he’s not scolding, not even stern, just matter of fact.And I groan, because it’s bloody fucking true, and it’s my own bloody mess I’ve made.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2009

I get to Chloe’s house late the night before Christmas Eve, and when I walk in, there are clusters of people I don’t know, clouds of cigarette smoke, and red and green garland as far as the eye can see. Lady Gaga starts blaring from the speakers as I make myself a vodka soda, and a bolt of deja vu hits me between the eyes. Aside from the music, it could be a weekend during sixth form– Chloe’s house, the bad music, the alcohol– and it makes me feel sad for how much I miss it.

A hand reaches around me, grabs the freshly made vodka soda out of my hand, and I spin around, annoyed, and then throw my arms around him when I see his stupid, cheeky face.

“Alex!”

“When did you get in?”

“To Sheffield, or here?”

“Both,” he says, and takes another drink from my cup, so I just turn and make another.

“Today, and just now,” I reply, splashing a generous amount of vodka into my new cup. “Are you staying with your mum and dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s Alexa?” I stare into the bubble and fizz of seltzer being poured when I ask it, hoping he’ll say she’s with her family, in London, still in New York.

“She’s ‘round,” he says, eyes scanning the party briefly. “With Matt, I think– they were talking to Chloe.”

I turn to him and take a gulp from my cup before saying, “I don’t know about that ‘air, Al.” It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it, and shaggy. “You look like Led Zeppelin.”

“Led Zeppelin’s not a person, Lil,” he replies, smirking at me crookedly, making my stomach flip involuntarily.

Fuck, I had hoped those surprise stomach acrobatics were a thing of the past.

Another gulp of vodka.

“No shit,” I say. “How’s work?”

“I’m working on some music for a movie,” he tells me, leans against the kitchen counter next to me, his arm parallel, flush, warm against my own. “I think I’ll be in London to do some recordin’ on it.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah,” he replies, eyes focused squarely on mine. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Lily!”

Suddenly, Alexa’s thin, angular arms are encircling me, her hair smelling like roses, her sequined shift dress catching the light like a disco ball.

“How are you?” she asks, smiling brightly. “It’s been ages!”

“I’m good!” I reply, feeling the collision of warmth and self-doubt from being around Alexa. She’s so genuinely kind and funny and likable, but so bloody

beautiful

.

“How’s King’s College?” she asks, sipping her own drink– some fizzy, golden wine.

Fuck. This again.

“You’re nearly done!” Alex says. “Right?”

Fuck fuck FUCK.

“Yeah,” I manage to say, gulping the vodka down entirely, blood starting to go warm in my veins.

“Do you have any jobs lined up for after?”

There’s a tornado of thoughts, abuzz in my brain, anxiety clawing at the sides of my stomach like bees in a hive.

See, I hadn’t meant to lie. When I decided to withdraw from King’s College the timing just hadn’t been right to tell him. He was about to play

Glastonbury

! And then I pushed it off, and pushed it off, waiting for a perfect moment that never came, and then he was dating Alexa and it hurt in a way I hadn’t expected– and I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him I had kept the truth from him, that I was a failure, so I just didn’t say anything at all.

With Alex and Alexa both looking at me expectantly, the bees in my stomach climb up my throat, make all of my skin go hot with embarrassment at my own inadequacy.

I think of the Arctic Monkeys’ latest album,

Humbug

, and the successful tour they’ve just had– Alex’s creative and financial and musical success with the Last Shadow Puppets, and now a

movie

. I think of Alexa’s modeling, her hilarious, charismatic hosting with PopWorld, and then MTV (despite the cancellation) and I just feel even worse.

The two of them, making it in life, moving to New York, traveling the world, taking risks. And then me, not very far from home, cleaning people’s hotel toilets for a living since leaving school, recovering from failed relationship after failed relationship, my best friend still giving me butterflies.

“I’m going to be working at a publisher’s in the spring.”

The lie trips out easily, spilling out of me, providing a flotation device as the entire party becomes a bottomless ocean I can no longer tread water in.

“Lils, that’s brilliant!”

And then the flotation device punctures, and I realize what I’ve just done. I had wanted so badly to just not sink against their success, against the weight of my own failures, and now I’ve just buried myself deeper. How can I ever tell Alex the truth now? How can I ever undo what I’ve done– what I

keep

doing?

I suddenly feel trapped, and my throat goes tight, so I do the only thing I can think of, I pour more vodka into my cup, and gulp it down straight.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Oh! You Pretty Things

2014

When Alex got to London, we agreed to meet for a drink on a Thursday night, at a bar in Camden. I get home from work that afternoon feeling anxious, excited, unsure. With my flatmate still at work, I shower, make myself a drink, and blast some David Bowie to calm myself down. I try to do my makeup, tame my hair, pick out something pretty and fashionable to wear, but I’m quickly frustrated, not girly enough, capable enough– my mum left before she could teach me any of these things. So I give up when time runs out, pull my wild, blonde hair into a messy bun, hair falling around my face, swipe a single layer of mascara on my eyelashes, and throw on an oversized, navy jumper under my peacoat.I splurge on a cab, knowing the tube will take too long, but I’m still late when I get to the bar, throwing the door open in a hurry, hit with a gust of heat and sound as I walk in. The light is dim, warm, the whole bar crimson and chocolate colored, and full of people, but my eyes scan the room, land on Alex almost right away.
I look at him for a beat, standing in the front entrance before he sees me. He’s leaned against the bar, a tumbler cradled in his hand on the grainy wood. His hair is slicked back in a quiff, leather jacket turned up against the room, and his jaw is so sharp it looks like it could cut glass. It’s amazing, how much he’s changed– how little he resembles the gawky, silly, quiet boy from High Green– but how much he is still

Alex

.
My stomach flips as I walk over to him, when he turns and meets my eyes, smile spreading across his face as he stands and hugs me, picking me up and spinning me around once.“Lils!” he says into my ear. “It’s so good to see you!”We sit at the bar and he orders me a vodka soda, leans toward me, exterior melting into the endearing and sincere Alex of High Green.“How are you?” I ask. “How’s the tour?”“Good,” he says. “It’s been brilliant, actually.”“Congratulations on your Brit Award,” I continue, as the bartender puts my drink in front of me. I take a sip, and Alex watches me, a smile tugging at his lips, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “Bit of a wanker with your speech though.”He slaps the bar, laughing, “I knew you would say summat.”
“‘That rock ‘n’ just won’t go away,’” I mocked him, trying to mimic his voice. “‘Ready to make it’s way back from the

sludge’

... ‘Looking better than ever’, was it?”
He covers his face and groans, still laughing.
“Al, you’re a

wanker

!”
He shook his head, picked up his drink. “All right, nose down, Lils.”
“You dropped the

mic

!”
“It weren’t a mic dropping speech?”
“

No

!” I laugh. “It was

obnoxious

.”
“All right,” he gives. “I might have had one too many– had a moment of bravado after a breakup– and I let meself go.”I nod, “That’s right. I’m sorry about that.”He shrugs. “Like I said, it weren’t right. We never saw each other, didn’t know each other like we thought– she didn’t want to sit around waiting for someone to come back from tour.”I frown as he takes a long drink, and say, “Still.”“What about you?” he turns the attention back to me. “Write any award winning novels yet? Break any poor bloke’s ‘eart lately?”My stomach curdles and I gulp from my drink, nearly finishing it. “Haven’t had the time,” I say, hoping my whole face is bright red, though it’s not technically a lie. I would write a novel, if I wasn’t so exhausted every day after work, spent from hours of cleaning and making beds. “What are you working on in London?” I ask, changing the subject.“Goin’ to do some work with Miles before we ‘ave to go back on tour,” he says. “Thought it might be good to get out of L.A. for a while.”I nod, drain my drink.“I got a place in London,” he says. “Some friends are coming over tonight for a drink to say hi– Come over.”His big brown eyes are bearing down into mine, his whole body close enough I don’t even have to reach out to touch him– and I don’t want to give up having him this close to me yet, in the flesh, so I agree to come. 
By ten, Alex’s rented townhouse in Regent’s Park is full of bustling, chattering bodies. We’ve had at least three more drinks– on top of the two at the bar– and I feel like I’m buzzing. Not only am I pleasantly drunk, but being close to Alex is making me feel high– giddy, calm,

loopy

with affection– watching him court and host all of his guests, coming back to me every once in a while to refill my drink, give me a wink, a nudge, making my chest warm with happiness.
I’m refilling my cup, feeling I’ve been in Alex’s rented kitchen my whole life, when I hear it.“Alexa!”My skin stands on end– a pinch of anxiety in my gut.I know Alex and Alexa became friendly again after their break-up– eventually– but I didn’t realize it went beyond casually chatting and catching up, being perfectly friendly when in the same social situations. But, Alex invited her to his party, and she came. A familiar clutch of worry pits in my chest, and I feel just like I did when he started dating Johanna, when he told me he had met Alexa, liked her, and then began dating her too. It’s such a noxious feeling– one that, despite my best efforts, I can’t shake from our relationship.Alexa is sitting in the living room when I walk in later, her drink in hand, looking impossibly beautiful as always. She’s got on the tightest, skinniest jeans I’ve ever seen, charcoal gray, and a French-looking, striped turtleneck. Her shaggy fringe falls into her cat-lined eyes, her lips a pale pink. She looks like an effortless and elegant Jane Birkin– simple and beautiful– her bright eyes alive and playful as she chats with Miles.“Lily!”She spots me, waves me over. I haven’t seen her in years, but she stands and hugs me hard when I walk over to her, scoots over for me to sit next to her.“It’s been ages!” she gushes, looking me over with a huge smile. “You look beautiful!”
That’s Alexa. The international supermodel telling me

I

look beautiful. And meaning it. I remember suddenly why I always loved Alexa so much. When she dated Alex I was jealous, of course, but it was so easy to forget that jealousy with Alexa. I would never begrudge her anything, and she and Alex were so happy once– she became my real friend, I genuinely loved seeing them together. The jealousy evaporated into an inexplicable sadness at the time, a hopelessness that further fueled me to let go of my feelings for Alex.
I wish I hadn’t lost Alexa as a friend in their break up– but I was Alex’s friend first, and Alexa was transatlantic. It wasn’t a conscious decision as much as a natural evolution that I regretted now.Miles got up as Alex called him over to the record player, and Alexa and I were left alone on the couch, Lou Reed picking up loudly from where the boys now stood.Alexa asks me about work– and I’m flippant, casual, quick with my lie– before I turn the conversation back to her. I congratulate her on her book– neglect to tell her that reading about being heartbroken over Alex had made me sob into my own pillow, a glass of wine gripped in my hand when the book came out– ask about the world of fashion. It’s easy to fall back into a friendly, open rapport with Alexa. She’s so funny and charming, so easy to relate to and open up to. We catch up on the years that have passed– break ups, friends, London. At some point our drinks are refilled, and I’m very aware of how emotionally and clumsily drunk I am when the conversation turns to Alex.“I knew you two would always be friends,” she shakes her head with a smile, eyeing Alex where he stands talking to Matt and Miles across the room.I sip my drink, wincing at the amount of alcohol that has been mixed with soda, knowing I’ll have a hangover tomorrow.“I’m sorry we didn’t stay friends,” I say. “I always liked you, Alexa.”“I know,” she says, and her crystalline eyes meet mine. “I should thank you for that.”My eyebrows pull together, and my soggy brain wonders if it missed something. “What for?”“I just–” Alexa looks into her drink, suddenly fidgety. She looks like she might change her mind, say something else, but then she plows forward. “I always thought you might be in love with him.”My whole body feels like it stands at attention, but I try to keep my face neutral. I can’t slow my heart down though, and the vodka feels like it’s crackling in the back of my throat.I clear my throat, take another sip.“You’re angry,” she surmises, sounding worried, embarrassed. “It was just– I don’t know– something in the way you looked at him, the way you talked to each other.”I don’t say anything, just shake my head.“I mean, it made sense to me– the two of you being together,” she adds. “Even when we were dating.”My body feels hollow at her words, a flicker of something like hope or pride, as well as sadness, wrapping up my insides.“I hope you’re not mad,” she says after a minute, when I still haven’t spoken.I clear my throat again, and say, “I’m not mad,” and it feels like the room is spinning, and I realize just how very drunk I am, regret the hangover I’ll have tomorrow. “You’re right.”She looks surprised.“You never talked to him about it, did you?” I ask suddenly, desperately.She shakes her head. “Of course not.”“Please don’t say anything to him,” I implore. “It was so long ago– We were kids– It’s different now.”Another lie.I just can’t stop.“Of course not,” she repeats, shakes her head. “Think nothing of it.”I leave the party not long after, give Alex a hug and hurry out the door and to the tube station, feeling like my skin is crawling, the world somersaulting behind my drunken eyes.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2011

When there’s a knock at my door, one night in early July, I’m not expecting it.

It’s nearing midnight and I’m in the living room of my flat, cursing at the broken AC, sweating as I furiously text Tess about it. She’s not responding though, because she’s on holiday in Majorca and is shit about anything having to do with our flat anyway. For a brief moment, I wonder if it’s one of our neighbors come to complain– if I’ve hit the AC too hard, one too many times, way too late at night.

Peering through the peephole, I’m immediately gobsmacked to see Alex standing in the hall.

I throw the door open immediately, heart plummeting into my stomach when I see the look on his face. He’s clearly drunk– but more than that, he looks desperate and heartbroken.

“Alex,” I say, and he’s walking past me in his t-shirt and jeans, hair a mess in his eyes, reeking of booze. “What happened?”

He goes straight to my kitchen, pulls a bottle of tequila from the top of our fridge.

“That’s Tess’s,” I tell him, so he puts it back, grabs the vodka instead.

He brings the whole bottle into the living room and sinks into the sofa before taking a long pull from it. I sit down, angled to face him, and I can see that he looks like absolute shit. His skin is pallid, his eyes bloodshot, and there’s something about him– something that hangs around his body like smoke– that seems anxious, and angry, and sick.

“I thought you were in Belgium– or France,” I say, because that’s where he was headed the last time we spoke.

He swallows the vodka, grimacing against the burn, and then shakes his head. “I have a coupla days before Roundhouse.”

He doesn’t offer any other explanation for why he’s here, sitting on my couch, downing my vodka, looking like he just lost a fight against a hurricane.

“Alex, what’s goin’ on?”

He meets my eyes, and I see something inside of him break, crumble. I know he’s drunk– I haven’t seen him this far gone in a long time– but I don’t think that’s what’s got him so broken.

“Alexa and I are over.”

His whole body is shaking when he says it, and his face is warping against a twist of tears, eyes already swimming. My heart breaks

for

him, shatters in shock, and I wrap my arms around him, pull his vibrating body to my own.

“What happened?”

He shakes his head, sinks against me, gripping at the fabric of my shirt, and I realize he’s sobbing silently.

“Alex,” I urge him softly, trying to cut through the pain of his drunken, heartbroken brain, fingers smoothing back the pieces of his wild, shaggy hair. “Talk to me.”

I’ve never seen Alex cry– not like this, not over a girl– and it hurts my whole body, makes me squeeze him tighter to me, wanting to save him.

“We were being awful to each other,” he finally says, his words tangled and slurred, and he might be more pissed than I even realize. “Finding reasons to fight– Livin’ separate lives because of our schedules. Resentin’ each other for it.”

I run my fingers through his hair, because he seems to be shaking a little less, and I’m trying to process this information. Alex and Alexa have been together for years. They moved to New York together. I’ve seen them have fights, arguments, bicker, but I never thought they would break up. I thought he was going to marry her.

“I ended it.”

My hands go still for a moment, shock pummeling the inside of my brain.

“I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“When?” I ask.

“We just got back into town,” he says, meaning the whole band. “I just left our place.”

He broke up with her

tonight

. And came straight here.

Suddenly he’s sitting up, swaying slightly, eyes unfocused and red. He’s trying to focus on my face, extricated from my embrace, his hands balancing on my legging-clad thighs to keep upright.

“I’m sorry, Al,” I say, because I am, and I can’t imagine how he’s feeling.

“I’ve missed you, Lils.”

His words bleed together, a drunken run on thought.

“I’ve missed you too,” I say, because this is drunk Alex, hurt Alex, getting all sentimental.

But then his hand is on my cheek, unsteady, warm, thumb rubbing the skin of my cheekbone. My heart is pounding immediately, my eyes finding his. His skin on mine feels so good, so right, and I sink into it greedily.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

He’s kissing me before I can even process the moment, before I can react at all, his lips soft and hurried against my own. They’re familiar lips– lips I’ve known since primary school, have longed for since age fifteen– but somehow foreign. I can taste the vodka as his tongue slips into my mouth, can feel just how unsteady he is, how pissed and frustrated and heartbroken he is, and I pull away.

“Alex, you’re pissed,” I say, a hand pressed to his chest, keeping him at arm’s length. “Why don’t I make you some tea? Or a toastie?”

I get up, because my heart is still pounding, and I want to kiss him again, but not like this. I don’t want drunk, miserable, sloppy Alex, who is probably thinking of Alexa, trying to find something– anything– to fix what’s hurting. And he doesn’t follow me into the kitchen, or say anything at all.

When I come back into the living room with his tea and sandwich, he’s asleep on the sofa, hair disheveled, breathing deeply. I set his toastie on the coffee table– because he’ll probably eat it cold in the morning– and pull a spare blanket over him.

I turn the light off and go to bed myself, but I don’t sleep for ages. My whole body is popping electricity, magnetically charged anxiety, and I’m thinking of Alex– of Alex and Alexa, and the kiss, and what tomorrow will bring.

When I do wake up in the morning, Alex is hungover, groaning and demanding coffee, another toastie, nurofen– and he doesn’t say anything about the kiss, so I know he doesn’t remember it at all, which makes me relieved, and impossibly disappointed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Is This It

2014

I’m leaving work on Tuesday afternoon with Rosie, and she’s trying to convince me to come to hers to get a curry and watch old EastEnders, when my phone rings.“Lils.”It’s Alex. I haven’t seen him since Thursday night– haven’t heard from him except for a few errant text messages about work with Miles– so I’m pleasantly surprised that he’s calling.“What are you doin’ tonight?”My skin practically hums in anticipation, the thrill of seeing Alex in person still surprising me after all the years he lived up the road. Rosie smokes her cigarette and watches me, as we stand behind the hotel, snow beginning to fall lightly around us.“Nothing.”“‘ow about you come out to dinner with me?” he asks. “So we can spend some proper time together and catch up.”Rosie is studying the look on my face like I’m a maths problem, and I turn away from her slightly, say, “All right, that would be nice.”“I’ll come ‘round yours?” he offers. “About eight?”“Cheers,” I reply, and we hang up.“‘Oo was that?” Rosie asks, as I’m stuffing my mobile into my pocket.I take out a cigarette of my own, light it. “Alex,” I say.“The Arctic Monkey?” her cigarette is burning down low– she’s forgotten it momentarily to gawk at me.I roll my eyes, “Yes.”“Are you goin’ out wit ‘im?”“Yes.”“Are you gonna shag ‘im?”“Rosie!” I shake my head.“Weren’t it you that–”
“I was very bloody pissed when I told you about my crush on him,” I cut her off, words coming out in a frustrated rush. “And it was

ages

ago. We’re just friends now.”
“Yeah? Does he ‘ave a girlfriend?”
I think of Arielle, his

ex

now. I don’t say anything.
“Thought so,” she flicks her dead cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the toe of her trainer. “You’re gettin’ proper shagged tonight. Forget the curry, hon, and text me the details in the mornin’.”She starts walking around the building to the sidewalk, towards the tube, and I yell after her, “You’re mad!”She waves my words away without turning around, before disappearing around a street corner all together. 
Alex comes round to my flat a little after eight. He’s dressed in a plain white button up and jeans, with a leather jacket over, and he seems out of place in our relatively cheap, small flat. But he’s friendly, and he says hello to Tess– who he’s met a handful of times– and waits for me while I pull my coat on and grab my purse.

We take a cab to Hampstead and stop into an ancient but posh pub. We’re sat deep inside, nestled amongst the worn, wood-panelled walls, light sconces flickering low around the room. We both order vodka sodas and the fish ‘n’ chips, leaning across the table while we wait for our food, warm and buzzing on the surge of alcohol.

I can’t help but think of Alexa’s words from Thursday–

“It was just– I don’t know– something in the way you looked at him, the way you talked to each other”

– and I’m feeling myself go flush in the heat of the room, under Alex’s eyes.
“It’s so nice to be back in England,” he says though, breaking me from my thoughts. “Back with you.”“It’s nice to have you back,” I reply. “Though it’s going to take some time to get used to the hair.”He laughs. It’s been a couple of years since the hair change– the slicked back, gelled quiff– but I haven’t had enough time with him since to be used to it yet.I remember when I first saw him with it– only a month or so after his break up with Alexa. He had come back around to England during the Suck it and See tour, and had a few days off in London, before he had to go on to France. He invited me for a night out with Miles and the boys, already drunk when he called me, and I met them at a too-loud, too-flashy bar in Covent Garden. I dread bars and clubs like that– too many people, too much stimulation, so much so that you can’t even have a conversation– so that when I walked in, unfamiliar and underdressed, I felt out of place. But I hadn’t seen Alex since the morning after his break up, had hardly heard from him since, and I was worried about him.When I walked in and spotted him from across the bar, saw him laughing with his friends, I hardly recognized him. The sides of his hair were slicked back, the front falling across his forehead, his new quiff coming undone. And he was dressed in a t-shirt that had the sleeves cut off in the uncharacteristic August heatwave, revealing his beautiful shoulders and arms. My tongue practically fell into the back of my throat, my stomach dropping from my body all together.I had gotten pretty good at squashing any sexual attraction I felt toward Alex over the years, the sad pang of just loving him usually the only thing left behind. But seeing him like this? I felt a lurch in my stomach that was not entirely platonic.“How’s Major Tom?”I smile against the rim of my glass, about to take a sip, pulled back into the pub. I had almost forgotten Alex’s old nickname for my dad– an old Bowie reference that stuck when we were probably 13. “He’s good,” I say, and I take a drink.“I’m ‘opin’ to get ‘ome this weekend,” he says, and I think he means L.A. “If you want to come and visit the old ‘aunts with me.”Ah, High Green.“Yeah,” I’m nearly at the bottom of my glass, only a bit of vodka mingling with the ice now. “Definitely.”“That is,” he smirks, “if you’re not too busy being a successful editor.”Luckily, the vodka soda is beginning to make my head go fuzzy, and I don’t even react to his words. Sometimes drinking makes the guilt eat me alive, and I cry for what I’ve lost with Alex. Other times, it makes me a stone, cold sociopath.“I think I’ll manage,” I say easily, just as the waiter drops off our food and we order another round.“When’s your best selling novel going to come out, then?”I roll my eyes. “Once it’s written?”“Come on,” he urges. “You ‘aven’t written anything in all this time?”
“It doesn’t come so easily for all of us, Alexander,” I reply tartly, making him laugh and shake his head. “Besides, I have a

day job

– it makes things a little difficult.”

No need to elaborate on what that day job

is

.
“You used to write all the time when we were kids,” he goes on, after a bite of battered cod. “It makes me proper sad to think you’ve stopped.”
“I haven’t

stopped

,” I return, because it’s the truth. “I just haven’t written anything worth publishing.”
“Can I read something?”I groan.“What?” he challenges me, laughing. “You used to let me read your stories.”“That was when I had no shame, Al.”He gives a bark of a laugh and continues, “How many shit songs have I shown you– that haven’t seen the light of day?”He means in recent years– scraps of unfinished songs over the phone, sometimes left on my voicemail– and he’s right.“Maybe,” I give in. “Soon.”He gives me a satisfied grin as our second round of drinks arrives. 
We get proper pissed.
Several vodka sodas at the pub, and then warm whiskey after the cab ride back to his place, on the floor of his rented living room. And the room is spinning– I haven’t been this pissed in a long time– but Alex can still stand, walk upright, and he goes over to the record player and puts on The Strokes’ “Is This It”.

Can’t you see I’m trying– I don’t even like it– I just lied to– Get to your apartment

“D’you remember High Green?” he asks me, practically falling back down onto the floor next to me, our backs leaning against the couch side by side.
I laugh, and ask, “How drunk

are

you?”

“I mean,

us

in High Green,” he amends, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and taking a drag.
“I see we’re not using glasses anymore?” I slur, gesturing at him. “Of course I remember our entire adolescence. Do you?”
“I think about it all the time,” he says, leaning his head back and looking up at the ceiling. “I miss it.”

A long beat of silence passes between us and I take a sip of whiskey, then finally say, “Me too.”

Now I’m staying– There just for a while– I can’t think ‘cause– I’m just way too tired

“Do you remember when this album came out?” he asks, his words slurred and heavy, after we’ve listened to more of the song, playing on vinyl across the room, picking his head up to meet my eyes again.My skin catches fire briefly, but I stamp it down. I can’t listen to this album– The Strokes, really– without thinking about the summer it came out.“Yeah,” I whisper, looking into my whiskey to see I’ve finished a whole other glass without even realizing it.“Do you remember when we lost our virginity to it?”His voice is a whisper in the low light of the room, and my whole body is electric with his words– the memory of it– and I meet his gaze, go hot from the way he’s staring at me, placing his hand on my leg and leaning towards me.When he closes the distance between us and kisses me against the couch, I think I might fall apart from the gentleness of it– try not to think about how bloody drunk we both are.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2001

Drinking has become my new favorite thing to do. I mean

proper

drinking– drinking to get

pissed

– and the summer before we go into our last year at Stocksbridge, at age 16, getting pissed on the weekends has become our new hobby. Every weekend– and some weeknights– Alex, Matt, and I go out in Sheffield with our friends from school, go round to someone’s house, sit in the park, and drink until we’re shit-faced.

Before age fourteen I hadn’t touched a sip of alcohol. I was too straight-laced, too anxious, too reserved. But at Nicole Bellam’s 14th birthday party, in her parents’ basement, everyone was passing around a bottle of wine and I just thought “why not?” And I liked the way it made me calmer, made me laugh more, made me feel easy and light.

But the last Stocksbridge summer has become the summer of experimentation. Each weekend I try different types of alcohol if we can get them, see how the buzz differs from one drink to the other, see how silly and funny things can seem the more I drink, how much more easily the words and feelings can flow out of me– how little I can care about Alex not liking me the way I like him, or that my mum hasn’t called or emailed since my birthday

last

year.

And it’s my birthday today. August 4th.

I’m sixteen, and I’m feeling shit. Dad made me a cake for breakfast, got me lots of lovely presents– all of my friends too– but Mum never called at all. Didn’t even send a meaningless, obligatory email. Even after she first left for Spain, she would call or write for my birthday and Christmas at least. But there was nothing on Christmas this year, and nothing today. And I know she’s still

alive

, because Aunty Judith would have told us if she wasn’t, so she just must not care anymore.

Though, I guess she hasn’t cared for a long time now, because she’s not
here
.

But I don’t care about that– because we’re all drinking beers and smoking cigarettes at Kyle Foley’s, while his parents are away in Brighton, their sound system playing the Strokes’ new album at top volume. The house is full of kids from Stocksbridge, and it’s getting loud and stuffy and unbearable, and I’m too drunk to linger.

I wander upstairs, because this is a thing I’ve started to do when I get drunk enough– I wander off on my own, find solitude, quiet, sit or walk until someone comes and finds me or I make it home on my own.

Alex finds me sitting in the guest bedroom on the bed, the room twirling around me in a pinwheel in the dark, thinking about Barcelona.

“What you doin’?” he asks, sitting on the bed across from me, and I can hear he’s just as pissed as I am.

I shrug. “Thinking.”

“What about?”

I shake my head, I don’t want to talk about it, and for some reason– to my horror– tears are pooling in my eyes.

Alex takes my hand drunkenly, says, “‘ey, what is it? It’s your birthday! You can’t be upset.”

I meet his eyes and smile, shake the melancholia away.

“Do you want to know something that will make you proper sick instead of sad?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just barrels on with a smirk, saying, “Matt shagged Lisa.”

This unseats me momentarily, and I’m grateful for it– to be pulled out of the Mediterranean Sea, away from thinking about my mum. “What?” I squawk.

“Yeah,” he says. “Last weekend. ‘E just told me.”

I think about Matt– Matt

Helders

, who I’ve known since age eleven– losing his virginity to his girlfriend of two months, and I’m speechless.

“Everyone’s doing it,” Alex shrugs, like it’s a fact that can’t be helped.

“We’re not doing it.”

I meant ‘at all’, but it sort of sounds like I mean we’re not doing it

together

, and my face burns for a moment. But Alex doesn’t notice, his drunken brain is cartwheeling behind his eyes, lost in thought.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

I’m suddenly deeply uncomfortable, my mother forgotten. Alex and I don’t talk about things like this– at least not as it pertains to us. Despite my continuous crush on him, I’ve made out and hooked up with other guys from school on our nights out, and I know he’s done quite a lot with at least one girl from the year below us. But I’ve only gathered that information from talk around school, jabs from Matt that are intended to embarrass Alex while we’re all together.

I shrug and say, “Someday,” and I’m sure my entire face is flushed and red, because I feel hot all over. “Do you?”

How do I say I want to have sex when it’s with someone I love? That I’d rather wait and be the odd man out in Stocksbridge, than do it with some random bloke who’s willing.

He nods, eyes meeting mine in a way that makes my stomach go tight and my mouth go dry. I swallow hard, wishing I had a drink with me, wishing I was older, more confident, more capable.

“We could do it,” he says.

“Yeah,” I joke, heart beating fast. “We just need to find a couple of willing slags.”

“No, I mean,” he goes on, looking alert, highly focused, but dazed with the alcohol fog in his bleary eyes. “We could just do it together.”

It feels like the bed is out from underneath me from the way my stomach drops, and I stare at him, mouth agape, before asking, “Have you gone mad, Alex?”

Because I like him– have had a painful crush on my best friend for years now– but what is he

talking about

?

He tries to drunkenly justify himself by saying: “Why not, Lils? We could just do it to try it– We’re not kids, I think we know what we’re doing here.”

“That’s not how it works, Alex,” I say, trying to pretend to laugh it off, make fun of him.

“We’re friends,” he goes on. “But it’s not like you’re not fit, Lily. Do you think it would really be so hard for us to try it?”

I don’t know how to tell him that it wouldn’t be difficult at all– that losing my virginity with him would be the only way I’d want to do it. My brain is too wrapped around the fact that he just called me fit.

“We don’t have to worry about the awkward stuff,” he continues. “And then we’ll know what it’s like and we don’t have to be the only virgins left before sixth form.”

His tone is earnest, and his brown eyes are drilling into my blue ones, and I convince myself that this is more than just a transaction– more than just a way to get losing our virginity out of the way. Maybe Alex actually wants to have sex with

me

.

The rush of blood is so fierce that I nod, a drunken beer punch to my writhing insides, and I say, “Okay.”

I fantasized a million times about kissing Alex. A million different ways and scenarios and feelings. But when he closes the space between us on the bed, it’s nothing like my daydreams. It’s clumsy, and tastes like beer, and we don’t know each other’s bodies– we don’t know

our own

bodies this drunk or young. But his lips are soft, his fluffy hair is scratching my face, and it’s

Alex

, and my chest feels warm from the thought of him, touching me.

Not long after we begin kissing, there’s a brief moment where I wonder about the condom in his wallet– wonder who he could have possibly been saving that for– but then he’s shaking, and he’s nervous, and this is our first time, so I lock my eyes on his and say his name, and he’s kissing me like he means it before we’re no longer virgins, before the sound of our breathing is louder than the Strokes downstairs.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

What Is And What Should Never Be

2014

Alex’s lips press harder against my own, his hand going to the back of my neck, fingers sliding against the roots of my hair. I’m drunk enough that I let myself enjoy it for a moment, mouth opening slightly for his tongue. There’s something so familiar about this– but so deliciously different– that I want to sink into it like a bath. But the Strokes are still playing in the background,

Can’t you see I’m trying– I don’t even like it– I just lied to– Get to your apartment,

and I’m so drunk the room feels warped, and I pull away abruptly, standing up so quickly I think my brain might detach from my spine for a moment.
Without a word, I take my empty glass– still clutched in my hand– into the kitchen and put it in the empty sink. As if this is a perfectly logical thing to do following that kiss.
When I turn around, Alex is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and I don’t know what to say. My heart is pounding a million miles a minute, and I’m thinking of how sad I was, wanting him for so many years in Sheffield, and how I want this so badly

now

, but not like this. Not drunk, and sloppy, and when it probably doesn’t mean what I want it to mean.
“Alex,” I walk to him, about a foot away, and I’m about to ask him what we’re doing– tell him that he’s proper pissed– but then he’s closing the space between us, his hands on my waist, pulling me against him.“I’ve missed you, Lils.”My whole body is reacting to him– like a magnet drawn to his force– but I’m trying to keep my drunken brain in check, looking after my heart for the future.“Al,” I finally get out. “What are you doing?”“Old habits die hard,” he whispers with a little smirk, and he’s kissing me again, fervently, and when my mouth opens for his tongue– almost like my body is going against my brain– I’m too drunk to fight with the fact that I should pull away. So, I give in, melt against him like putty, delirious, falling into what feels natural.But this is so different from before– so different from when we were teenagers– and the spark engulfs us in fire. And maybe it’s all because we’re drunk, but I try to savor it anyway– try to put everything in slow motion– except Alex’s hands are cupping my ass, and his body is pressed tightly against mine, and I feel like I might shake apart from wanting him.“Alex,” I pull away breathlessly, hands clutching fistfuls of his clean, white shirt.“Come to the bedroom,” he says, almost against my lips, and his eyes are hooded, hungry.
I should say no, put a stop to this before something more happens, before I get hurt. But he’s already walking out of the kitchen, towards the stairs with my hand in his, and I already miss his body on mine.

So–

fucking hell

– I follow him.
His lips crash against mine in the doorway of the bedroom, hands already pulling at my shirt. I could be sixteen, clumsy, hungry, desperately in love with him– for how familiar it is– but then his mouth is descending on my breasts, on the skin above my bra, and I’m breathless because this is new.My skin feels electric underneath his lips and tongue, toes curling in tingling anticipation, and his big doe eyes are swimming in my brain, making me wish I was sober for this.
We tumble onto the bed together, and his lips are on mine once more, fingers working at the button of my jeans as I clutch desperately at his hair. The Strokes are still playing downstairs, and I feel sixteen, but so different, and fucking

hell

I wish I was sober.

I wanna steal your innocence– To me, my life, it don’t make any sense– These strange manners, I loved ‘em so– Why won’t you wear your new trench coat?

He slips a hand inside the waistband of my jeans, fingers fluttering downward, rubbing me gently. It’s so simple, so easy, but I think I might come undone from it, from the feel of his lips on my neck, along my jawline as his fingers find a rhythm that he didn’t know at sixteen. I bite down on my lip hard, trying not to make a sound, but the heat is building where he touches me, and I’m arching against his hand, whole body blazing, and I can’t help the whimper that escapes.
“Oh, fuck, Lily,” he groans into my ear, making chills rise up all over my body, and his fingers are perfect, work my clit until I

am

coming undone, the vibrations of an orgasm washing over me, Alex's eyes swimming in my mind, peeking me into a spasm that makes me cry out, mouth buried in the crook of his neck. 
He’s kneeling, pulling my jeans and underwear off in one swift movement, and I push at his shirt, help him pull it off, undo his belt.Sixteen year old Alex was never so attentive– never so good at what he was doing– and I’m desperate for more of him, to taste more of this.I push his jeans and boxers off, and he meets my eyes, hovering above me, and his lips are on mine– insistent and feverish– before he’s saying, “God, you’re beautiful.”
I can't help but whimper again when he’s inside of me, because it’s so impossibly good– better than I remembered, better than I could have ever

imagined–

and his breath is hot in my ear, making my head spin.

He moves slowly, teasing me, controlled, and I try to bite back the moan that comes up my throat, but his eyes are on mine again, and they’re so dark– burning with something I’ve never seen from him before– that I have to clutch the blankets underneath me to keep from falling apart.
Taking both of my wrists, he pins them above my head, into the mattress, and he’s thrusting harder, gazing at me, hair falling into his eyes, and the pressure is so perfect, the heat climbing so quickly, that I know I’m going to come again– that he’s going to unravel me once more, and it's like he's a man I've never even known.“Alex,” I say once, sounding very much like I’m begging for something.And he releases one of my wrists, slips a hand between us, fingers finding my clit, and it only takes a moment before I’m moaning deep in my throat, the orgasm pitching from all the places he touches me, sending me spiraling, warm pleasure climbing, releasing, making me shake.He watches me, eyes never leaving my spasming body, and he thrusts harder with me, sending himself into a shudder of rising curses, slurred words, until he pulls out at the last moment, collapsing against me, groaning so wildly that I feel hot all over again.

It’s hard to explain– I said the right things– But act the wrong way– I like it right here

My head is spinning once we recover, the music playing through the floor from the record player still, and we’re both breathing heavily. We don’t say a thing as we lay there, but Alex pulls my body to him, naked, hot skin against hot skin, and we drift off, drunk and content. 
I wake up with a headache like a meat cleaver to the frontal lobe.
When I pry my eyes open and look around, the panic shoves my hangover aside and I sit up too quickly, breathless.Alex is sleeping beside me, and I’m in his bed, and we’re both totally naked.Last night comes crashing into my brain like a whiskey tidal wave, and I feel momentarily like I’m going to throw up– or smile– but then I catch sight of the clock on the nightstand.“Fuck!” I swear loudly, before I can stop myself, and I find my clothes scattered around the floor, pull them on haphazardly as I make a mad dash for the door.Downstairs I find my phone, and I see I have about a dozen missed calls and texts from Rosie. I ring her back, heart pounding as I begin to pull my shoes on.“What in the actual fuck, babe?” she hisses into the phone when she answers, and I can tell she’s already on our rounds, and I’m very, very late for work.“Rosie, I’m so sorry– I’m–”“Don’t worry,” she cuts me off. “I told Paul you called me in the middle of the night to tell me you was sick– If ‘e asks, you ate some bad shrimp on Brick Lane, love.”I could kiss Rosie, I love her so much.“Please tell me you abandoned me because you was getting shagged senseless all night and morning.”My silence is enough for her.
“Oh my god,” she nearly cries. “I

knew

it! Fuckin’,

yes

!”
A noise behind me makes me turn, and Alex’s sleepy figure, in t-shirt and sweats, is coming into the living room. He looks rumpled, half awake, his hair a wild mess and his eyes half mast with sleep. But he’s looking at me, worried, and I need to end this phone call.“Thank you, Rosie,” I say, trying to sound less harried, more professional. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”“Oh my god,” she says again. “Did ‘e just walk in? ‘Ow big is ‘e? Babe, I want details–”I end the call before she can continue, and then turn and face Alex.My heart is suddenly pounding, and my mouth has gone dry, but I meet his eyes– try to gauge how he’s feeling.“All right?” he asks.“Yeah,” I reply. “Just work.”We’re silent for a long moment, and I can tell he remembers– because we wouldn’t be this awkward and uncomfortable if we both didn’t remember.I say his name, at the same moment he says mine. And we both pause.“About last night,” he says, after I remain silent. “I don’t–”“It’s okay,” I cut him off, because he looks like he’s about to apologize. “Don’t worry about it.”“I was pissed,” he goes on, looking slightly lost. “I don’t know–”“Me too.”Another stretch of silence, where Alex stares, considers me, and then comes over to me, “Look, Lily, I just– I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.”“Don’t be,” I say, but my heart hurts in my chest, as if I was expecting him to want a relationship or something after this– hoping for something without even realizing it– after all this fucking time. “It was a mistake. We’re friends, remember? We know how to bounce back after a bit of shagging.”He nods, smiles almost sadly.He looks like he’s about to say something else, but I don’t think I can take it, so I speak first, grabbing my purse and coat, pulling it on.“I’ve got to run,” I say. “I’m late for work.”It’s a lie, because I can’t go to work now, but I need to get the fuck out of here– get my head on straight.“Right,” he clears his throat, looking slightly more awake. “I’ll call you, yeah? I’ll drive us down to Sheffield on the weekend?”I nod, and call, “Brilliant. I’ll see you then!” as I make a beeline for the door.Outside, walking down the sidewalk in the frigid morning air, I yank my headphones out of my bag and shove them into my ears. I need some music to think this through properly, to adjust to what just happened, to move on– even though I’m feeling a bloody, frustrated mess.Scrolling through my music, I’m craving something real– something with dirt, something that I can take hold of and sink my teeth into. As I’m nearing the tube station, I put on Led Zeppelin, shift it to top volume. And it makes my head absolutely throb against my hangover, but it feels right somehow, and it keeps me from crying.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2002

It’s been almost a whole year of Alex and I fooling around.

We didn’t mean for it to happen. We didn’t even talk about losing our virginity for weeks after that night. So I acted like everything was normal, though I was frantic inside, and then we were back at Stocksbridge in the autumn, and things were back to normal, so I let it go, tried to forget it. Except Matt went to London with his parents the last weekend of September, and Alex and I were alone in his bedroom, with his parents downstairs, and I was making him listen to the new Wilco album that was streaming online.

One minute we were sitting on his bed, backs leaned against the wall, listening to the music and talking about whether or not we wanted to find beer, and the next he was kissing me. I didn’t stop him, thrilled in the fact that he was doing this sober, and when he leaned me back into his pillows, I thought I had died and gone to heaven, that he finally felt the same way.

But, nothing changed after that. Except that, occasionally, randomly, we would hook up. There wasn’t a conversation about how we felt– there wasn’t even a conversation about what we were

doing
–

it just happened. No one knew– not Matt, or any of our other friends– and it was a weird, shared secret we didn’t discuss. And while I thought about trying to bring it up– to

talk

about it with him– I was having too much fun to risk it. I liked Alex, of course, and it was fun to have someone I actually liked to disappear with at a house party just to make out– who went up my skirt after school, in the middle of the afternoon, on my childhood bed, while we attempted to do homework.

And he was acting more like my boyfriend– texting me all day, flirting with me, playing the guitar for me and showing me the songs he had written. He was sneaking into my bedroom at night just to spoon and talk about music. He was reading my writing, and watching movies with me and Dad, holding hands under tables and jackets, so no one could see, and I thought everything was falling into place.

It was innocent, and hormonal, and felt totally natural. So much so, that part of me hoped it would turn into something more– like one day he would hold my hand while we were out with our friends, and suddenly we would be dating. There was this thought that, maybe, one day  soon, he would just tell me he loved me, because we already fit together so well in every other way. So, why not?

That’s why I’m confused and hurt and feeling sick when I see Alex walk into a house party in June– one where I’ve already had too many shots with Matt and Jamie– with Melanie Legare. He doesn’t say hi to me right away, and I watch them mingling like a couple, his arm going around her, her lips landing on his cheek after he gets her a drink.

And I push my way through the crowd, into the empty back garden, and I throw up into the rose bushes, the night cold and dark around me, feeling my heart break in a way I never thought possible.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

2014

Alex picks me up on Saturday morning, in a shiny black Range Rover, with hot coffee. I suck it down gratefully as he navigates his way out of London, through a cold, steady rain. The Rolling Stones play quietly through the space of the car, and I look over at Alex while he drives, his eyes trained on the road. He looks handsome in his navy peacoat and dark jeans, aviator sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his hair perfectly gelled and filling up the car with a piny, masculine scent. He looks unbothered, confident, and I can tell he has properly moved on from our sleeping together.Which is fine, because I have too.
I’m an adult now. I’ve been through this before– have fully accepted that Alex and I have a friendship that is unconventional, and deep, and different, but it’s

just

a friendship. Sex– now, or back when we were sixteen– doesn’t change that, and it probably never will. And when I didn’t hear from Alex during the week, except to discuss our plans to go home for the weekend, I cemented my resolve against any hope or romantic notions.
It was just sex– a night of drunken mistakes. Nothing more.We had a three hour drive ahead of us, so when we were on the M1, I finally brought up Arielle.“What happened?” I ask. “I know you said it weren’t right, but how did it happen?”He pauses before speaking, the windshield wipers filling the silence before he says: “When we were in L.A. for the tour in December things were different. We ‘ad been apart for so long and ‘ad fought over the phone for such stupid things for weeks before’and– it just didn’t feel right. But we tried to make the best of it for a few days, until we ‘ad to leave for Arizona.”It sounds vaguely like his break up with Alexa– drifting apart because of his tour schedule, beginning to resent each other and fight because of the distance. I feel so bad for him, watch his eyes stuck on the road, unflinching.“It just got worse while we toured the States,” he goes on. “Goin’ days without even texting each other, gettin’ annoyed when we did speak– I couldn’t do it anymore. It was just like with Alexa, and it weren’t fair to her, or to me.”He sounds so sad, but looks so unaffected, that I can tell he’s trying to be strong– trying to seem physically unhurt. I put a hand on his arm, give it a squeeze.“I called her from Orlando, pissed out of my mind, and ended it,” he tells me. “I think she were relieved, to be honest.”“Oh, Alex, I’m sorry.”He shrugs.There’s silence between us, the soft sounds of “Wild Horses” mingling with the rattle of rain. I watch the wet, English countryside as it passes in a blur, and I wonder if Alex worries about finding someone to settle down with– if he ever worries his career and schedule will make it impossible to find someone who is suited to his life. But, looking at him in the beige exterior of the SUV, his hair and jaw and eyes so perfect, I can’t see him worrying about anything, and I wonder if he’s just not letting me in enough to see it.“So, what about you?” he asks, breaking the silence as he picks up his coffee from the cup holder.“What about me?”“Break any ‘earts lately?”“Not since summer,” I half-joke.“No lucky blokes on the horizon?”I shake my head.“Major Tom would scare ‘em away anyway,” he jokes, looking over to me with a cheeky smile.The opening vocals of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” fill the car, but it’s not until the soft guitar starts that Alex speaks again.“‘Ave you ‘eard anything from your mum?”“Nope,” my voice is colder, harsher, more caustic than I want it to be, but I can’t help it– my whole body is already on edge just thinking about her.“Fuck, Lils,” he says. “When was the last time?”“My fifteenth birthday.”“Is she alive?”“Dad says her sister would tell us if she wasn’t,” I reply. “But does it really matter anyway?”“Lils–”“I never knew her– even when she was in my life,” I cut across him, sounding angrier than I am, directed at him when I know it shouldn’t be. “So it hardly matters.”I focus on Mick Jagger’s voice in the dip of silence that follows, feeling cold, pulling my jumper tightly around me.“You know what I’ve always said, Lils,” Alex says, hand on my knee, giving it a squeeze. “It’s ‘er loss. A million times over.”He keeps his hand on my knee, warm and comforting, and he gives me the sweetest smile as the M1 continues to pass below us. 
Alex and I made plans to get a drink at the Fat Cat that night, after separating to spend some time with our parents. But he doesn’t just drop me off at home when we get to High Green, he parks and insists on coming in to say hello to Dad.
“Major Tom,” Alex says, as soon as Dad bounds into the living room from the kitchen, upon hearing the front door open.Dad’s ruddy face creases in a huge smile, and he goes straight for Alex, shakes his hand, pulls him in for a hug.“Look what the bloody cat dragged in,” he says, holding Alex at arm’s length to look him up and down. “Never seen you so cleaned up, Aladdin.”
The childhood nicknames make me roll my eyes and laugh as Dad finally turns to give me– his own

daughter–

a hug.
“How’s Lala Land?” Dad goes on. “How’s the music? Saw you on the Brit Awards!”Alex meets my eyes for a moment, waiting.“Bit of a wanky speech, weren’t it?”I burst out laughing, as Alex pulls a face at Dad’s critique.“Told you,” I say to him.“You lot keep me so ‘umble,” he says, clapping Dad on the back with a grin.“Stay for lunch,” Dad says. “I’ve got jacket potatoes– plenty to go round.”“I would, but Mum and Dad are waiting,” Alex returns. “Sunday roast tomorrow before we leave? Come round to Mum and Dad’s– both of you.”“We will,” Dad agrees, grinning, and walks Alex out.When he comes back I’m already in the kitchen, carried in by the smell of the jacket potatoes in the oven.“You didn’t tell him then,” Dad says, putting on an oven mitt and pulling the potatoes out.“No,” I say, grabbing a soda from the refrigerator, grimacing.“How is he?”“Good,” I return, sitting at the kitchen table in my seat. “The same.”Dad’s blue eyes flick to mine, and he gives me a questioning look.“What?”“The same,” he says, getting plates out. “As in…?”
“Dad, I’m an adult– I’ve moved on.”
My face feels hot, thinking about how untrue this is– thinking about what happened at Alex’s townhouse just days ago.I can tell he doesn’t believe me– because he knows me better than anyone in the entire world– but he lets it go, and stuffs me with a delicious, stodgy lunch. 
Alex and I meet at the Fat Cat at 9, and it looks like time has stood still inside. The velvet booths are the same shade, the worn wooden bar unchanged. And the bartender, Ken, doesn’t look any older– and he remembers me, remembers my order and serves it before I can even ask.
I sit down by the fireplace, a warm fire roaring beside me, crackling and spitting, and making me feel more content than I’ve felt in a while. And when Alex walks in, snowflakes dotting his hair, he meets my eyes, and I feel the happiness run up my spine like a bolt of lightning.He sits across from me with his drink moments later, and says, “Ken remembered my drink.”“Me too,” I smile. “I haven’t been here in ages.”He looks around, his eyes alight with being home, and he takes a drink from his whiskey and soda.“How are your mum and dad?” I ask.“Good,” he replies, meeting my eyes and shedding his coat. “They asked about you– Mum is looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”I smile, thinking of Alex’s parents, their home. I remember the first time I went to Alex’s house at age eleven, how warm and cozy and welcoming everything was instantly. I remember his mum making us tea, giving us biscuits, asking me about London and Dad and my life. When she found out my mum had left, and Alex and I grew closer, she swiftly mothered me in the best way she could.It was Alex’s mum who cleaned my scraped knees when Dad was at work and Alex and I were playing rough in the garden. It was Alex’s mum who taught me how to braid my hair, her soft, careful fingers working my blonde curls, practically putting me to sleep with how gentle and comfortable it felt. It was Alex’s mum who bought me my first box of tampons at age thirteen– after I had left Matt and Alex in Alex’s bedroom to go downstairs to where she stood washing up in the kitchen. I was a gasping, panicky mess, and she was so matter of fact, so sweet and helpful. She even lied to Alex and Matt and told them she was popping to the shop for some things for dinner, and she was going to drag me along for company. But in reality, she bought me tampons and pads, and gave me a no-nonsense lesson on feminine hygiene in the car on the way back.“What are you laughing about?” Alex asks over his drink.I shake my head, realizing I’ve begun to laugh to myself, and say, “I’m just thinking about your mum– everything she did for me. She lied to you for me, you know?”“She did not,” he insists, already laughing himself.“She did,” I nod, sipping my drink, feeling so warm– buzzing already from the alcohol. “When I got my first period.”Alex grimaces. “That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll let that one go, then.”“And do you remember when she yelled at you and Matt when you kept burping in front of me?” I laugh. “She said, ‘Do I have to remind you, that you’re in the presence of a lady?’”
Alex laughs, shaking his head, “Little did she know ‘ow

wrong

she were.”
I reach across the table and pinch his arm, and he jumps back, laughing.We reminisce for hours at the Fat Cat, talking and laughing, shocking each other with how much we remember, how embarrassing and wonderful and lovely our adolescence was. And we drink a lot, the alcohol making our tongues go loose and our eyes go starry as we grow warmer, more sentimental, nostalgia almost as intoxicating as the liquor. So much so, that we lose track of time. We’re pulled from our reverie, our giant smiles, by the last call of the night.Too pissed to drive, we walk home in the middle of the night, under an opaque sky. It’s snowed lightly for hours, and Sheffield is dusted with white– big, fat flakes now falling all around us. We’re both too drunk to be cold though, and we walk lazily through the dark, quiet streets, enchanted by streetlights and the flakes dotting our eyelashes.When we cut through the park across from my house– our front light visible from where we’re walking– Alex grabs my hand and pulls me to him suddenly.His movements are loose, and his breath sharp with alcohol, but his arms are around me and he’s warm.I don’t say anything, but I meet his eyes, my head spinning, and he smiles before he leans in and kisses me.His lips are soft and sweet against mine, gentle, and the kiss is almost chaste. But then he’s pressing himself closer to me, and I can feel he wants more as his mouth opens, tongue working intently to find my own.When his cold hands find their way up my coat, onto my bare stomach, it snaps me back into reality, and I pull away.“Alex,” I say, our bodies still pressed together, lips only a few inches apart. “We shouldn’t.”He looks dazed, but I can see reality slipping back into his eyes in increments.“The other night was a mistake,” I whisper, and I don’t know why. “Remember?”He nods, and I can see regret work itself apart on his face, until he’s extricating himself from me, taking hold of my hand in his and walking me the rest of the way home, and I want to kick myself for being rational.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

1999

I check the clock on the gym wall, begging for the hands to move faster, feeling impatient and annoyed. My stupid, purple dress is feeling tight and unbearable, the hairspray in my curls itchy and overdone. All of a sudden, I want nothing more than to get home, take off this ridiculous, bloody outfit, and crawl into my own bed and be alone. Maybe turn up Radiohead at top volume. But the dance doesn’t end for another ten minutes, and everyone around me is irritating and immature, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

Why can’t I breathe? Why is my chest so tight?

My eyes land on Alex and Vanessa once more, dancing awkwardly– though very close now– across the dancefloor, and the stupid, swirling blue lights and the awful Westlife song are making me want to tear my hair out. For some reason, it’s hard for me to tear my gaze away from my best friend– though his stupid face is inexplicably annoying me more than anything else– but I finally manage to, and I push my way into the girls’ toilet.

There’s a gaggle of girls in front of the mirrors, with their eyeliner and blusher and lip gloss, so I skirt around them and lock myself in a stall, lean back against the wall and squeeze my arms around myself.

I force myself to take in a couple gulps of air, but my vision seems blurry, and I realize my eyes are burning and– I’m

crying

.

My mum springs to mind without warning, and it makes me swallow back the tears– blink furiously so they can’t come.

The last time I felt like this– panicked, wretched, emotionally out of control– was the day she left. It began with the sight of her things at the top of the stairs when Dad brought me home from school. It cascaded down the back of my throat when I saw Dad start crying at her words, as he physically tried to keep her from walking out the door, begging. I was spinning in the center of my mind, pinwheeling into a black hole of anger and panic, feeling like I could throw a tantrum or be sick from the unfairness of it all.

That’s sort of how I feel now– like I could claw off my own skin to stop it feeling this unbidden pain, this unexplained, wretched irritation.

Someone’s knocking at the stall door, so I force myself to shake it off, pretend to flush the toilet, and go back out.

To my relief, the lights are back up in the gym, the music over, and I find Alex waiting for me by the door to the car park alone. I feel a moment of ease, and I fall into step beside him as we go outside to find Dad waiting for us, parked in the line of other parents.

“Did you lot ‘ave fun?” Dad asks as we climb into the car.

The night

was

fun, I remember, before Alex went to dance. We ate stupid finger foods, and drank soda, and made fun of the music, and everyone’s clothes. We talked through a playlist of our own– the soundtrack we would create for the school dance if it were up to us. We even put in some slow dancing songs. And it was fun, it was like any other Friday night, except we were dressed up and laughing about Matt trying to dance with a girl in the year above us. But then Vanessa’s friend came over, and Alex was

blushing

, and then he and Vanessa were dancing and my chest felt like I was wearing a Victorian-era corset.

“Yeah,” Alex replies for both of us.

“Did you dance?”

They keep going back and forth as Dad navigates his way to the Turners’ in the dark, talking about the music, and the dancing, and our teachers, but I can’t quit puzzling over how I feel.

Was it Vanessa? We’re not mates, but I don’t have a

problem

with her.

“Not one Radiohead song,” Alex is saying, and Dad is pretend gasping.

Is it Alex?

It doesn’t make any sense.

My eyebrows are still pulled together in confusion by the time Dad stops at Alex’s, and I finally pull myself from the sludge of my brain to say goodbye as he’s climbing out. I watch him walk up the drive, his shoulders bent in his suit jacket, in the dark, the familiar, messy back of his brown haired head bobbing towards the front door.

I remember his arms slung around Vanessa and their nervous smiles, as he’s disappearing inside, and when Dad is pulling away toward home I feel breathless– like I honestly might choke or be sick all over the windshield.

It’s Alex.

I

fancy

Alex.

The thought feels like coming home, but also like stepping off of a cliff, and I don’t know what to do with it.

I’m silent for the rest of the ride, worried I might actually be sick if I even open my mouth.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

A Lack of Understanding

2014

Dad and I get to the Turners’ for Sunday roast around 5, and the house already smells mouth-watering. I can smell the roast chicken and gravy, the carrots simmering in a butter sauce, the fresh Yorkshire pudding, and I’m transported back to the Sundays that Dad worked and Mrs. Turner insisted I come over for dinner. Alex and I would watch a movie, from tea time to dinner time– whatever was on the telly, or whatever we could rent from the video shop– and then we would talk music, and television, and school, and laugh ourselves silly with Alex’s parents over dinner. Afterward we would play a board game, or cards, or watch old VHS tapes of

Doctor Who

, and sometimes Dad would come round to pry me off the Turners’ couch when he got done with work, and I was passed out on their throw pillows.
Mrs. Turner gives me a bone-crushing hug when she answers the door, and then Mr. Turner practically picks me up off my feet himself. They usher us in, bring us drinks in the lounge, where Mr. Turner puts on the Carpenters. And while Karen sings about rainy days and Mondays, Alex comes downstairs in jeans and a t-shirt, rumpled and casual, and I feel like a teenager again– like nothing has changed. Until things are very awkward between us, and last night creeps over my shoulder like some kind of sludge.I rejected him. He kissed me drunkenly, possibly wanted more. And now things are weird.Fuck.
Mr. Turner and Dad gabble away about football, politics, the crazy old lady down the lane, and I can’t think of anything but Alex’s hands up my shirt, against the hot skin of my stomach, and I feel my face flush. What is

wrong

with me?
He’s joined their conversation without a problem– doesn’t seem bothered, other than the fact that he’s not really talking to me, or acting like he usually would with me– and I wander into the kitchen to distract myself.“Can I help?” I ask Mrs. Turner desperately, setting my drink glass on the counter.“Of course, love,” she replies. “I’m nearly done– just finishing with these carrots. Would you mind setting the table?”I’ve done this a million times as a child at the Turners’, Alex grumbling that his mom was making us do chores when I was a guest, but I didn’t mind. Dad didn’t really force me to do anything around the house– I think he’s always liked the ritual of doing dishes and cooking and doing the wash, even when Mum was still around. The normalcy of chores– in a home where it didn’t sometimes feel normal because it was just me and Dad, and the ghost of mum and everything I was missing by not having her around– and the Turner home felt good to me.Mrs. Turner asks me about London, and I’m vague and cheery, and try to ignore the guilt that gnaws at my stomach. Sometimes it feels like lying to Alex’s parents is even harder than lying to him. He’s a famous rockstar– I’ve admitted that I’m ashamed when I compare myself to him– but the Turners have practically raised me, and I know they would support my leaving university, wouldn’t care what I do now, and I feel tangled and sick with the lie.And then when everyone’s sat around the table for dinner, and we’re all laughing about childhood memories and the early days of the Arctic Monkeys, I can’t help but feel painfully aware of the fact that Alex hasn’t even looked directly at me since he came downstairs. It’s a specific art form he’s worked out– this ability to sort of talk to me without looking directly at me, the poker face he’s got on– it would impress me if I wasn’t sort of anxious, and mostly fucking annoyed.Yeah, I rejected him. Has he never been rejected before? Does he not understand that I don’t want meaningless sex with my best friend anymore– that I’ve grown up?We have to leave before it’s too late– because it’s dark out, and it’s beginning to snow, and it’s a long ride to London. I leave Dad at the Turners’, pink cheeked with port, and laughing with Mr. Turner about the prime minister, and I give him a kiss, and both of Alex’s parents a hug and a kiss, before bundling up and getting into Alex’s car in the drive.We listen to early Radiohead for the whole ride, on the pitch black motorway, and we don’t say a thing. And for the first half of the ride, I’m trying to determine if maybe it’s a comfortable silence, or if Alex is just tired and not interested in making conversation, or if it’s awkward– if last night’s drunken kiss is what’s clogging up any chance of having any conversation at all now that we’re alone.When we reach London, hours later, I’ve firmly decided that it’s the latter.Alex pulls up to my flat and parks, turns the car off, and I feel nervous all of a sudden.“Can I come up?” he asks. “Can we talk?”
I nod, feeling as if I’m about to be broken up with– by someone who I’m not even in a

relationship

with– and get out, a hint of annoyance simmering under my skin, and I lead him upstairs.
Inside the flat, it’s dark and quiet. Tess isn’t home, so we sit on the sofa, and I break out some wine. I bring two glasses out as a courtesy, thinking that I’ll be fine if it’s really just for me, though Alex pours himself a heavy glass immediately.I don’t say anything– because he was the one that suggested we talk. Instead, I just stare at him, drink my wine, and wait.When all he does is sit and drink as well, I put on a Vaccines record and settle back into the throw pillows for a long wait.“Lily,” he finally says, when his lips have begun to turn dark from the wine. “I’m sorry about last night.”I take another sip from the glass, just so I have an excuse to wait for him to continue.“I was pissed and– feelin’ nostalgic,” he says. “And you– you just looked beautiful all night, in the park– I felt like a teenager or summat.”He meets my eyes finally– at the end of this whole bloody day– and my stomach turns to liquid, my heart hammering in my chest like a bird.“I don’t regret what ‘appened when you came over this week,” he says, his voice low and soft. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it every day since.”“Alex,” I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell if he’s telling me he has some kind of feelings for me, or if he’s just talking about the sex– just like the old days– but his hand is on my leg, and the way he’s looking at me is making me feel physically weak, and I don’t say anything more.
The thought enters my mind unbidden: I could be the one to do something here. I don’t have to wait for

him

.

The possibility feels heavy though– it takes a great effort to be the one to change my ways– like a giant boulder I have to consider pushing uphill. It takes tremendous force to not just follow his lead as always. But I’ve been doing that for years. I’ve been waiting, waiting for Alex to make the move, going along whenever he did, with

whatever

he did, and it’s gotten me absolutely nowhere. And he’s saying what I want to hear now, he’s looking at me in exactly the way I want him to.
So I take the lead for once, grab his neck with my free hand, and kiss him hard, and when his tongue slides between my lips immediately, I smile against his mouth, feeling content, feeling elated.We absently deposit our wine glasses on the coffee table, and he leans me back against the couch gently, hands roving slowly all over my body. His tongue slides against my own, body stretching out to press the length of mine, and I can’t help but arch my back to meet him, breathless.The way our bodies meet is almost instinctual. It’s like no time has passed since our teenage years, when we learned how to please ourselves whenever we got the chance. Somehow, the fire between us is ingrained– blooming from an inherent place– but it’s entirely new this time around. I felt it earlier this week, and I’m feeling it again. It all feels like deja vu, but Alex never touched me this way before– was never so careful, so passionate, so raw– and it scorches my body from toe to tip.He slips a knee between my legs, his thigh pressing against the heat of my jeans, and I bury my hands in the back of his thick hair, tugging desperately. I can taste the wine as he kisses me roughly, insistently, tongue and teeth and lips colliding against my own as I can feel him going hard against me. And when he pulls away briefly, breathing raggedly, his dazed eyes meeting my own, he looks like he could devour me whole, and I know I feel the same– can feel it in the pounding of my heart, in the tingling at the edges of my body.I pull his mouth to mine once more, just as his hands skim their way up my shirt, sliding against hot skin, feeling electric. When he runs a rough thumb against each nipple, under the material of my bra, I can’t help but release a sigh of pleasure, whispering his name as he sucks a path from ear to collarbone.I’m dizzy with want, so high from the rush of blood, that when I hear the key in the lock and the laughing at the door, it feels like I’m being doused in cold water. Alex is oblivious, so I have to push him into a sitting position.Tess must be pissed, because it sounds like she’s struggling with the lock, giggling loudly with at least two of her friends. I grab Alex’s arm and haul him into a sitting position, shove him toward my room. I close us in the dark just as Tess stumbles inside, talking loudly, wondering about the record player still going.“Lily?” she calls, but I don’t answer. I don’t want Tess to interrupt this moment anymore than she already has. I meet Alex’s eyes in the dark of the room, and he smirks, presses his body against mine once more, pinning me to the door.I can hear Tess shut the record player off, make her friends a drink, turn on the television, but Alex is insistent– won’t be deterred. His mouth is on my neck again, tongue and teeth working to taste me, force me undone, and my breath comes out in a huff. When he yanks my shirt off, he pulls me to the bed at the same time, eases me against the mattress, and I can see his eyes in the light coming through my window, dark and smoldering.“Alex,” I sigh, my brain nearly unable to wrap itself around how much I want him right now, trying to work out if this is a bad idea or not.He’s smiling, though his eyes look like they could start a fire, and his fingers are working on the button of my jeans, and I couldnot care less if this is a bad idea.He peels my jeans off, and my skin feels hot as it becomes exposed, as his hands run the length of my thighs.The smallest touch, the most pointed, perfect attention, and I can feel the blood fizzing in my veins, exploding into the perfect pitch of heat. I can’t help but marvel at his attention to detail, at how careful and controlled he is– so different from the teenager rolling around on his childhood bed with me, both of us hormonal and inexperienced.“I want you, Lils,” he says, his breath hot and short against my ear, and he’s easing my underwear off, my whole body shivering with need.His fingers brush against me, make me arch against him against my will, and he licks his lips, gazing at me.“D’you want me?” he teases, so quiet, but so deep in his throat. I can faintly hear a laugh track from the TV in the living room, but the closeness of his mouth, his voice, his fingers is sending me far away from my own flat.“You know I do,” I scold, and he smiles before kissing me hard.His tongue is so intent that I’m shocked when he pulls his mouth from my own, dropping down to kiss the curve of my breast, down my stomach, nipping at the skin around my belly button. And I think my heart is going to careen out of my chest all together, because this is definitely not somewhere Alex and I have ever ventured before– in all of our adolescent experimentation, we were never this intimate.I’m shaking when he nudges my knees apart, smiling once before diving in, tongue plunging deep, smooth, making me fight the moan that climbs up my throat. He works me with firm strokes, responding to each sound and spasm and shiver, following my command. And as his fingers dig into my thighs, gripping me tightly while I shake apart, I can feel him hum against me in satisfaction, and the tight, hot current of pleasure spikes. I’m pinned to the bed by his touch, shuddering against the release of my own orgasm, letting out a faint cry against my attempt at control, and he doesn’t stop. I buck against him, riding out the waves of heat, until I collapse, delirious.He kisses his way back up my body, and I’m already reaching for his belt, heart picking up once more as he fumbles his way to get it undone.I crash my lips to his as he undoes his zipper, shoves his jeans down, out of the way, while I yank off his shirt.
“Lils,” he groans, his body finally stretching flush against my own, his hot skin scorching mine. “

Fuck

.”
Our tongues fight for control, and I can faintly taste myself on him, want all of him so badly it’s like my brain might short circuit. And then I feel his dick against me, hot, teasing, and I groan into his mouth, nails digging into the skin of his back.
“Alex,

please

,” I hiss, arching against him.
He slides into me slowly, and my eyes flutter closed, my head thrown back into the pillows.“Fuck,” he pulls back before he’s filling me up again, and I have to bite my lip to keep from shouting because it’s so good– I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good in my entire life.I wrap both of my arms around him, pulling him closer, and he thrusts into me, deeper and deeper, faster, until I’m panting into his ear, whispering his name, begging for more.“Oh, fuck, Lily,” he curses, and I can see he’s coming undone– have never seen him like this before. “You feel so good.”I’m unraveling, all of my ends disappearing as the heat rises once more. And I can tell by the way he’s whispering senselessly, pressed tightly against me, frenzied, that he’s unraveling too. And when I tighten and spasm, quaking and breathing like a wild thing, he’s coming too, and I’m sure I’ve never known anything so perfect in my entire life.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2007

I accept the maid’s job at the Mannerly Hotel because I think it’s going to be easy, and I’m bloody desperate for money. I swear up and down that it’s temporary– a way to continue to live in London with Tess, a friend from King’s College, a way to have nights to focus on my writing and finish a novel. It’s mindless, I tell myself. I can spin entire plot lines while I make beds, right?

Wrong.

By the end of my first week at the Mannerly, I’m absolutely wrecked. I’ve spent each day going home to my flat and sleeping off hours of bathroom scrubbing, stain lifting, garbage hauling. I’m subsisting on cheap, leftover takeaways and cigarettes– and liquor, when I get desperate. I haven’t written a single word, and I have to admit, I’m feeling depressed and hopeless– and seriously considering returning to Sheffield to live with Dad and pack it all in.

I’m changing out of my uniform in the locker room at the end of my first week, when my cleaning partner, Rosie, interrupts my thoughts.

“All right, love?”

I feel about ready to burst into tears– because what am I doing with my life? I dropped out of King’s College– for what? To become a maid? Fail at something else?

All I can manage is a shake of the head for Rosie.

“Why don’t you come ‘round mine?” she asks, once I’ve started to slip my shoes on. “We can have a cuppa– or a beer– and do each ovva’s nails or sumfin’.”

I look up and meet Rosie’s heavily lined, hazel eyes. I hadn’t considered her seriously since starting at the Mannerly, though we’ve been cleaning together all week, and I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time. She’s been so patient with me since I started, teaching me the ropes, cleaning up all of the things I miss without comment, talking and joking with me from the moment we met, making the time feel light and easy. And now she’s inviting me to her place, trying to cheer me up, trying to befriend me.

I feel bad for having overlooked her– for having not seen the potential in her friendship– too blinded by the fact that she was a thirty-something maid from South London.

God, I’m a prat.

“All right, thanks,” I agree, feeling lighter already.

As we leave the Mannerly for the tube, Rosie asks me where I’m from, and we talk about Sheffield, King’s College, my hopes of getting into writing. She tells me about her long-time boyfriend, who she lives with in a flat in Whitechapel, her sister and niece who live in Hoxley, her time at the Mannerly. We laugh about our supervisor, and the guests whose rooms we clean, and by the time we’ve reached her flat I realize just how lonely I’ve been lately.

Alex and Matt have been touring, working, running around London like the rockstars they are, my university friends are busy with school– with a world I’m no longer a part of– and Dad is miles away in Sheffield. It’s been weeks since I’ve had someone to talk and laugh with, and my muscles relax while Rosie sits me down in the tiny kitchen of her flat, swats away her enormous, ginger cat, and makes us a drink.

We agree on vodka soda– a mutual favorite– and she chatters away about Cheryl Tweedy while she acts as bartender.

My eyes wander her kitchen table, half-listening as I catch sight of a copy of the

Daily Mail

lying with her post.

It knocks the wind out of me when I see it.

“When Alex met Alexa: Arctic Monkeys singer hand-in-hand with Channel 4 star”

My mouth is dry and, to my horror, my heart has begun to pound. It’s not the fact that Alex has a girlfriend– though that pain curdles in my stomach as well– it’s that I had no idea. It’s that I’m finding out about my best friend’s love life from a magazine.

Rosie hands me a drink, scolds her cat, twitters on about her hair, but I can’t concentrate. I’m pulling the magazine towards me, reading with an impending sense of doom.

all over each other– Alex sneaked off to meet Alexa– holding hands– didn’t seem to care who saw– looked like they really care for each other

“All right?”

I shake my head, grab my drink and take a gulp, finding out just how generous Rosie is with her liquor.

Nearly two weeks after the article, I meet Alex for a drink– just the two of us– on a Wednesday night in Covent Garden. I’m nervous, so I get there early, just like old times– sit in a booth and trail my finger through the condensation on my glass. Though we’ve spoken several times over the past couple of weeks– short phone conversations, text messages, a few emails– Alex hasn’t said anything about Alexa Chung.

Somehow, I convince myself that maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was a one off. Maybe it’s already over. But I still can’t help the anxiety that tumbles with the vodka in my stomach while I wait, making me feel breathless.

And then when I see him– when he walks through the front door of the bar, before he even meets my eyes– I know it’s true. I don’t know how I know, but I know it for sure, and a ripchord is pulled in my chest, making pain flood my body and leaving me momentarily blinded.

I’m on autopilot when Alex reaches me with his drink, somehow moving without thought, hugging him, accepting his kiss on the cheek, numb.

“All right, Lils?”

I manage a smile and nod, ask him how he’s doing, but I’m thinking of his last girlfriend– his past girlfriends. It always hurt to find out about them, to meet them, but it was never a soul-crushing surprise. It was usually after weeks of a build up, where he talked about so-and-so and their time together, his intentions. It hurt, but I always struggled through successfully for the most part. The fact that this is a surprise hurts, yes, but there’s something else that makes it cut deeper than the others and I don’t know what it is.

He trails off from gabbling about work– something about Miles Kane– and I can see him bracing to talk about her, see him working himself up to finally tell me, and for some reason it compounds my pain.

It feels like someone else’s hand as I lift my drink to gulp from it, like someone else’s leg that is bouncing nervously under the table. I feel suspended in water, and moving too quickly, and I don’t understand why I’m having this kind of reaction when I knew this was coming– when he hasn’t even

said anything yet

– but it feels like someone has ripped a hole in the bottom of my guts, and everything has been sucked out of me.

“You know,” he says, and I finally realize too late that I might be having a panic attack– that I need to get away now– but I can’t move a muscle. “I’ve been meanin’ to tell you– I’ve started seein’ someone.”

Everything burns– my throat, my eyes, my chest– and I’m frozen in place, petrified I’m going to vomit.

“‘er name is Alexa,” he’s smiling, his eyes swimming, and my stomach hurts. “You might ‘ave seen ‘er on Channel 4– she’s great, Lils– You’ll love ‘er–”

“I’ve already seen her,” I say, the words coming out before I can push them back down, borne out of the toxic acid swirling in my abdomen. “In the

Daily Mail

.”

I genuinely can’t tell if my words come out sounding harsh and caustic, or jaunty and light, because I’ve lost all sense– can’t hear beyond the rushing of blood in my ears.

Alex stops, eyes unflinching on me, and I can’t read his expression.

“It’s only been a couple of weeks,” he says, looking into his drink. “I didn’t want to say summat until I knew for sure–”

“Knew what?”

“That we were goin’ to be together.”

So it’s official. It does mean something.

It shouldn’t hurt more than Johanna, or Melanie, or any girl he’s been interested in or hooked up with, but it does, and my brain’s hooked into ‘Why?’

“I want you to meet ‘er, Lils,” he’s saying. “She’s funny and smart and–”

I can’t hear him anymore. I know why it hurts more than anyone else. I’ve never heard him sound like this, look like this, feel so far away. He’s already head over heels for her. He’s already

gone

on this girl, whoever she is, and I’ve never seen him like this– not with anyone else, ever. I’ve never looked at him and felt like I was truly losing him to someone who could be his “soulmate”, “the one”, forever. And, while I haven’t even met this girl, I can already hear the songs he’s going to write about her, the life he’s going to share with her, and how I’m going to lose him.

“Lily?”

I realize I’m staring at him, eyes unfocused, feeling an immense pressure surround me. Without a word, I’m out of my seat, grabbing my coat and bag and pushing my way through the crowded floor, and onto the sidewalk outside.

I’m on the verge of gasping for breath when Alex is grabbing my arm nearly a block away, shouting my name, spinning me around.

“Lily– what– what is goin’ on?”

“I don’t know, Alex!” I shout back, shaking from the force of trying not to cry. “I don’t know, all right?”

He stares at me, and I can see him trying to read me– his familiar, brown eyes working me out, trying to peel me apart. We’ve always been honest with one another, have always shared everything, but ever since Kings College and the Arctic Monkeys things have changed. He can’t read me now, and though I’ve always wanted him to, I don’t now. Or maybe I do. Maybe I want him to figure out how much I desperately, fucking, bloody love him, so I don’t have to say anything. Maybe I want him to see it in my eyes and tell me that was all he needed, and that no one could replace me– that it was

me

along.

“What’s wrong, Lils?” his words are careful, slow, as if he’s afraid I’m going to go off again, as if he’s worried about how I might answer.

I see the hesitation in his eyes. I see the worry, and I can tell that he’s afraid I’m going to say exactly what I’m really feeling. He’s scared that I’m going to tell him I love him, irreparably damage our relationship, ruin what he’s just starting with Alexa Chung. He’s waiting for me to respond, as if expecting a bomb to go off, looking like he might be trembling himself, so I just shake my head.

“It’s nothing,” I finally say. “I’m sorry– I– It’s been a rough week and I– I was annoyed about finding out about your love life from the papers.”

The lie trips out like all the others, added to my tab, another black mark on my soul.

Alex looks like he doesn’t believe me, but if he doesn’t, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he closes the space between us and wraps his arms around me, an apology in his warmth, a bridge between our distance, and it takes everything in me not to sob straight into his familiar chest or crumble at his feet.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Love is a Laserquest

2014

I wake up the next morning with Alex’s body wrapped around me in my own bed, warm and solid. It’s not yet midmorning– the light outside my window gray and cold, the flat silent– and for a moment, I allow myself the luxury of enjoying the feeling of Alex’s arms around me, of his chest rising and falling in his sleep. I think back to all the times Alex and I have slept together– in the literal sense of the term– and I feel the same contentment as every other time, a kind of peace and comfort I hadn’t known since mum left and upended the foundation of my innocent life.The first time was just after we lost our virginity to one another– the summer where all of our boundaries blurred or fell away. That August– weeks after we had had sex, weeks before it seemed like it would ever happen again– Alex woke me up in the middle of the night, tapping at my bedroom window.I had to admit, I was surprised.It sort of felt like Alex had been avoiding spending any time with me alone since that fateful night in Kyle Foley’s guest bedroom, and it had been years since he had hauled himself onto our garage roof and to my window. He used to do it when we were young and wanted to finish a movie or listen to a record that we had been cut off from by curfew. So now at sixteen, after months of no word about what we had done, I couldn’t imagine what he had in mind when I saw his shaggy head behind my curtain at nearly one in the morning.
I opened the window, feeling the warm, summer air brush against my arms as I whispered, “Alex! What are you

doing

here?”

He climbed through the window, landing on my bed unsteadily, and I could tell he had been drinking. I tried not to be offended that I hadn’t been invited to wherever he had been, and then truly wasn’t, because he was in

my

bedroom at the end of his night.
“I can’t sleep,” he said, sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark, pulling his shoes off with clumsy movements.
“‘Ave you even tried?” I asked. “You’re

pissed

, Alex.”
He shrugged. “I was wiv the boys,” he slurred, crawling under the covers of my bed with his jeans and t-shirt on, snuggling against my pillow. “We’re going to start a band.”
“Oh yeah?” I snarked. “Lovely.”
“Come ‘ere,” he whispered, his sleepy, drunken eyes meeting mine as he reached out both arms for me.My heart sped up, and I hesitated. I didn’t know what this meant, I didn’t know what he wanted, but I knew I wanted to lie in his arms– more than I had ever wanted anything in my whole life.I crawled in with him, let him wrap his arms around me, bury his face in my neck and hair.“Alex,” I whispered after a long couple of minutes, thinking he might have fallen asleep. When he made a questioning sound, I asked, “Why are you here?”“I missed you, Lils.”His voice was tipsy, sleepy, murmured. I wanted to say that he had seen me the day before, that I was never that far away, but I was also too exhilarated to say a thing.
We fell asleep like that, though I was too keyed up for ages about being in Alex’s arms to even close my eyes. But when I did fall asleep, I felt perfectly content. And when Alex woke up and crawled out of my window in the early hours of the morning, kissing my cheek groggily before jamming his shoes on and crawling back out the way he came, I felt perfectly content still.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel that kind of content, peaceful, good again– though I know it won’t last. The anxiety, the worries, the nagging thoughts are barking at the fringes of my consciousness, but I try to push them away, deciding to lie in Alex’s arms without consequence a little bit longer.It’s a fruitless effort though, because I’m wondering what will happen next, what Alex will say when he wakes up, if this will be exactly like it was when we were teenagers. Inexplicably, I’m thinking about Alexa, Arielle, Johanna, Matt, Miles, Alex’s mum and dad. My brain feels like a projector, flipping slides so quickly I have to open my eyes and try to focus on something in my room.
Suddenly, Alex stirs, tightening his arms around me, humming into the skin behind my ear.
I glance at the time, and panic seizes my stomach, making me begin to slowly extricate myself from Alex’s arms.“‘Ey,” he whispers groggily, once I’m sat up on the edge of my bed. His hand goes to my lower back, “All right?”“Yeah,” I try to sound casual. For all of my bravado last night, I’m back to letting him make the move, defaulting to neutral until I know how this is going to play out. “I have to get ready for work.”It’s true, and the fact that I’m leaving to go clean a hotel, and Alex is currently in my bed thinking otherwise, is making my stomach flutter like a butterfly. Not to mention, I don’t know what is going to happen between us after last night.
“I’ll come with you,” he says, sitting up, making my heart practically stop all together. “Or, you know– I’ll drop you off– buy you a coffee on the way.”

“No,” is my abrupt reply, and my brain is turning a million miles a minute. I

want

Alex to drop me off at work– of course I want to have coffee with him, and take the tube with him, and walk down the quiet morning streets on my way to work, where maybe he’ll kiss me goodbye before leaving me for my publishing job. But I don’t

have

a publishing job. I’m going to the Mannerly Hotel to change pillow cases, and bleach showers, and he can’t know that. The guilt and disappointment feels like a lead boulder in my gut, but I don’t want him to misconstrue my refusal– don’t want him to think I don’t want his company. “No– You stay here. Go back to sleep, it’s cold out. Leave when you’re ready.”

I get up and feel another surge of anxiety as I realize I have to dress like I’m going to a publishing job, when I usually just throw on jeans or leggings and change into my uniform at the hotel. And I don’t bloody know what someone who works in publishing even

wears

.
Haphazardly, I grab a pair of black dress pants and a sweater.“Can I see you later?” Alex asks, just as I’m debating whether or not I should go to the loo to change. “We could grab dinner– Get a takeaway at mine.”
We had sex last night. He went

down on me

for the first time last night. Fuck it, I think, and  shimmy out of my t-shirt and shorts right in front of him, feeling somewhat exhilarated, and somewhat terrified. As I’m pulling my “work” clothes on, I look up to see him watching me.
“Yeah, all right,” I say. “I’ll ring you when I get out.”When I’m outside, I put my headphones in like usual for my commute, scroll through my music, shaking with jangled nerves and pent-up energy.I don’t know if it’s the guilt weighing me down, or the hopeful feeling that something different is actually beginning between Alex and I, but I scroll to the Arctic Monkeys.I’ve heard every song Alex and the band have put out– multiple times, of course– and some that they haven’t. I have copies of songs Alex has sent me in the middle of the night, that he has never shared with anyone else, and songs that he would kill me if I ever let see the light of day. But I don’t often listen to his music like I listen to The Strokes, or Radiohead. It’s different when you know the songwriter, when you know his voice personally, when you’re in love with him.Alex isn’t always very forthcoming with what the lyrics of his songs mean either– particularly when they were written during a relationship. For instance, he’s never told me that ‘Fire and the Thud’ is about Alexa, but I know it is. “The day after you stole my heart, everything I touched told me it would be better shared with you”? Come on. Ditto for ‘505’. I always assumed he wrote it when he was first with Alexa– figured it must have been a hotel room number when he was on tour, or they were jetsetting, as they so often did.And that’s the problem, right there. Whenever I listen to his music I try to work out the enigma that is Alex Turner, try to figure out the story he’s telling– who he is. I tell myself, “Well if he put it in a song it must be important, it must reveal who he is deep down.”I don’t want to try to figure out my best friend. He’s such a genius, it’s nearly impossible anyway.But right now, I indulge myself, and I put on ‘Love is a Laserquest’ while I walk to the tube, and I try not to work out the riddle of who he was he thinking about when he wrote it. 
“Babe, you been promoted or sumfin’?” Rosie asks, referring to my “office” outfit.
I can’t meet her eyes when I walk into the locker room. Unlike Alex, Rosie has always been able to read me like a book– and take me down a peg or two, give it to me straight, smack me silly when necessary– and I haven’t been completely honest with her either.There’s a beat of silence as I start to change into my uniform, and I know Rosie better than that, so I look up. She’s staring at me with that chuffed look she gets when she knows she’s right.
“You been shagged again, ‘aven’t you?”

I turn back to my locker, pulling on my uniform, not saying a word.

“Babe,” she says, sounding impressed. “If I was you, I’d be shoutin’ from the rooftops. That Alex Turner is

fit

.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” I shake my head, feeling the frustration and guilt in my stomach like a tangle of barbed wire.

She shrugs and shuts her own locker, takes out a cigarette and lights it for a smoke. “You grew up togevver, yeah? Sounds perfect to me.”

“It’s not perfect, Rosie,” I snap, suddenly overwhelmed.

I haven’t told her how I’ve been lying to Alex all these years. I haven’t told her about how ashamed I was– and still am– to be a maid, and how it feels to be unable to measure up to his rockstar status. I know, as a maid too, she would be hurt. She would take it personally. And I don’t know if she’s wrong to.

“What?” she counters. “Because you’ve fancied ‘im since you was thirteen, you think it’s not perfect? Because ‘e’s a bloody celebrity, you aren’t good enough?”

I shake my head. “Ro, it’s not–”

“Because let me tell you sumfin’, Lillian Davis–” she knows my full name is not actually Lillian, “–you are more than enough for

any

celebrity– even your Sheffield dreamboat Alex Turner. In fact, ‘e’d be

lucky

to ‘ave you.”
I do not deserve Rosie.I slump to the bench in front of my locker, deflated.
“Babe, what

is

it?”
I shake my head again, worried I might cry if I speak.It’s not like me– to be so emotional like this. For the most part, I’ve always been able to shove my feelings down, truly convince myself that everything is okay. With everything that happened with mum. With Alex. I hate that I’m suddenly a bubbling mess of bottomless feeling, uncontrollable and unpredictable. I hate that everything is so uncertain, that I’m tightrope-walking on all of these lies I’ve spun for myself. I hate who I’ve turned out to be– someone who doesn’t deserve Alex, or Rosie, or anything truly good.
No wonder I failed out of King’s College. It was foreshadowing karma– payback for all the ways I

would

fuck up in my life.

To my horror, I

do

start crying.

“

Fuck

, Lily,” Rosie says, and she gets up and sits beside me, puts an arm around me and squeezes me to her.
She smells familiar, like cigarette smoke and her high street perfume, and I let myself seek some comfort in her embrace. I contemplate telling her the truth now– about my lies to Alex, my shame, all the ways I’ve fucked myself– but I just can’t. Like all the other times I’ve come close to confession, the fear of the consequences keeps me reined in.“What’s all this, love?” she asks. “Did he throw you over or sumfin’?”I shake my head.
“Then what?” she asks, giving me a little shake. “Come on– it’s

me–

I’m ‘ere for you, ya twat.”

She manages to make me laugh despite everything.

“I’ve just–” my voice shakes as I speak. “I’ve just liked him for so long, Rosie. I’m worried it won’t work out. That’s all.”

It’s half true– and I never told her my “crush” on Alex went beyond sixth form, so it’s a start.

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning over to look into my eyes, stern. “I already told you– and I mean it– ‘e’d be lucky to ‘ave you. If ‘e’s shaggin’ you now, it must mean e’s comin’ to ‘is senses, yeah?”

She doesn’t know about all the shagging from our Sheffield days– all the sex that meant nothing apparently, because Alex always found his way to a girlfriend that wasn’t me.

But I nod, because I’m feeling too raw to get into it all with Rosie right now. Instead, I swipe at my face and sit up, straighten my apron and grab my shoes.

“Why don’t we go to the pub tonight?” she suggests, taking a drag from her cigarette again. “We could get pissed and you could sleep at mine– and then we’ll come into work tomorrow ‘ungover and moaning. It’ll be great!”
“I can’t,” I tell her, tying the laces on my trainers. “I told Alex I’d see him again.”
She raises both eyebrows and blows smoke out of the side of her mouth.

“‘E already wants to see you again tonight?” she smirks and shakes her head. “And you’re worried it won’t work out.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2007

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m hauling backpack and suitcase up the front walk of Dad’s house, skittering on the icy steps. Even though the Mannerly manager wasn’t pleased, I decided to take my holiday over Christmas, so I’m getting out of London until after New Year’s. I don’t have the money for a fancy holiday anywhere, so I’ll be spending the next week on Dad’s couch, in my old bed, watching DVDs, sleeping, and avoiding the

Daily Mail

.

“Bills!”

Dad comes onto the front step and grabs my things, ushers me into the warmth of the lounge. I haven’t been home since October– since Alex confirmed the Alexa rumors– and it’s the longest I’ve gone without seeing Dad. But I haven’t been able to get many days off to leave London, and I wasn’t sure how to face him– knew he would see through me and we’d have to talk about Alex. And now, as he immediately hands me wine and sits me down to a Christmas Eve curry, I know why I’ve stayed away– Dad makes me vulnerable, and I already fear I might crumble.

I gulp at the red wine, tuck into the curry, all while avoiding Dad’s eyes. He’s talking about Mrs. Next Door, and work, and something that went wrong with the toilet upstairs, and I know he can see right through me as he talks away comfortably.

I think he’s going to spare me by the time I reach the end of my first glass of wine though, but then he asks, “‘ow’s London then?”

“Fine.”

“And the new job?”

I make a face, pour myself another glass, shrug.

“And Alex?”

I look up and meet his gaze.

It’s not just the topic, it’s the softness in Dad’s crinkled eyes, the sympathy in them before I’ve even spoken. He knows, and he knows I’m hurting, and he’s already there for me.

I shake my head, because the wine is making my eyes burn with tears much too quickly for my liking.

“‘E’s fine,” I finally say.

“Lils.”

The tears are falling from the tone of his voice– the same tone he used when I broke after he said Mum wasn’t coming back, that we were moving to Sheffield– the tone he reserves for the moments he sees me as the vulnerable little girl that needs his protecting, when he knows he’s the one for the job and needs to be strong, but it hurts him to see me like this and he can’t help but let it show.

“Mrs. Turner told me about that Alexa Chung.”

A single sob escapes my mouth before I can stop it, and I cover my face in my hands.

Since our conversation in October, I’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding Alex. He’s been busy, I’ve been busy, and he’s been too loved up to notice anything might be amiss. We grabbed dinner once in November, and have texted and emailed since, and he’s told me about how things have been going with Alexa, and I’ve recovered enough to be the supportive best friend. I haven’t met her yet, but he’s said that he wants to plan a dinner.

And I’m not just saying that when I say that I’ve recovered. I haven’t cried, or moaned, or been wallowing in the fact that Alex has this girlfriend that he’s mad about. He seems over the moon, and I’m truly happy for him. I’ve done a bang up job of shoving my own feelings to the side, and being the adult– I’ve got loads of practice. It’s just that, Dad has the ability to knock down any wall I put up without even trying. And I would be lying if I said I wasn’t always going to be somewhat hurt– pretending to be okay– when seeing Alex with someone else.

“I’m fine,” I finally manage to get out from behind my hands. “It’s fine.”

“Lily.”

I move one hand and gulp from my wine, using the other to shield my wet eyes.

“I thought maybe you had moved on from this,” Dad says softly, kindly.

I shake my head, because there’s no use in pretending otherwise.

“Maybe it’s time you did?”

I pull my hand away and look at him through my tears. “Dad, I love him– and I don’t want to, it hurts too much! I don’t know what to do.”

Dad lets out a breath, before saying, “‘ave you ever told ‘im?”

I shake my head.

“Than of course ‘e’s going to ‘ave other girlfriends, Bills.”

“I know– I know.”

Dad is quiet for a long moment, takes a sip of his own wine, before saying, “Did you know I was seeing someone else when I met your mum?”

This makes me freeze in place. Dad hardly ever brings up Mum– and when he does, it’s to say that her sister has given us an update on her health or whereabouts, not to reminisce about when things were good.

He nods. “I was nearly engaged to a girl called Isabelle– from Manchester.”

“

What

?” I had no idea.

“A right smart girl I met at school,” he says. “Beautiful, curly ginger hair– these pale green eyes– a real stunner.”

I can’t help but laugh, shocked.

“But I met your mum through work, and we became great mates,” he says, looking into his wine for a moment. “We fit together in a way Isabelle and I didn’t– and it took that friendship with your mum to realize that.”

My stomach hurts suddenly– for my dad, for me, for the loss of my mum and how much she’s still hurting us.

“So, you never know Lils,” Dad says, trying to sound bright and cheery, but I can hear the pain behind his voice.

He misses Mum still.

“Dad,” I begin, feeling nervous, but needing to ask. “Why did Mum leave?”

He looks up from his wine, surprised, pained, and he presses his lips together for a second before answering: “Your mum was– I think she ‘ad a ‘ard time being a wife and mother.”

I swallow against the dryness in my throat.

“I wish I knew for sure,” Dad says quietly, and I can see his eyes shining. “But I don’t know, Lils.”

She didn’t

want

to be a wife or mum. I can see that. I can see her dissatisfaction from afar, from all those years ago, how she wanted more, how we bored her, tied her down. It’s a simplistic picture, I’m sure, but she never gave me any other to work with. She never defended or explained herself, so it is what it is.

Seeing the pain on Dad’s face, feeling my own– because of Mum, because of Alex– I put my hand out on the table for him. He takes it, and I give his fingers a squeeze, and smile through my tears. He smiles through his watery eyes as well, and for the first time in months I forget about Alex and the Mannerly and King’s College, and I just feel bloody fucking grateful for Dad.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

2014

I climb the tube steps to find it snowing, and I shiver into the down of my jacket, toes stiff in my converse. The moon is full and bright behind the clouds though, and with Stevie Nicks crooning through my headphones, the night feels magical. By the time I reach Alex’s red, lacquered front door, I’m grateful though, because it really is freezing out, and the sight of his comfortable, casual appearance makes me smile.He kisses me on the cheek and beckons me inside with a crooked half-smile. It’s so warm in the house that his feet are bare at the bottom of his worn jeans, and he’s in just a t-shirt. I shake my jacket off as I follow him to the kitchen, and I can hear the Zombies crooning from the living room.I already feel like I can sink into this night like a bath.“Wine?” he asks when we get to the kitchen.He’s already partway through a bottle of riesling, and I realize that he’s buzzed because his movements are a little loose, and his hair is flopping across his forehead.
“Yes, please,” I say, and he gets me a glass, pours me a generous amount.
I sip my wine while he sorts a bag of Chinese takeaway onto plates, and he asks me how work was.
For a blinding moment, I think of how things would be if we were a couple– a

real

couple, a couple who comes home to one another and does these kinds of domestic things every day– and it disconcerts me momentarily. I tell him my day was fine, uneventful, because it’s true, and ask him about his day in turn.
“Great,” he says, forking rice and chicken onto a plate. “I think Miles and I might be doin’ a Shadow Puppets album when we finish with the AM tour.”“That’s great!”“Yeah, it’s been too long, innit?” he finishes with the rice and puts the carton to the side. “He says hello, by the way.”I wonder what he told Miles about us– if he’s said anything to Matt. I sip my wine and decide probably nothing, just like when we were teenagers.“Grab the wine?” he balances both of the plates in hand, and I grab our glasses, as well as the bottle, and follow him to the table.We tuck into our Chinese and wine with lazy relish, and we talk about everything but ‘us’, and it’s so habitual, so routine for us, that I feel slightly discouraged. When he asked if he could see me tonight I had hoped things might be different– that Rosie was right and he would realize something he hadn’t before– but it’s just like when we were teenagers, and I doubt if it will ever be otherwise.Why are we so good at hooking up, and then going back to exactly the way we’ve always been, acting like absolutely nothing is different?“Matt and Breanna will be ‘ere in a coupla weeks,” Alex tells me, pouring himself another glass of wine. “Stayin’ for a while in London. I told ‘im we should all grab a pint.”
“I’d love to!” I reply. “I haven’t seen Matt in ages.”
“‘E said the same,” Alex smiles. “And you ‘aven’t seen Breanna since they got engaged.”
I shake my head. “It’s so strange– Matt

Helders

. En

gaged

.”
Alex smirks, holding his glass of wine to his lips.“It still feels like we’re just kids, innit?” I sigh.“Sometimes.”“Not for you, maybe,” I give him a sly smile. “Rockstar that you are. But I’m still just mucking about like always.”“We’re all just muckin’ about.”
He meets my eyes and holds them, and there’s something in the deep brown that tells me he gets it, just like he’s always gotten it. This is Alex–

my

Alex– who has known me from childhood, who has seen me cry, be sick, be my most vulnerable, grow, and there is something in him that makes me feel so very much at home it makes my chest warm, my blood buzz. It makes me want to reach out and touch his hair, feel his skin, kiss him without any intention behind it.
Again, I feel that reactionary draw to tell him the truth– to come clean right now, curl up in his arms and cover the last stretch of distance between us with honesty. It wells up from somewhere deep within me– like an instinctual need for there to be nothing at all between us, a primitive desire for absolute closeness– and it makes my heart pound as I envision how it would unfold.I can see myself, hear myself, feel myself telling him, but I can’t see his reaction. I can’t fully imagine him just wrapping me in his arms and accepting it all– and I can’t see him yelling and screaming and kicking me out either. I genuinely don’t know how he would react to me lying to him, because it’s never something we’ve experienced before, so, once again, I don’t say anything at all. 
We finish the wine and then immediately open another, sprawling on the couch in warm contentment, bellies full, blood warm and buzzing with alcohol. We switch off the Zombies and connect our phones to the sound system, talking lazily and laughing while we take turns choosing songs that push us down memory lane.
Alex is leaned back into the couch, practically sinking into its cushions, hair becoming more mussed as he sips at his wine. I feel like I could fall asleep stretched longways across the cushions myself, lying back with my feet in Alex’s lap. His free hand warm against the curve of my bare ankle, and his fingers tap out a subtle beat to “Hotel Yorba”.“Do you remember when you cried at our first gig?”The question is so sudden and unexpected that I laugh out loud, and say, “What?”“Nah then,” he teases, giving the arch of my foot a warm squeeze. “You remember.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I laugh. “I would not

cry

!”

He laughs, “You’re jokin’– At the Grapes– You were

pissed

!”

I stare at him. I remember their first ever gig at the Grapes, I remember being surprised by their genuine talent, Alex’s natural and surprising charisma, but I don’t remember

crying

.
“‘Old on.”
Alex grabs his phone and pads his way through it slowly, looking like my dad trying to figure out his own iPhone– having a difficult time with the technology, making me stifle a laugh. And then finally he pulls up an email he’s saved from– from

2003–

and he shows it to me.
It’s an email from me to him, written in the middle of the night, on June 14, 2003. I’m rambling about how proud I am of him, how brave I think he is, how I know he’s going to succeed at whatever he does. My sentences are either jarring or winding, reminiscing about our adolescence or waxing poetic about his future as a musician. The typos are numerous, and the writer in me cringes at my pathetic use of metaphor and nonsense. I was very clearly pissed and emotional.As I read the words, it floods back to me– the full memory of their first gig– and I’m actually shocked at how much I’d forgotten until right now.The little venue at the Grapes was hot, and surprisingly crowded for the first ever gig of an unknown band (though they were just the openers). I looked around and sipped my tequila and soda with a group of friends from school, feeling absolutely panicked, my stomach a knot of fighting butterflies.
I had seen the boys practice a handful of times, and had heard a few songs they had recorded, and I knew they were talented, but I was terrified for them– about to do their first ever real performance as the

Arctic Monkeys

. Feeling prematurely defensive of them, I envisioned people booing them off the stage, laughing at Alex in his polo, throwing plastic cups at Matt’s head. Or what if they just didn’t like their music and all of their work, if all of Alex’s dreams were dashed.
They came out onto the stage then and I thought I might puke– I was already several drinks in and feeling a ridiculous jangle of anxiety– but the crowd was already cheering, glad to finally hear some of the live music they had come for.
Once they began playing, almost everything changed in an instant. The crowd was immediately responding to them– cheering, clapping, singing along to the covers they knew– and my heart began to pound in an entirely different way. I felt exhilarated for them, excited, and as my eyes followed Alex throughout the performance– and as I drank more and more– I couldn’t identify what I was feeling exactly.
I watched the Alex I had known all my life– shy, awkward, sweet Alex– performing as if he were an entirely different person. He had confidence, and he looked comfortable, and he demanded the attention of the room, but was still so sweet and real. The audience responded like they had known him all along, like they loved him, and it made something in my chest expand in the best way– to see people appreciate Alex in the way that he deserved, to see people mirror just what I felt for him: adoration.I only realized I was crying when they were finished, and Alex found me holding my drink and blubbering drunkenly. He was was sweaty, and beaming, and then his face broke when he saw me, and he came over, concerned.“Lily, what is it?” he asked, looking around as if someone was to blame. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, and sobbed, “You’re so

good

.”
Alex, and our other friends who had taken notice, all laughed.
“

No

,” I gabbled. “You guys are bloody brilliant. Everyone

loved

you.”
“Maybe you’ve ‘ad a bit too much, Lils?”
I shook my head again. “Everyone loves

my

friends!”
The overwhelming pride and emotion– and alcohol– released a torrent of tears I couldn’t stop, even after I had been dropped off at home and was alone. Presumably, that’s why I penned the email, but I don’t actually remember that part.
Sitting on Alex’s couch now, I laugh out loud, “Bloody Jesus, what a mess.”

Alex laughs too, and takes his phone back, looks down at the email fondly.

“Why did you save that?” I ask.

“It were sweet,” he says, locking his phone and putting it aside. “Meant a lot to a kid who didn’t know if ‘e would ever amount to nuffin’.”

“And look at you now,” I nudge him with a toe, beaming. “I wasn’t wrong.”

We’re silent for a moment, staring at one another before Alex asks, “Will you come see me when we’re on tour again?”

I’m surprised, pleased, and I ask, “Where?”

He shrugs. “Anywhere– Australia, the States, you pick.”

I smile and nod, saying, “Sure.”
Suddenly, he picks up his phone and puts on the Shirelles’ “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?”. He stands up, and he pulls me up with him, taking my hand and guiding it to his shoulder, before taking the other one in his. When he starts dancing me around the living room I laugh out loud, and when he starts singing the words softly, drunkenly, against my cheek, I feel my heart might burst.
“Tonight you’re mine, completely,” his voice is so soft, so sweet, that I feel dizzy. “You give your love so sweetly.”
I close my eyes, trying to memorize everything about the moment, until he’s pulling away slightly, and my eyes flutter open to meet his gaze. Smiling, looking down at my lips, he closes the space between us and kisses me. And, while, I don’t know what it means, I don’t care at all either way, because I’ve never been so happy in my entire life.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2008

I meet Alexa Chung on a Wednesday night in January– months after she and Alex have become a real couple. Alex is finally able to set up a night where the three of us can match our schedules, and I agree to meet them at a bar in Shoreditch.

I’m shaking as I walk the several blocks from the tube to the bar– partly because of the cold, partly from nerves. I’ve spent the last several days trolling after this girl on the internet, digging up any and all information on her, and I’m feeling sufficiently wretched as I’m about to meet her. Not only is she witty and cool in all her interviews, she’s skinny and beautiful, a TV personality and international supermodel. She hobknobs with celebrities on a regular basis, attends front-row fashion shows as often as I get pissed up and watch reality TV at Rosie’s. In my jeans and oversized jumper, with my scraggly blonde curls and failed writing career, I feel like an absolute melon in comparison.

Behind the frosted glass of the bar, the decor is eccentric and the lights are low, and they’re playing a dance remix of the Smiths just loud enough that it’s jarring. Ducking around the bodies, I find Alex and Alexa tucked away at a high top table, and I approach them tentatively. I meet Alexa’s eyes first, and as I walk up, there’s a moment of awkwardness between us.

We’re strangers– she and I– and we don’t know how to greet one another, but we surely know who the other one is from photographs, from Alex’s stories. So we hold each other’s gaze in the brief seconds that pass, unsure of one another, until I’m touching Alex’s shoulder lightly when I reach them.

He turns, eyes alight when they fall on me, jumping up to give me a hug, his shaggy fringe brushing my cheek.

“Lils, this is Alexa,” he says when he releases me, and she’s stood to greet me. He puts a hand to the small of her back when he introduces us– so familiar, so comforting, sending a stabbing sensation from my stomach to my chest– but she actually looks

nervous

now and, against my will, it immediately endears me to her. “Alexa, this is my best friend, Lily.”

“It’s so good to meet you!” she says with the brightest smile, her eyes crinkling at the edges, and she actually comes round the table to embrace me as well.

Shocked by the genuinely warm greeting, I return it and smile, feeling disconcerted. As we sit back down around the table, the feeling grows– this strange juxtaposition of jealousy and hurt, and warmth.

I’m grateful when the waiter comes and brings me a drink.

I had been fully expecting to dislike Alexa– or just barely tolerate her, at the very least– but there’s an immediate warmth and sincerity about her, an open candor that breaks down every one of my defenses, and I ease into her presence without wanting to fight it. She asks me questions about my life, and though I have to skirt around my lies, her interest is genuine and it feels good. She listens as Alex and I laugh about Sheffield, Matt, our school days, and she asks questions about our stories. She even joins me in taking the piss out of Alex when we get the chance– teaming up against him like old chums. And when we decide to get another round, I know for sure that I like her– No, I know I could be

friends

with this girl.

And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alex so happy before. His eyes are shining, big and warm, and a gentle smile never leaves his lips– except for when he’s grinning goofily, laughing out loud. Their bodies are drawn to one another by some unseen force, and they’re always close, brushing each other briefly, eyes meeting over their drinks. And the way they speak to one another, laugh together,

are

together, makes their chemistry evident and nothing about it makes me feel like a third wheel. To the contrary, it feels natural– feels like it’s how things should be– though that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt somewhere deep behind my breastbone.

“Lex,” Alex suddenly says, somewhere in the middle of our second round. “Lils is a great writer– You should ask Jane if she would read summat.”

Alexa’s eyes light up, “Of course she would!”

I’m looking between the two, feeling suddenly cornered, and I shake my head with a smile, confused.

“My friend, Jane, she’s an editor at Vogue– she has friends in publishing in London and New York,” Alexa explains. “I could send her anything you’d like.”

“No,” I say quickly, because I’ve been too busy cleaning questionable stains off of Mannerly bedspreads to come up with more than a couple measly outlines– all different plots as well. “I ‘aven’t got anything to send– Thank you, though, that’s sweet of you.”

“You ‘aven’t got anything?” Alex asks, eyes focused on me, and he looks sad for me, confused.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, but, Lils–”

“She’s at university, Alex, she probably hasn’t got the time!” Alexa defends me with a laugh, sending an unintentional barbed through my insides. “I was going to do English at King’s College too– before I got scouted– I don’t know how you do it.”

I’m sure my face is burning scarlet from how warm I suddenly feel, and I avoid both of their eyes.

“But if you ever have something you’d like me to show her just say the word,” she offers.

I look up and Alex is still looking at me, like an X-ray, so I just turn to Alexa and thank her.

Around midnight, Alexa says she’s got to go, that she’s got an early morning call time. Alex offers to leave with her, but she insists he stay out and have fun– that it’s been ages since he and I have seen each other. So we walk her out, and Alex puts her into a taxi, kisses her good-bye, and when she’s gone, we decide to find a pub– something more up to our usual speed.

As we walk in the January chill, our breath billowing out and up like plumes of smoke, we’re silent. Something is suddenly awkward and stilted between us. Without Alexa, we’re suddenly not Lily and Alex anymore.

Maybe it’s because of our conversation in October, when I stormed out of the bar after he told me about Alexa– and now it’s all coming full circle with my meeting her. Maybe we’re just growing apart as he grows closer and closer to her.

“Alexa and I are goin’ to move in together.”

Or maybe it’s because he’s trying to gear himself up to tell me they’re moving in together.

“Wow,” I say, and even though I genuinely like her– I genuinely understand and approve of their relationship– I have to force a certain level of brightness into my voice. “That’s great! Congratulations!”

“I wanted you to meet ‘er before I told yeh,” he says.

I nod, but again, I’m conflicted. I feel so sad for this loss– my own selfish loss– but so happy for how happy

he

is.

“Alex, that’s really great,” I tell him, and I don’t have to force it at all. “I really like her.”

“Yeah?” his face lights up.

I laugh. “‘Ow could I not?” Shaking my head, I joke, “If you don’t want her, I’ll gladly take her.”

He laughs, and the tension melts between us– it’s

us

again.

We wander into a Shoreditch pub we’ve never been to. But the crowd is a horde of old men smoking and yelling at a football match on the telly, and Leonard Cohen is playing low, so it’s the perfect place for us. As we sit at an abandoned corner of the bar with a couple of drinks, falling so easily back into our banter, our comfortable silences, our jokes, an overwhelming sadness takes hold of me.

I realize for the first time that, up until this very minute– from fifteen years old on– I genuinely thought Alex and I would somehow end up together. Through all of the bullshit, the shagging, the fights, Melanie, Johanna, any bloke I’ve ever dated– I was sure we would find each other at the end of it all. I had truly convinced myself that the story would end with Lily and Alex forever, and it carried me through seeing him with other girls, distracting myself with other guys, nights of wondering why our physical relationship had never become anything more than a friendship with benefits once upon a time. I’ve been deluding myself for years– pretending I was truly trying to get over him, that I didn’t care, that I was fine. It was all a load of bollocks.

Until now.

It’s time I truly moved on. “Alex and I” is not how this story ends. It was never going to be that way. And now he’s moving in with Alexa, and he’s happier than he’s ever been, and I’m not going to stand in the way of that– whether he has any idea or not.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Feels Like We Only Go Backwards

2014

Over the next few weeks, things shift between Alex and I. Without talking about it at all, we take on the very real appearance of dating. We fall into the routine of meeting up after work, having dinner, sleeping over. Most nights we have dinner at his, where it’s warm and private and cozy. We split a bottle of wine and attempt to make dinner, laughing as we cut vegetables and measure out spices. Alex is surprisingly good– his Mum’s doing, he says with a bashful smile– and I’m undeniably rubbish. Most times, we order takeaway and drink vodka sodas, listening to music or putting on a movie, legs entangled on the buttery, leather sofa. We laugh like kids again, argue about music and films and books, play fighting against the cushions of the couch, we talk about Sheffield, and Alex’s music (and I dutifully keep us off the topic of my work).
And most days, when the night is winding down quietly, and we’re pressed together, holding hands, one of us will lean over and kiss the other. Sometimes we kiss lazily, like we have all the time in the world, or hurriedly, like we’re teenagers once more.But this time, it’s nothing like when we were teenagers in Sheffield, rolling around on one of our beds in the afternoon, hormonal and inexperienced. This time around, Alex’s lips will find my ear, tickling me with his tongue and breath, until he’s trailing his mouth along my collar bones, and my hands are buried in his hair, and we’re ending up naked right there in the living room. Or I’ll catch his lips mid-conversation, and he’ll be so distracted he’ll slide his tongue along mine, kissing until we’re panting, until he’s inside me again and I’m seeing fire behind my eyelids.In London, as adults, we tease each other until we’re begging, we fuck with a fury and heat like we’ve been waiting for this for years. Alex’s expert touch is finely tuned, like an instrument he hadn’t quite figured out as a teenager. Now he delights in making me squirm with his lips and tongue, just the pads of his fingers, and he can be slow, or frenzied, until I’m coming undone, sometimes crying out loudly, every single nerve ending of my body sparking into a blaze. And I take just as much pleasure in watching him unravel– his eyes flickering shut, the growl rising up his throat, the goosebumps as the hairs of his arm stand on end. There’s nothing like the sound of his heavy breathing, his gasp, panting curses as he climbs higher at my touch, moaning my name.
And there’s nothing like the way our bodies connect so easily, so perfectly– so that we’ve had sex in nearly every room in his rented townhouse. On the couch, and in the bed of course, hands twisted in the sheets, moaning. In the shower, pressed against the tile wall, steam making it hard to breathe, slippery, frantic. In the kitchen, naked on the counter, cold marble biting into my skin with my legs locked around him. And sometimes it’s fucking,

shagging

, primal or dirty. Other times, I can only call it making love, because I could cry for how much I love him, and I’ve never seen passion so intense and deep in his eyes before.

I spend most of my days dizzy with arousal, or love drunk, and Rosie just clicks her tongue at me and laughs. And when I can think of anything else, when I’m alone and Alex is working, or busy, I begin to write again.
It’s just smatterings of prose at first, and then simple, entertaining short stories. But by mid March, after weeks of our newfound relationship, I’m toying with the beginnings of a novel, and I’m positive I’ve never felt so exhilarated in my entire life. It feels like so many of the loose ends of my life might be coming together finally, so much so that when Alex asks to read what I’ve been working on, I actually let him.“Lils,” he says afterward, when we’re on the couch once more, Tame Impala sounding soft and liquidy from the record player. “This is brilliant.”I shake my head with a smile, my face feeling warm.“Really,” he says, looking down at my computer with what can only be called real astonishment. “I can’t believe you’re the same girl whose work I read back in ‘igh Green.”I take my laptop from him, feeling a warm glow of excitement spread throughout my chest. Alex doesn’t throw around compliments easily, and I very much value his honest, artistic opinion.
“You should show someone at work.”

For a moment, I think he means Rosie, my boss, or a guest, and I’m confused. But then– of course– he means my

publishing

work. The guilt feels like molten lava in my stomach, uncomfortable and punishing, particularly after these last few weeks.
I’ve been skirting the truth like a black hole, kicking pebbles of lies into it when necessary. For the most part, I’ve just deflected. I’m vague, and then I ask Alex questions about his work with Miles, about the upcoming tour dates, anything at all. So far, it’s worked, but the guilt sneaks up and sinks its teeth into my jugular every time I get too comfortable.And it hurts more than ever before. Because now, when I think maybe we could have a real chance– are really becoming something more than the friends with benefits we’ve been in the past– I remember the lie, and the guilt tied to my ankles like a pair of cement shoes. I know, in my heart, that in order for us to be real, I need to come clean– that I couldn’t be Alex’s girlfriend and lie to him like this at the same time. That’s not how relationships are built.
I just don’t know if he would ever speak to me again if he knew the truth.

We go home to Sheffield again on the weekend.

I haven’t been back home since we last went together, and I feel nervous when Alex drops me off on Mortomley Lane. Truthfully, I’ve been avoiding seeing Dad in person, or really talking to him on the phone too much. I know he can see right through me, and I don’t know how to talk to him without spilling about Alex and me, and I also don’t know how to explain it to him.

I mean, how do you say, “My childhood best mate and I are shagging–

a lot

– and I love him more than ever, but I still don’t know if we’re actually

together

. Thoughts?” to your dad.

Dad and I are close, but not that close.

The house is empty when I let myself in though, so I have time to prepare myself. I shed my coat and put the kettle on for some tea, wandering from the kitchen to the lounge and back again while it boils, thinking of how to frame my face when Dad gets home.

I think of all the times I’ve tried to lie to him– or, at least, omit the truth– and I recall them all ending in failure.

I think the first time was when I was eleven, and we were about to move to Sheffield. I remember it had been only weeks after Mum had left, and Dad had been trying to put on a brave face for me, and I for him. But we had both been crying secretly, confused, scared, and it became clear very quickly that Dad couldn’t afford to stay in London without Mum’s supplemental income– and also, that maybe staying in the home she had abandoned wasn’t the best thing for us.

So, when he told me about a job opportunity that would pay more, in his childhood hometown of Sheffield, I had feigned excitement– or at least understanding. Until the day before we moved, when we were having a takeaway curry in our empty kitchen, and Dad just flat out asked me what was wrong. I pretended I didn’t understand why he was asking, avoided his eyes, until he brought up the move, and then I was dissolving into my basmati rice. He was around the table in seconds, pulling my tiny body into his arms, crying against my shoulder as well, and he vowed we were going to set things right, that everything would be better from then on, because it was us against the world.

I think about when I agonized over my newfound realization that I fancied Alex, at age fifteen. It was days of anxiety, my stomach constantly churning, unable to eat or concentrate, refusing to look or speak to Alex very much.

“Haven’t seen Al around much since the dance,” Dad said, one morning before school.

I mumbled, “No– been busy,” without meeting Dad’s eyes. But my fingers were shaking as I spread margarine on my toast, and my face had gone hot with embarrassment.

Dad waited only one, long beat, before quietly saying, “Do you fancy him, Bills?”

I burst into tears and welcomed his embrace in one motion.
Over the years, it’s been a series of Dad detecting something being amiss, then worming out the truth without even trying. And every time, I’m grateful– it’s as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I have my best friend to help me through whatever mess I’m stuck in.It’s why I’m half tempted to just tell him the truth when he comes in from a run while I’m pouring my tea.“All right, Bills?”I nod, afraid to say anything, deliberating.When I’ve sorted my milk and sugar, I look up, and I meet Dad’s eyes as he’s gulping from a glass of water.
“What is it?” he asks, curious.
I take a deep breath, imagining the words, the phrasing– “Alex and I have begun to sort of see each other”, “Alex and I might be dating” “Alex and I are more than friends but I don’t know what it means”– but nothing comes out.“Nothing,” I finally manage, and turn away before he can see right through me– though I know he probably already has.

That night we all go to the pub for dinner and a pint– Dad, and the Turners, and me. We laugh and talk over roast chicken and potatoes, pints of ale and lager. Under the table, Alex squeezes my knee, rests his hand on my thigh, and it truly feels like we’re a couple for a moment– both of our families having dinner, sitting close to one another as the alcohol cocoons us in warm contentment. Anyone looking on would think we were a couple.
And it makes so much sense, doesn’t it?I mean, all the pieces add up to it, don’t they?It’s been Alex and I from the start– from age eleven. We’ve been best friends and lovers, and we’ve always come back to one another. We both understand our Sheffield roots, the tangled barbed wire of our own family drama and anxieties, what matters most to us in the world, how deep our passions run. Not only do we laugh like children together, but we can set each other ablaze as well, pinned together by mutual attraction and connection. No one quite gets me like Alex does, and no one quite understands what he needs like I do.
And I don’t fault Alexa, or Arielle, for not making it work with him, but I wouldn’t care if he was touring all the bloody time– it wouldn’t break down our relationship because it never

has

. I would come with him, write from the road, stay at home and lead my own life, and whenever we were back together, it would be just like it’s always been.

It all just makes sense, sitting in the pub in High Green, with Alex’s hand warm on my thigh, and I know it’s just a matter of time before it comes to a head and it’s out in the open, and we’re well and truly together. Lies, or distance, or past issues behind us, I can feel that it’s truly going to work this time. And, though I don’t know how, I have faith that it will, and I let that buoy me through the rest of our trip.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2011

I tug nervously on my shirt, watching Liam as he fiddles with his phone in the backseat of the taxi. I try to imagine how Alex will see him, how they’ll interact with one another, and I feel my stomach knot in anxiety.

When I first met Liam at a Trafalgar Square bar, he was brusque and cocky, and I wanted nothing to do with him. Not only did his tough exterior come off as arrogant, he had a bandaged, broken nose and purple bruises under his eyes, looking like some kind of burly thug. He sidled up to where I was sitting at the bar with a friend from King’s College, and asked me what I wanted to drink before I turned him down. He laughed it off, as if I could only be joking, and asked me if he could guess my drink. He failed miserably, but he made me laugh, and something about his confidence and masculine bravado must have seemed sexy to me, because I let him take me out that weekend and we started properly dating not long after.

I know it’s Liam’s semi-professional rugby career that makes him so rough around the edges– years of competitive training and fighting and injury that can make him come off as kind of a wanker– and I often make excuses for him because of it. But I also get to see the Liam that jokes and laughs, and calls me pretty and runs me a bath when I’m feeling poorly, and I know he’s a good guy.

I just don’t know if Alex will see that.

Though Liam and I only just started dating a couple of months ago, Alex insisted on meeting him while he’s doing some work in London for the new Arctic Monkeys album.

“Come on, Lils,” he said over the phone when he told me he would be in town. “Who knows when I’ll be back around to meet the guy.”

“Alex,” I practically whined, “it’s only been a few months– It’s not even that serious.”

At that point, Liam and I were entirely exclusive, and I was starting to sleep at his practically every night. So, I wasn’t entirely sure why I was telling Alex we weren’t that serious. I knew Liam was the most serious relationship I had ever had– the only boyfriend I had actually told Alex about by name and detail.

“Well, I’ve got to see if ‘e’s good enough for yeh at least.”

So we made plans to meet for a drink– Alex and Alexa, and Liam and me– at a bar in Fulham, when Alex got to London to record. But, sitting in the taxi on our way, I’m suddenly wishing I had put it off. A big part of it is that I’m terrified Liam will let the truth out, but more than that– I can’t tell if it’s because I want Alex to like Liam, or if I’m worried that he

will

.

It’s absurd though, because he’s been with Alexa for years now, and she and I have actually become close, and I feel like I’ve really separated myself from my feelings for Alex. I hardly think of him like that at all anymore– unless I’m very seriously pissed, or he calls me in the middle of the night while he’s on tour and we talk quietly into the early hours of the morning like old times. After all this time of watching the perfect synchronicity of his relationship with Alexa though, I couldn’t possibly think of him in that way for very long– not when I love the both of them, and I love the both of them together. So, why wouldn’t I want Alex and Liam to have that friendship I have with Alexa– or at least something close to that?

“Lily?”

I’m pulled from my thoughts by Liam’s voice. The cab has stopped alongside the sidewalk and he’s already paid the driver, waiting for me expectantly.

Too late to turn back now.

I let Liam lead me into the bar– a posh, Victorian-themed place that Alexa must have picked– and when I meet Alex’s eyes from where he’s sat at a private booth, I pull my hand from Liam’s grip and hurry over to him, letting him pull me into a hug. He’s been in New York forever, it seems. It’s been

ages

.

“Lils!” he says, kissing my cheek. “It’s been too long!”

When we pull apart, he and Liam size each other up in the same second, and I can see the cocky smirk on Liam’s face, and my heart falls immediately.

“Alex, this is Liam,” I introduce them anyway, unsure of why I feel so wretched all of a sudden. “Liam, this is Alex– and Alexa.”

Alex and Liam shake hands, and Alex’s smile is stilted– though I think only I can see. He’s suddenly shy, uncomfortable, and I think it’s Liam’s bravado, his swagger, the look that he thinks it’s cute Alex has just kissed his girlfriend.

Thank God for Alexa, who swoops between them and gives Liam a hug, saying how nice it is to meet him, before she’s hugging me as well, sitting us in the booth, chattering away about how good it is to be back in England.

We get a round of drinks, and Alexa and I keep the conversation afloat. I’m the connection between everyone, and I try to sell Liam, talk about his rugby, about his origins in Devon, and then I try to sell Alex, talking about the Arctic Monkeys, Sheffield, but it’s hopeless. Alex has gone from shy to steely, annoyed, and Liam has gone from cocky to downright hostile, as if he’s laughing at Alex. And I don’t know if Alexa can see it, but she tries to keep everyone laughing and talking with a fervor that means she must be aware of

something

. I watch with an impending sense of doom as everything spirals out of my control, as Alex and Liam detach more and more, turning on one another very subtly.

“Lils, was never one for sport, were you Lils?” Alex says, after I’ve told the group about my one and only trip to see Liam play, where I couldn’t follow along very well, and then got so pissed out of boredom I got lost on my way to the toilets.

Liam smirks, saying, “She likes it well enough now, I’d say,” and loops an arm around my waist proprietarily.

I can see Alex’s entire body tense at the suggestive tone in Liam’s voice, at the way Liam’s fingers dig into the curve of my waist. Alexa can see it too, and for a moment I can’t read the look on her face, but I can tell I’m suddenly alone in trying to mediate this situation.

“Back in Sheffield, she never set foot at a match,” Alex replies, his voice almost mocking. “We never really left her room– listening to CDs and talkin’ about novels.”

Now Liam is tense– he’s gone from laughing at Alex to full-on possessive. Alexa has gone completely quiet.

I’m contemplating confessing my real job at this moment just to shift the drama.

“Well, we never leave her room much now either– if you know what I mean, mate.”

Dear God.

“All right, mate,” Alex snaps, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so angry, palm slapping the table’s surface. Alexa puts a hand to his arm to calm him, but it does nothing. “I fink tha’s enough.”

“What’s a matter?” Liam laughs. “Little rockstar can’t handle that his best mate’s a grown woman?”

“Liam–”

“She’s sittin’ right ‘ere, yeah? You could be a little more respectful.”

“Alex–”

"Is that what you think,

mate

? I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do.”

"

Liam–”

“You’re a right git, you know tha’?”

“Alex!”

“I’m sorry, Lily,” Alex finally turns to me and says, looking absolutely livid. “Come on, Lex, let’s get out of ‘ere.”

They’re sliding out of the booth and disappearing into the crowd, even as I call after them.

“What a knob,” Liam huffs under his breath.

I turn and shove him. “What is the

matter

with you? You’ve never spoken about me like that before!”

“He was jealous, love,” Liam replies. “Had to put him to rights.”

“He’s my

best friend

, Liam,” I scoff, though my heart is beating very fast. “He’s

protective

.”

“He’s a knob.”

I slide out of the booth without another word, anger hardening my eyes at him, before I’m pushing my way through the crowd and out of the pub. Scanning the sidewalk, I race after Alex and Alexa when I spot them waiting for a cab.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to both of them. “I don’t know why he was being so awful– he’s not usually such a wanker.”

Alex shakes his head, still looking tense. Alexa just looks lost.

"Lils, the bloke is a proper twat.”

“No, Al,” I say. “I mean–

yes

, he was just now– but he’s not usually. He was just jealous– he doesn’t understand our friendship.”

Alexa looks between us, looking as if she’s holding her breath.

"It weren’t right, Lily,” Alex says. “The way ‘e was talkin’ about you. I don’t care ‘ow jealous ‘e is.”

“I know,” I say. “Can we just– can the three of

us

just get a drink? I just want to get away from him right now.”

Alex considers this, before smiling and looping one arm around my shoulders, one arm around Alexa’s waist, and steering us down the sidewalk towards another bar.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Save Me from What I Want

2014

The snow of winter has fully melted into a relentless rain when Matt and Breanna come to stay in London. A whole group of us plan to meet up for dinner and drinks in Mayfair– all of the boys and their significant others, as well as Miles and me.Because it’s closer, I go to Alex’s straight from work to get ready– where I shower, change, and do my makeup in front of his bedroom mirror. He’s in the middle of working in the living room when I get there, so I leave him undisturbed, but he appears in the doorway as I’m leaning into his dresser, inching towards the mirror to apply my mascara.After a long beat, with St. Vincent playing softly from my phone on the dresser, I look up to see him watching me, a smile playing on his lips.“What?” I laugh.“You really are beautiful, Lils,” he says, and it practically makes my knees go weak.I give a playful roll of my eyes and finish my mascara with him watching.I’m reaching for some blusher when he comes into the room, stepping behind me as his arms wrap slowly around my waist, pulling me against him. I lean into him instinctively as he buries his face into the crook of my neck, plunging his lips into my curls. It’s the kind of thing he never did when we were teenagers fooling around, or just as my friend, and it makes my skin hum in appreciation. It feels so good and so right, and it’s what makes me sure things are different between us this time.I forget the blusher on the dresser when one of his hands reaches up to sweep my hair aside, his mouth connecting with the sensitive skin under my ear immediately.“Alex,” I whisper, only once his lips grow rough against my skin, bruising me with pressure, want, his teeth worrying at my earlobe. “We’re going to be late.”“S’all right,” he whispers, one hand slipping under the fabric of my shirt, sliding against the warm skin of my stomach.My whole body feels electric, and if he doesn’t stop now, neither of us will be able to stop at all.“There will be traffic,” I mutter, though I’m hardly thinking about dinner with the boys now.“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with a smirk, pressing his erection against my thigh, knowing full-well my answer.“No,” I sigh, and I turn around, catching his lips with mine, hands gripping at the back of his hair to pull him closer to me.He presses me up against the dresser, so clumsily it knocks against the wall once, and his strong hands are clutching at my hips, mouth hungry against my own, tongue darting between my lips. I sigh into his mouth as he presses the length of his body to mine, my skin humming with electricity under my clothes. He nips at my upper lip, and I can feel how aroused he is, how desperately he wants this, and when he presses his erection against the front of my jeans, I’m practically aching for him in return.
“Been thinkin’ about this all day,,” he says in a sigh, as his hands slide their way down to my jeans, unbuttoning them, peeling them off.
I lose my breath when he hoists me up, legs wrapped around him to sit on the dresser, make-up shoved out of the way. He kneels before me, his eyes holding mine, as he hooks each one of my legs over his shoulders, smiling faintly as he sees me breathing heavily, watching him.He dips forward, tongue hot against me, and I shudder against the wood of the dresser, hand trying to steady myself, grabbing his hair. His tongue and lips work up to a pressure and a rhythm that has me leaning back against the mirror, unable to contain myself.“Alex, oh God,” I cry out, shuddering against him, seeing stars behind my clenched eyelids.The sound of his name from my lips, the tightening of my thighs in pleasure, makes him groan against me, and the vibrations send shockwaves through my clit, making me moan.He increases the intensity of his ministrations, furious against me, intent, and I feel the pressure building like a boulder behind his tongue, boiling over until I’m gasping against the mirror, shaking apart, coming with a torrent of blood through my veins.
When he stands, he pulls me off the dresser, carries me to the bed. He tries to climb on top of me, but I pull him down by his shirt, climb on top of

him

instead. I work his jeans down as he yanks my top off, cups each breast with a heady sigh.
I kiss him slowly, just once, feeling his pulse beat rapidly under my body. He cups my face gently, his tongue exploring my languidly, and when I pull away he meets my eyes, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he loves me too– that everything we share has been what I’ve been hoping for all along.
For a moment, I consider saying it– “I love you, Alex”– but I don’t want to do it in the heat of the moment like this. His eyes have started to smoulder anyway, his tongue flicking against his lower lip in arousal, and my brain has turned to burning ash anyway.
I want him again.I lower myself down, listening to his breath hitch at just the suggestion of what I’m about to do, and I smile. His hands begin to tangle themselves in my hair as I run my tongue the length of his dick, slowly, teasingly, before I take all of him between my lips. It makes him groan, the sound turning into a swear as I move my lips up and down, swirling my tongue around the skin at the tip, making him buck against me, clutching my hair in pleasure.“Oh, I want you, babeh,” he moans. “I want you now.”He pulls me up so that I’m straddling him, and eases himself into me, and I’m so wet that it’s effortless, and he’s moaning my name again, and I feel the heat rocket from my stomach to my skull.His fingers dip into the flesh of my thighs as I grind against him, as I swivel my hips to the perfect angle and rhythm, and he meets my gaze through half-hooded lids.The way he’s looking at me, for a moment, I think he’s going to say he loves me too, but he sits up instead, our bodies flush against one another, continuing to pump and build the aching friction. At this angle, there’s pressure on my clit, and his dick is hitting the deepest part of me, his eyes bearing into mine– liquid black– so that I can’t catch my breath, I’m crying his name, and he’s breathing mine, and I know we could set the whole bloody city on fire with what we feel for each other.He kisses me, holding onto me with his lips, until we’re coming at the same time, spinning, dizzy with the spiking pleasure, crying into each other’s mouths, our bodies practically melded into one.It takes some time before we both come down, our hearts beating like rabbits as we remain entwined, his dick still inside me.It’s the first time he’s come inside me as well, and I have a fleeting thought of what our baby would be like– but I’m on the pill, and he knows that, or he wouldn’t have done it. Regardless, it feels more intimate than anything we’ve done before, and he kisses me, slowly, chastely, smiling as he continues to hold me tightly.“I probably look a right mess,” I whisper, as our bodies cool down, sticking to one another with perspiration.He shakes his head, “You’re beautiful.”I would stay here all night if he asked me– would spend the rest of my life like this– literally tangled with him, flesh against flesh, feeling his heart beat and the rise and fall of his breath. But I know the boys are waiting, and I know we’re going to be late as it is.
“We should go,” I whisper again.
He nods, kisses me again, and we reluctantly untangle. 
It doesn’t raise any eyebrows when we arrive to the restaurant together, late. We’ve been best friends for so long that people have seen us arrive to enough events together, sometimes me thirdwheeling with whomever Alex’s girlfriend is. Alex makes an excuse about getting caught up writing, and no one suspects a thing.
Over dinner, I’m sat next to Matt and Breanna on one side, Alex on the other. We talk about their engagement, about his parents, their plans, everything that has passed since the last time we saw one another.Caught up talking about visiting Sheffield, I feel an overwhelming sense of affection for Matt. I think of all we’ve shared since our childhood with Alex, with Jamie, and I remember just how close we once were– before the Arctic Monkeys, before he moved to L.A. Where Alex was my best friend, what felt like my soul mate, Matt was my brother, a protector, my confidante who I scrapped and bickered with, someone I could unabashedly be myself with as well.When our second round comes to the table, before we’ve even ordered our meals, a memory from sixth form hits me between the eyes.I was seventeen, spinning on vodka and pot, feeling like a kaleidoscope as I jumped and danced and twirled on the dance floor of some awful club in town. The girls from Barnsley that I was out with kept getting me refills, and blokes I didn’t know kept buying me shots and offering me joints, and I didn’t recognize myself by the time the night had reached its peak. I was dancing and laughing and flirting, and I was covered in sweat but I felt beautiful and invincible– also crazy and sick.I had never smoked pot before, or snuck into a club with a fake I.D, or hung out with the sixth form girls I normally couldn’t stand. But when I ran into them outside of the train station that afternoon, they had invited me along, said it was going to be fun and that we could all get ready together, and I was so anxious-angry that I agreed out of spite. I did shots with them in Lydia’s bedroom, let them put gobs of silver eyeshadow on me, fake lashes, lip gloss, let them straighten my hair. I even let them dress me in Lydia’s tube top and teeny jean skirt, even though it was February, and fucking freezing out.And I blamed Alex for all of it.He had been so busy with the Arctic Monkeys for months before that– he was performing, and recording, and making a name for himself– which was great, except my seventeen year old self felt like he had forgotten he was supposed to be my best friend too. When I failed my history GCSE, he wasn’t there to distract me, he was with Melanie, at a gig in London. When I got my hopes up about a new guy that I could maybe like at Barnsley, and then got stood up for our date to the movies, he wasn’t there to make fun of him for me. He hadn’t been anywhere I needed him to be for months, and the hurt was finally evaporating into anger.
And then the day before, at school, when he casually told me he and Melanie had broken up, I guess I had been expecting something to happen– for things to change, or go back to the way they were. I didn’t think he would snog me on the train home from school but– okay, I guess maybe I had hoped something like that

would

happen, and it hadn’t. He was not interested in continuing our physical relationship from the past summer, and it felt like he wasn’t even interested in being my friend at that moment, so I decided he could piss off. I had new friends anyway, and I decided I was going to be selfish for once and wallow in it. And do shots.
I was on the edges of dizzy– nauseous, blackout sick– but I was fighting it, dancing harder, feeling awful, when some bloke I didn’t know started dancing with me, close to me, so close he started to touch me, grinding against me. I was too drunk to care, and he was cute, and Alex could piss off, so I danced with him.When he kissed me, I didn’t stop him, so maybe it was my fault that when he shoved his tongue down my throat, and I pushed him away, he was angry. Maybe I was too drunk to connect the dots. Maybe I had misunderstood. But the way he was pushing me, the way he was forcing himself on me, kissing me again, made me feel terrified– like I had missed something– like I was in danger.I didn’t see Matt in the crowd at the club earlier, or the way he was keeping an eye on me from a distance, thinking I didn’t look well– that I wasn’t myself. And I didn’t see him cleaving his way through the dancing crowd until he was pulling the guy away from me, and there were shouts puncturing the music, and I was dizzy and ill I couldn’t properly see what was happening.  “Fuck off, mate!” I could hear Matt yelling, and in the confusion I could make out the guy swinging at him.“Your girlfriend’s a slag!”I could hear Matt’s fist connect with the guy’s nose, and I thought he might have gotten hit too, and then he was grabbing my arm and pulling me through the crowd before it could get worse.I was so unsteady on my feet– so shocked, and confused, and shaking– that I couldn’t help but be led off the dancefloor and out of the club.Outside, I began shivering automatically– I didn’t have a coat, or appropriate attire– and Matt gave me his jacket, put an arm around me, guided me over to his tiny, beat up car and deposited me in the passenger’s seat.“Lily, what are you thinking?” he asked, and I noticed some blood at his swollen top lip. “You’re a proper mess– What would you ‘ave done if I ‘adn’t shown up?”I recovered enough, was drunk enough, to be petulant, and I quite maturely said, “I don’t need your ‘elp– I can take care of myself!”“Why are you even ‘anging around those girls?” he asked, pulling away from the club and into traffic. “You always said they were tossers. And look what they’ve got you up to.”
“I can do whatever I want,” I folded my arms over my chest, and I was too fucked up to realize how childish I sounded– like a grown teenager throwing a tantrum, when Matt had just gotten into a

fight

to protect me.
Matt shook his head when we’d stopped at a light, saying, “I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately– even Al ‘as noticed– it’s like you’re a different person.”I rounded on him with lightning speed, practically growling through my drunkenness: “He’s one to talk! Mr. Big Rockstar.”I didn’t know why I said it, because I didn’t begrudge him any of the recognition they were getting, or the gigs they were doing, or how busy they were– I just missed Alex, and I missed us, and I was so fucking scared of losing him.“Is that what this is about?” Matt asked, looking surprised, but also thoughtful.
“Don’t look at me like that, Matthew Helders,” I hiccuped embarrassingly. “This isn’t about

anything

.”
“Lily,” he said. “Alex loves you– your ‘is best mate.”I didn’t say anything, just folded my arms and looked at the road ahead. I was beginning to feel sick.“Honestly,” he shook his head. “Sometimes I think– I don’t know– You should be smarter than that, Lily. You know you mean the world to ‘im.”I was still annoyed, and nauseous, so I didn’t answer at all.When we pulled to a stop and someone opened my door, helped me out of the passenger’s seat, I was shocked to see it was Alex. I was surprised that I hadn’t known Matt had contacted him in the chaos, that he was helping me into his house where his parents were away, to let me be sick in peace, to take care of me, to text my dad from my phone to tell him I was staying over with the stupid Barnsley girls. When I woke up in his bed, in his sweats, hungover and embarrassed, he didn’t even question what had happened or why, he just gave me tea and toast, and asked if I wanted to hear a new song. 
It’s with this same air of protectiveness that Matt approaches me when we’re at a different bar later that night.
I’m standing on my own at the bar, getting a water, when Matt comes up to me, yanks on one of my curls like it’s a bell– just like he used to when we were kids and he was trying to annoy me. Now, it makes me break into a grin, and I turn to face him.“‘Ow are yeh doin’, Davis?”“I’ve been good,” I tell him. “It’s so good to see you guys– feels like the old days.”His smile falters with concern– so subtle I think it might just be a trick of the light– but then he’s leaning towards me and asking, “It’s none of my business but– Is anyfing goin’ on wif you and Alex?”
My whole body freezes. I don’t know how to react.

“It’s just tha’– in the cab…”
Fuck.The four of us– Alex, Matt, Breanna, and me– all shared a cab from the restaurant to the bar. As we shared the back seat, Alex– so gently, so quickly– brushed my curls behind my ear, rubbing a hooked finger against my cheek. It happened so quickly, and no one missed a beat, so I was sure no one had seen it.But Matt did.“I don’t–” I’m stammering over my words, and I’m sure my face is bright red, but it feels like my heart is beating in the back of my throat.“And just sumfin’ in the way you two ‘ave been lookin’ at each other.”I swallow hard“Like I said, Lily, it’s none of my business,” he adds, in an obvious effort to give me some relief. “And I know you two always ‘ad sumfin’ goin’ on.”
I shake my head because– has he

known

, all this time?
“I just– Be careful, yeah?”I can’t help the crease in my brows, the question that flits across my eyes.“Take care of yourself is all,” he says. “I don’t want to see you get ‘urt.”He doesn’t say anything more about it, just offers to buy me my next drink. And though his demeanor has returned to the usual brotherly, joviality I’m used to, I can’t help but feel unsettled by his warning– his fear of me getting hurt.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2012

In between performing in Brazil and at Coachella, Alex comes home for his Dad’s birthday in April.

His Mum throws a party at theirs, with champagne and games, and people spilling into the back garden. Alex and I do shots with Dad, and get silly drunk while we try to control the music. And it almost feels like old times, because his normally gelled hair is soft and undone, his new girlfriend Arielle isn’t here, we’re home in Sheffield, and Alex keeps finding excuses to touch me. Suddenly, it’s like the last chaotic year didn’t happen at all, and I can

breathe

.

It started in July of last summer, when he showed up at my door, when he sobbed on my couch, in the middle of the Suck it and See Tour, having just broken up with Alexa.

I didn’t see the deterioration of their relationship close up. After that night with Liam, when everything went so sour, I didn’t see much of them at all. They were back in New York, I was floundering through my own doomed relationship, and Alex was touring. He kept everything close to his vest, downplayed the bad. So it was an absolute shock when he told me he had ended it, and I truly thought they were either going to get back together, or Alex wasn’t going to be able to cope at all.

He was undeniably sensitive and vulnerable when it came to love, though he tried to play it off aloof and cool, and I worried how he would get on. The morning after he broke up with her, he disappeared off my couch in only an hour or so, as if nothing had changed at all, as if he hadn’t sobbed in my arms the night before. He was back on tour immediately, suddenly cutting the sleeves off his shirts, gelling his hair, drinking and smoking and partying harder than I had ever seen him do before. I was worried, I checked in with Matt, I sent cheerful texts and emails, and he acted as if nothing were amiss.

And then in August, when I texted Matt to ask him how Alex was

really

doing, Matt sent me a jaunty text:

No need to worry anymore, Davis. Al has a new bird

And just like that, he was dating someone new. And I didn’t judge him for it– I wasn’t even sad. In fact, I was glad for the distraction. I didn’t think it would amount to anything serious, but I thought it would be good for him to be focused on something other than his heartbreak. And then he started spending more and more time in L.A., in between tour stops, and suddenly she was his

girlfriend

, and I still hadn’t even met her.

By the winter though, I had bigger concerns to deal with. Namely, I had caught Liam texting another girl. Which led to Liam confessing to having cheated on me. Which led to our break up.

“Shite, Lils,” Alex said, when I told him over the phone on Christmas day. I was with Dad, Alex was in Los Angeles. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I told him. “Weren’t you the one to call him a ‘right git’ when you met him?”

And now, in the spring, the Suck it and See tour is finally winding down, and I’m soaking up this time with my best friend– looking forward to the boys coming back to London to start their next album, to having some more time with Alex once again.

It’s after midnight when Alex sidles up to me with a freshly opened bottle of champagne, asking if I want to take a walk.

The party shows no signs of winding down, and Dad is singing karaoke on the Turner’s living room television, so I agree, and we sneak out the garage door and into the dark street.

It’s cool and damp outside, the perfect, clear spring night. Alex and I take turns swigging from the bottle as we wander down quiet, familiar streets, winding our way to the old park.

“Remember when we used to get pissed here?” Alex slurs, tripping into a seated position in one of the swings. “Thought we proper cool.”

I sit in the seat next to him, and grab the bottle, taking a long glug from it.

“Sorry, mate,” I reply. “I never stopped bein’ proper cool.”

He takes the bottle from me, shaking his head with a laugh.

“Just ‘cause you’ve been spendin’ all your time in L.A. doesn’t mean your the authority on cool, Mr. Turner,” I lob back, but the playground is spinning around me, and I suddenly want to be on steadier ground.

I get up and walk to the bench across the pebbled ground, and sit, facing Alex across the stretch of playground. My eyes can’t focus very well, but I can see that he’s suddenly serious, thoughtful.

“Alex?”

His dark, liquid eyes finally meet mine again, and he calls, “I wanted to talk to yeh.”

My drunken stomach falls a little bit, but I don’t react right away.

He gets up, starts to walk over to me as he says, “The boys and I– We’re movin’ to L.A.”

My first thought is of Arielle, that he’s moving there for her. My second thought is about the boys– it’s for the music.

When he sits down next to me, I try to sound cheerful, and I say, “That’s great!” It’s difficult though, because I hate not having him at least a train ride away.

“Yeah,” he says, but he sounds distracted. “It’s the best place for our music– the best studios, the best producers.”

“Of course,” I confirm, grabbing his hand, trying to reassure him.

We’re quiet for a long stretch, and it’s uncomfortable suddenly. I get the drunken feeling that Alex is waiting for me to say something that I haven’t yet– and I’m not sure what it is. It’s strange though, because we’ve had almost this same conversation before, when he moved to New York with Alexa. But it was so different then. It wasn’t this bracing moment of announcement– this halting fear and anxiety, the bated breath. It was just Alex telling me he was moving to New York because Alexa had gotten her own show. End of story.

That’s it, I realize, Alex isn’t

sure

about Los Angeles.

“Don’t you want to go, Alex?”

He looks surprised when he meets my eyes, and I realize he must have had more to drink than I thought, because his pupils are practically swimming.

“Do

you

want me to go, Lils?”

The question practically unseats me, because I haven’t said or done anything to give him the impression that I was holding him back. At least I don’t think so.

“What?”

He holds my gaze for a long time, in a way that makes my heart surge into my throat– in a way that suddenly makes me think about July, when he kissed me in my flat, just after breaking up with Alexa.

“You know, if you told me to stay, I would,” he whispers low, and it makes it impossible for me to catch my breath, because I

didn’t

know that, I never would have thought that.

Does he want me to ask him to stay?

His hand is on my cheek, cupping my face, his thumb rubbing gently at my cheekbone, and it makes me shiver.

“What about Arielle?”

As soon as I’ve said it, I want to to take it back. What is the

matter

with me? Why would I say something like that to spoil the moment so brilliantly? And it

has

spoiled the moment, because he’s drawing his hand away from me, eyes pulled down to the pebbly ground, and he’s somewhere else.

“Alex, I couldn’t–” I’m stammering over my words, my tongue heavy and steeped in alcohol. “I could never ask you to stay if it wasn’t what you wanted– I could never do that to your music– to you.”

I don’t even know if he can even hear me anymore– he looks like he’s focusing so intensely on the ground.

I put a hand on his knee. “Alex?”

He finally meets my eyes again, looking dazed, and he forces a smile, saying, “Thanks, Lils,” and taking a gulp of the champagne.

I so desperately want to rewind the conversation– to bring it back to that moment where it seemed like he wanted me to ask him to stay in London, where it seemed like I had that power. Because now he’s far away from me, and I feel absolutely, bloody powerless once more, and I miss him already.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

We Are Nowhere And It’s Now

2014

Alex and Miles go to L.A. for the month of April to do some work for the Shadow Puppets. I ride with him to the airport alone, in the back of a rented car, and he holds my hand the whole time. He has several tour stops in May in Australia and New Zealand as well, and the impending separation feels different than any other goodbye before.“You can come to Australia– or New Zealand,” he says, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb.“I’ve got work,” I tell him. “I wish I could.”“I’ll ‘ave a weekend in London before the tour picks up again,” he tells me. “We’ll go back to Sheffield– it’ll be like old times.”

Old times...

I think of Matt’s warning to me–

“Be careful, yeah?”

– and I wonder what old times Alex means. Old times like when we were teenagers again? Old times like when we were just friends? Is this his way of making things go back to normal?

I shake my thoughts away. He’s holding my hand

right now

. I’m just being paranoid.
But when we pull up to the airport, and Alex turns to say goodbye, I almost want to beg him to stay, or to take me with him. I can’t get out of the car with him or the paparazzi might see– Miles might see– and I’m suddenly disconcerted at being a secret, at our being separated, and panic rises from my gut.He kisses me, slowly, sweetly, his hands cradling my face, and when he pulls away after a long minute, I think I might cry.“Lils?” he asks. “All right?”“I’m going to miss you,” I whisper, my voice strangled.He laughs, pulls me into a hug. “‘Ey, we’ve done this before, yeah? It’ll be like no time at all.”It feels like a fist is squeezing my throat, and I wish Matt hadn’t said anything to me in March. I wish I could afford to take off a week from work to visit Alex in Los Angeles. I wish I didn’t feel like I was losing him without knowing why.I nod, and pull him to me, kiss him fiercely, once more.When he gets out of the car and the driver helps him with his bags, I watch as he waves through the tinted window towards me, before disappearing into the airport. 
Once Alex is in L.A., I throw myself into writing and working. I spend my weekend mornings holed up in cafes in London, headphones in, writing. Sometimes, when I’m feeling uninspired, I listen to Alex, to all of the songs that have thread us together over the years, to all of the songs that remind me of him, to the songs that sound like his heart pouring out through his voice. I stay up late at night after work and write, sat up in bed, typing away until my eyes grow tired and bleary, or until Alex calls.
And he does call most nights. He tells me about his work with Miles, about some wild party they went to in Beverly Hills, about some ridiculous models they met. We FaceTime, and email, and he sends me snippets of new song recordings– played acoustically, his voice quiet and hoarse when he’s all alone at night. And hearing from him makes me miss him that much more, salves the anxiety only slightly.Rosie brings it up one day when I’m at hers for a curry takeaway, halfway through Alex’s month in L.A.“What’s up wif you, babe?”I look to where she’s pouring us a drink in her kitchen.“Is it the Arctic Monkey?”I don’t know how to voice my anxiety to Rosie– don’t know how to explain the unexplainable dread in my gut. So, when she’s settling on her couch next to me, I say the only thing I can get out.“I love him, Ro.”She sits back against the cushions of her couch and considers me, her face serious. It feels good to say it out loud, this truth that I’ve been living with since age fifteen, and I’m half-tempted to spill everything to Rosie– to give it to her to fix.
“What’s the problem wif that, love?”

“He’s my best friend,” I tell her, looking into my drink. “He’s

Alex Turner

.”
She takes a drink of her wine and shakes her head, saying, “I don’t mean to be daft, babe, but hasn’t you been shaggin’ for months?”“Years,” I admit, making her eyes go wide. “In secondary school– but we stopped until this year.”“That sounds like a good fing to me,” she shrugs. “No?”“I don’t know if it means he loves me too,” I take a gulp of my wine. “Our relationship has always been so complicated.”I can’t tell her about the lies or she’d be offended. I can’t tell her about this back and forth we’ve had since we were teenagers because I can’t articulate it.She can see the anxiety stricken on my face, and she puts a hand on my leg, saying, “What is it?”
“It’s just– I truly thought we were meant to be together for so long,” I confess. “As a teenager, I thought we would find a way– that at the end of the day it would be

us

.”

Rosie is listening intently, but I’m not sure if she fully understands–not sure if anyone who isn’t me or Alex

could

fully understand.
“And then he became a celebrity, and he was dating Alexa Chung, and I realized how daft I had been– and I truly let go of the notion of us being anything other than unconventional best friends,” I tell her, and for some horrid reason, I’m afraid I might cry.All the anxiety from the last couple of weeks is pushing up my esophagus with a fist. I feel myself losing Alex bit by bit, the thought that things were different this time draining from my mind. Taking deep breaths against it, I take another drink of wine, and I try to calm down.“And now?” Rosie prompts.I take another deep breath and say, “I had thought this time was different too– like this was going to be it for us– that we found a way to one another finally.” The air leaves my body, and all I can do is shake my head, “And now I don’t know.” 
I don’t see the warning signs when Alex asks to come over once he returns from L.A. I don’t feel any sense of foreboding, or notice any tell-tale indication that my world is about to shatter. Instead, the moment I read the text– know that he’s back in London– I feel all the anxiety from the last month evaporate into thin air. And with that sense of calm, I know I need to put everything out on the table. I’m going to tell him the truth– about my job, about my feelings for him– and I’m going to ask him what we are, if we could possibly be something more than just friends.
I’m strangely calm as I wait for his arrival, so different from all those years ago at the Fat Cat, when I planned to tell him how I felt the first time. I put on Bright Eyes and pour myself some wine, laptop propped against a pillow in front of me on the couch. It’s fantastically warm and sunny for the beginning of May, and I’ve thrown the living room window open to let the breeze wash over my jumper as I write, listening to the sound of the streets belowBy the time the buzzer rings, I’m surprised to hear it– as if I forgot Alex was even coming– and it sends an electric thrill of anticipation up my spine. Smiling to myself, I shut my laptop and shove it aside.When I open the door, I notice his hair is longer, though still slicked back, and he looks tired. But he’s pulling me in, hands cradling my jaw as he kisses me. I wrap my arms around him, breathe in his scent, reveling in his embrace. Neither of us says anything for a moment, we just hold each other, and I listen to the sound of his heart beating through his chest like I’ve never heard it before– and, God, I bloody love this man.
He pulls away slowly, reaching back to the close the door. We haven’t seen each other in a month, and I half expect him to grab me to him again, lead me into the bedroom,

smile

, but he’s taking my hand and leading me to the couch, sitting down, and he looks

nervous

.
“I missed you,” I tell him, remembering my purpose all of a sudden– to tell him the truth– and the anxiety makes my throat feel tight. “How was your flight?”“It were good,” he says, nodding, and he’s not looking me in the eye, and my heart is pounding before I can stop it. “I– Uh– It’s good to see you, Lils.”He takes my hand as he says it, and maybe he’s just nervous to see me– maybe he wants to tell me he loves me too. But then he looks up and meets my eyes and– it feels like the day he told me he was seeing Alexa– and I don’t know what to expect.“How was Los Angeles?” I ask, shivering at the feeling of his finger tracing circles in my palm.“Good, good,” he says, and I can the color creeping up his neck, nervous-red. “I actually– uh– I met someone there.”
I can’t read him, and I feel nauseous all of a sudden. How is this happening this time– after all we’ve been through the last months? How is this happening yet

again

? It makes my whole body go cold, though I try to remain expressionless. If he’s going to leave me for someone else,

again

, I am not going to give him the satisfaction of showing that I care.

“Oh?” I manage to get out, sounding curious.
He studies me for a moment, saying, “Yeah. We went out a few times. She’s going to come to Australia– and then maybe London– the next time we have off.”
Who is this girl that he’s met? That can disappear to Australia and England from her home in the States? She’s probably an actress, or a model. My throat closes up, and I suddenly decide I don’t want to know anything more about this girl. I don’t want to be in the same room as Alex right now. Everything feels like it’s closing in on me, and–

FUCK

! I recognize the panic attack as it squeezes its fingers around my neck– as it curls into a noxious fist in my stomach.

I think I’m going to be sick.

“That’s great, Al,” I force a smile, and it nearly makes me choke.

I can’t help it, I have to pull my hand out of his grasp. I use it to reach for my wine, hold myself back from fully downing its contents.

“Do you want to meet ‘er?” he asks, and it almost sounds like he’s testing me– like he’s challenging me to say no. “When she comes to London?”

I don’t get this game, and I don’t like it, but I force myself to sound bright when I answer: “Of course!”

I know we’ll still be best friends tomorrow, and I know we’ll revert back to our old ways once he dates her, but I can’t seem to stand his presence right now. Maybe it’s the fact that it feels like my chest has become a landfill, and the atmosphere in my flat feels like a dream– a terrific nightmare where nothing feels real and I can’t catch up to my own thoughts. He’s staring at me as I try to contain my breathing but also keep myself from suffocating.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

I don’t know how many times Alex has broken my heart– what’s worse, I don’t know how many more times it will happen beyond this– but I know I will never leave him, despite how painful it is every time. I know we will always be fused in some way regardless.

Just never the way I want.

Resigned to this fact, I give him a smile and tell him it’s fine– though nothing could be farther from the truth.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2013

When I touch down in the States for the first time in my life, I’m shocked– at the sunshine, and the palm trees, and just how bright, and hot, and bloody

blue

everything is. Alex is waiting for me at LAX with a cardboard sign that reads, ‘

Tosser Davis

’, and a goofy grin on his face. I haven’t seen him since he properly moved to Los Angeles, and I abandon my luggage to leap into his open arms.

“‘Ow are ya, Lils?” he asks, grabbing the handle of my suitcase for me as we head toward the exit.

“Ready for a holiday,” I tell him. It’s the only one I’ve been able to afford in years, and it’s only possible because Alex is letting me stay with him, and insisted on paying for half of my plane ticket.

He puts an arm around me as we reach the automatic doors out of arrivals, and squeezes me to him, saying, “We’re gonna get you proper tan for the first time in your life, Davis.”

I roll my eyes, but laugh, and say, “I don’t know if that’s possible, but we can try.”

“What yeh wanna do while yer ‘ere?” he asks. “Go to the beach? See the Walk of Fame?”

“Sleep.”

“Nah then, you’ll sleep when you’re dead.”

He takes me to his West L.A. home, which is hidden by hedges of green palm and electric fuchsia bougainvillea, protected by a remote-controlled garage door. He hauls my things into the house, and I enter the cool, bright quiet of his new home. It’s a mix of retro and modern– clean edges, ‘60’s prints, and lots of sunlight. His records are stacked messily on the coffee table though, and he’s got photographs and art that make it home, and I glimpse the pool through the glass doors at the back, and I’m excited to spend my week here.

And then Arielle comes into the living room from the kitchen.

They’ve been dating for nearly two years now, but this is my first time meeting her and– I should have known from the photos– she’s absolutely beautiful. With long, reddish brown hair, impossibly sharp cheekbones, and the clearest skin I’ve ever seen, she looks like she could have stepped out of a magazine. She is so effortlessly cool, standing there in ripped jeans, and one of Alex’s t-shirts– and can he just date someone who isn’t a goddamned supermodel for

once

?

I’m annoyed at the first sight of her, and I know I shouldn’t be, because she’s looking at me like a puppy, with an excited-timid smile– like she wants me to like her, as one of Al’s best mates– but I wish she weren’t here.

“Lils,” Alex says, and I could cringe at the fact that I’m wearing old leggings and a minging t-shirt from my King’s College days, hair in a curly, wild bun atop my head. “This is Arielle. Arielle, this is Lily.”

She sticks a hand out, before taking it back awkwardly and deciding to hug me. I should be endeared by the quirky, realness of her– that she’s not just a vapid, pretty face– but I’m not.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve always given Alex’s girlfriends a chance. I don’t know why I feel so differently right now.

Maybe it’s because she’s American.

“It’s so nice to meet you!” she says brightly, smiling wide and– Good lord! She has dimples in her perfect cheeks. “We figured you’d be hungry after your flight so I just ordered pizza!”

All right. I really need to give her a chance.

“I’ll show you to your room so you can freshen up if yeh’d like,” Alex says, ushering me toward the stairs.

He shows me to a guest room, and once he leaves me alone, I shower quickly and change– clean leggings and a fitted t-shirt. When I come back downstairs, they’re waiting for me in the kitchen and– I can’t deny it. While they’re chemistry isn’t what his and Alexa’s was, they seem right, like they fit. I feel my shoulders loosen as I resign myself to Alex truly loving yet another girl.

We sit down outside, at a table by the pool– under a sorbet-colored, setting sun– with our pizza, and cool, white wine. Arielle gabbles on, asking questions and telling me about herself, before the wine slows her down, chills her out. And by that point, I realize how funny she is, how quirky and silly she can be. And I see what Alex sees in her– she’s beautiful, of course, but she also doesn’t take herself too seriously, and she makes the atmosphere feel light and bubbly.

The wine helps too.

By the time the sun is gone, and we’re lit up only by the light of the pool, Alex and I have fallen into talking about Sheffield– laughing about Barnsley and Stocksbridge, and nights drinking with friends when we were far too young. Arielle listens, and I don’t notice the bright light fading from her smile, I don’t even realize she has nothing to add, or maybe feels like she’s intruding. Maybe it’s because I’m remembering how Alexa was– how she loved to listen to us reminisce about High Green, and asked us questions, and never minded when we caught up for hours because she always inserted herself into the conversation in an unobtrusive way. I don’t realize that Alex and I are also acting more intimately– more closely entwined– than we ever did in front of Alexa. I don’t think Arielle feels left out or disconcerted at all, I just think she’s listening without a problem.

Halfway through a second bottle of wine, she starts clearing away the plates, and I realize how pissed Alex has gotten. It hits me when he brings up

that fall

– the fall after we lost our virginity to each other and started fooling around– and it makes my whole body go hot. He says it in such a flippant way, casual, off-handed, and I wonder if I’ve misheard him.

“Remember how often we listened to that Strokes album– the fall of our last year at Stocksbridge?”

It was practically the soundtrack to our afternoon hook ups. My whole face must be blazing red. Arielle doesn’t even look over at us as she gathers crumpled napkins and the pizza boxes, because it wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but us– but his gaze is holding mine too intensely for it to mean nothing.

Alex is so loose– so happy-flirty-tipsy- that he starts singing “Is This It”– the actual song that was playing downstairs when we lost our virginity in Kyle Foley’s guest room, and his eyes are locked on mine and– What is he

doing

?

I look away from him, because this feels too intimate, and Arielle is standing right there, and doesn’t he feel weird– doesn’t he feel guilty for what he’s doing?

Though, maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it

does

mean nothing.

“Do you want me to get your guitar?”

Arielle’s voice is clipped and annoyed as she grabs the last box, and I can’t blame her at all– her boyfriend is literally

singing to me

. A song we have had sex to, though she doesn’t know that.

“Let me help you,” I say to her, to try to undo this damage, and to get away from Alex’s lingering, tipsy eyes, and I grab the empty wine bottle and follow her inside.

As I set the bottle down on the counter, Alex comes into the house behind us, and he’s definitely drunk. I can’t wrap my head around what is going on. Is he just reminiscing like usual? Is it no more than that song being one of our favorites from when we teenagers? It probably has nothing to do with our sexual past– though the way he was singing

to

me…

We’re standing awkwardly around the kitchen, and I can sense a fight brewing between them– can see Arielle gearing herself up, Alex tensing in defense– and I just need to get out of here.

“I’m knackered,” I say, giving a real yawn at just the right moment. “I think I’m going to get some sleep, if you guys don’t mind. Thank you so much for dinner.”

“Of course,” Arielle says, but her voice is thin, and I wonder if she’s mad at both of us, or just him, or just me.

I excuse myself and disappear upstairs, but I can hear their muted fight through the walls until the jetlag knocks me out sometime before midnight.

Things are stilted after that. Alex takes me around L.A. every day when he’s not working– shows me all the tourist traps, buys me meals out, walks down sunny, busy boulevards, with his arm around my shoulder. We drive to Malibu and spend the day at the beach, and I get sunburned and dehydrated from beer, loopy and tired from the salt and the sun. But we don’t spend much time with Arielle. It’s clear she was uncomfortable that first night, and that they haven’t fully reconciled, because she makes herself scarce. She doesn’t come out with us, and she makes plans with friends, or is out doing something for work when Alex is working and I’m alone by the pool.

And I feel bad. Because, despite my initial reactions, I don’t dislike Arielle. And despite my perpetual feelings for Alex, I don’t want to ruin or threaten or hurt their relationship.

But I don’t get many chances to make amends by the time my last couple of days in L.A. rolls around. On my second to last morning though, after sleeping in, I go downstairs to the kitchen, knowing Alex is at the studio today, and run into Arielle.

“Oh,” she says, dressed for a workout and drinking her coffee. “I thought you had already left.”

“No,” I reply sheepishly. “Had a bit of a lie in.”

“Do you want some coffee?” she asks.

“Yes, please.”

She gets me a mug– the Union Jack, how appropriate– and pours me some. And as we drink our coffee in silence, I realize how awkward this is, how we’re both thinking about that first night by the pool.

Desperate to fix things, I ask, “Do you have plans today?”

She looks surprised, and takes a beat before saying, “I was going to go for a hike, actually. Are you free? Did you want to come?”

“I’d love to!” I say, relief washing over me. “Let me pop upstairs and just change!”

Arielle drives us to Runyon Canyon Park, which is beautiful, and hot, and not the easiest hike. And I’m not exactly very fit, so I’m huffing and puffing almost immediately.

“How are you liking L.A.?” she asks, as we finally reach a flatter portion of trail, and I can catch my breath.

“It’s brilliant,” I tell her. “I wish I didn’t have to go back.”

“Really? Alex is always talking about wanting to go back to England.”

“I guess that’s just because it’s home,” I reply. “L.A. seems to suit him.”

“How long have you guys been friends again?”

She doesn’t sound threatening, or jealous, just curious. And I don’t want her to dislike me– I’m desperate to melt the tension I’ve brought to their house– so I answer easily: “Since school. We were eleven when we met.”

“And you guys never dated?”

The question surprises me, momentarily unseats me– but again, she just sounds curious.

I think of secondary school. I think of that fall and winter, where it felt like we were together, where we kissed, and fooled around, and cuddled when alone, but acted like normal chums the rest of the time– where we never talked about what we were or weren’t. But no, it’s not a lie if I tell her we never dated.

“No, it’s never been like that between us. Just best mates.”

Who used to shag.

She doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Probably because of how we were that first night by the pool– Alex’s

singing

.

“I mean, we really grew up together,” I tell her. “It’s like we’re brother and sister.”

Okay, that’s an actual lie. Neither Alex nor I have ever described our friendship as us being like siblings, now that I think about it. And for good reason.

Arielle looks slightly mollified.

I ask her about Vine, because I know she’s gotten popular and I’m feeling uncomfortable with this conversation now, and we spend the rest of the time talking about social media.

On my last night in L.A., I have an early night. I have to be at the airport early, and when I land in England I know my sleep schedule will be a mess. But I struggle to get to sleep. I can hear Alex listening to the Velvet Underground downstairs, and the sound of ice in his drink, and then I hear when he goes up to join Arielle in bed. The walls are thin, and when they start talking, I can hear most of that too.

“Are you going to miss having Lily here?” she asks, and her tone sounds innocent– like it's a curious question.

“We’re not startin’ this again, Arielle.”

I’m surprised at his words, so angry so quickly. We all had dinner together tonight and everything seemed fine between the three of us.

“Why are you so defensive?”

“You’ve been picking fights with me all week about this,” he says, and I can hear them both trying to keep their voices down, but they both think I've been long asleep and aren’t trying very hard. “I told you– there’s nothin’ between us. She’s my best mate.”

“You two have been

flirting

all week!” she hisses.

This surprises me, because I hadn’t realized we had been acting any different than our normal selves. Except maybe Alex that first night.

“You’re paranoid,” he says, sounding disgusted.

“You were drunk, and singing to her!”

He’s quiet.

“Normal friends don’t act the way you two do,” she says. “You don’t see the way you two talk to each other, and

look

at each other– and you’re so comfortable touching each other!”

I try to consider our behavior from the past week from an outsider’s perspective– from someone who is not so used to being us. I think of Alex’s arm slung over my shoulders while we walked down Wiltshire Boulevard. Or the way he nudges me with his foot at dinner, or pinches my side in passing in the kitchen. Or the way he teases me, makes me laugh, always makes sure I’m okay and– I can understand why Arielle would call that flirting. That

might

be flirting.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m mad?” she retorts, and the volume of her voice is rising. “Even Matt said it sounded like–”

“Oh, Matt?” his voice is sharp, sarcastic. “You want to talk about

flirting

? Let’s talk about you and Matt.”

I can hear her scoff at him, even through the wall.

“Yeah, I’d love to know what you two get up to while I’m on the road.”

The silence that follows is deafening. I can imagine Arielle looking at him with cold, murderous rage. It’s a shitty thing to say. I know by now that Matt Cutshall is one of Arielle’s best friends– I’ve seen the Vines– and I don’t know if Alex has any reason to believe she’s cheated on him with Matt, as he’s never said anything to me. Regardless, I can tell it was said in defense, to hurt more than he’s being hurt, and I actually cringe in the dark where I’m laying.

Alex, what are you doing? I think to myself.

“Fuck you,” Arielle finally says.

I hear her open the door angrily and stomp down the stairs, grabbing her keys and slamming the front door. The car starts, and the garage door opens before I can hear her speeding away down the street.

I’m practically holding my breath, waiting for the next thing to happen, waiting to see if Alex will do anything or if she’ll come back, when my bedroom door opens. I see Alex’s figure silhouetted in the doorway, and he comes in, closing the door behind him.

He’s silent as he pulls the covers back and climbs into bed with me, and I turn to face him, saying, “You should call her and apologize.”

“This is absolute bollocks,” he says. “She’s just bein’ jealous.”

“You were a twat, Alex.”

“I’m not goin’ to justify ‘er paranoia,” he says, staring up at the ceiling. “You should see the way she is with Matt.”

“Alex.”

“What?” he sounds annoyed.

“I mean, she’s not wrong.”

“What?”

“Anyone who isn’t us would say we’re flirting.”

“What are you on about?”

“Alex.”

He turns on his side and meets my eye. We look at each other in the darkness for a while, the only light coming through the window from the full moon. He doesn’t say anything, but his body is centimeters from mine, his hand finding its way to lace his fingers with my own. The movement– the easy, instinctual interlocking of our fingers– seems to make the realization dawn on him.

This is not something he would do with Matt Helders. This is not something Arielle does with her Matt.

“I don’t think she’s ‘appy,” he whispers, looking at our hands. “I don’t think I am either.”

I hold my breath, because I didn’t know anything about this.

“I don’t think it’s right between us– I don’t think it’ll last.”

“You don’t know that–”

“This isn’t the first time she’s left for the night.”

I look at him sadly, give his hand a squeeze.

“We’re tryin’, but it’s gettin’ ‘arder and ‘arder,” he continues, and he meets my eyes again. “And I miss you all the time, Lils.”

“I’m always here, Alex,” I tell him, taking my hand from his to reach up and smooth back his soft, ungelled quiff of hair. “I’m never going anywhere. You know that.”

He’s quiet for a long time, studying my face, and it feels like a significant amount of time has passed– enough that it distracts me– and I’m taken off guard when he closes the space between us and kisses me.

I’m caught so unawares that I don’t pull away immediately. I actually grip his neck, let my mouth fall open to his. When he presses his body to the length of mine, it shocks me into consciousness once more, and I pull away– practically

push

him away.

“Alex, what are you

doing

?” I gasp, holding him almost at arm’s length.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m just– I don’t want to think about this ‘ole thing with Arielle– I’m so tired of fightin’.”

“You realize what you just did makes her even more right, don’t you?”

He gives me a look. “Come on, Lils, it’s

us

.”

I know what he means, and it stings. He means, this is what we do sometimes. We fuck, and we stay just friends.

“That doesn’t mean it’s right.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

We’re silent, both of us staring away from each other for several minutes.

Finally, he says, “Can I stay with you for the night?”

“Alex–”

“She’s not coming back,” he tells me. “I know she’s not. I just don’t want to be alone– I want to stay with my best mate– like old times.”

“Fine,” I capitulate, and I turn around, squashing my pillow to get comfortable. “Just don’t hog the covers.”

I don’t protest when he cuddles up to me from behind, or when he wraps his arm around me and pulls me to him– or even when he nestles his mouth into the crook of my neck, below my ear, breathing deeply against me as his body relaxes. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep, and with the warmth of his body wrapped around me, his comforting and familiar scent– the scent of home– lulling me, I finally fall fast asleep too.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Do I Wanna Know?

2014

I don’t tell Rosie the details of what happened with Alex. I know she would spend her last cent in order to track him down in New Zealand and break his nose. Instead, I just tell her it didn’t work out, but that we’re still mates. She can see the sadness in my eyes though– the defeat– and offers to take me out on the town.She insists I come to hers before we go out, so I do. And she sniffs at my jeans, my trainers, my old, black hoodie, the second I walk into her flat. Rosie is not one to change someone– to insist they pretend to be someone they’re not– but she knows I’m dressed down in depression. So she plies me with with several shots of vodka, and then switches my hoodie for a fitted leather jacket of hers, and takes my hair out of its bun, letting it run wild around me.“Don’t let him make you feel like shite, babe,” she says, fluffing my curls for me. “He’s a twat if he doesn’t see what he’s missin’.”With the vodka and the leather jacket, and Rosie’s words of wisdom, I feel better equipped to take on the night, and I push Alex from my mind as we split a cab to a trashy bar in Covent Garden.Rosie insists on paying for a round, and she buys us a couple double vodka sodas. We sip on our drinks and listen to the too-loud music, with the too-bright strobe lights temporarily blinding us. Bodies crush around us, and there’s no way we can talk here, but I guess that was Rosie’s plan. She knows I don’t need a therapy session, I need to not think at all. So, with some dancy Cheryl Cole song playing, she leads me out onto the dance floor, and I can’t help it– she’s twirling me around and bopping her hip against mine– I dance with her.It’s not long before I’m taking off my leather jacket, sweating in my tank top and trainers. Blokes come up to us and start to buy us a drinks, and we dance with them for a song, and then saunter away and find others. I feel light for the first time since Alex left for L.A., and I’m not thinking about him for the first time in months. I’m buoyed by Rosie’s presence, by her hand holding mine as we dip to the music, by how light I feel laughing with her, how grateful I am for her friendship.I’m thoroughly pissed by midnight– more so than I’ve been in months. The bar spins dangerously under my trainers, and I’m worried I might actually be sick. I feel like a teenager for the way I push through it though. I dance harder, letting some guy hold my hips behind me, until I feel too hot and I spin away. I’m losing whole moments of the night– I have a new drink in my hand and I don’t know where it came from, I don’t remember certain songs beginning or ending– when a song comes on, and it pierces through the fog of drunkenness with a stabbing sensation.

Have you got color in your cheeks

Rosie meets my eyes through the dark, shadowy bodies.

Do you ever get that fear that you can’t shift the type

That sticks around like summat in your teeth?

My stomach cramps– my body practically doubling in physical pain– and the breath leaves my body.

Are there some aces up your sleeve?

Having Alex’s voice puncture the bubble of my night, breaks my heart more than when he was actually sitting in front of me, telling me he had met someone. Rosie is beside me immediately, has an arm around me as I’m nearly sinking to my knees.

Have you no idea that you’re in deep?

I’m crying before I can stop it– the vodka-tears spilling down my cheeks to my own horror.

“Oh, shite,” Rosie says under her breath, sounding regretful– as if she put the song on– and she ushers me through the crowd, towards the exit.

On the sidewalk outside, I’m sobbing– actually, audibly

sobbing

. I can’t breathe, can’t stop the gasps that leave my mouth as Rosie pulls me into her arms, squeezing me tight, as if she can hold me together. Her body muffles my howls, but they’re still coming, and I’m shaking uncontrollably.

“Babe, I’m gonna get us a cab,”  she says. “But you gotta calm down– no one will take us in this state.”

I nod, taking a deep breath and pressing my lips together.

In the back of the cab, I’m fumbling with my phone– desperate to text Alex, to call him, to reach out to him in some way, lash out at him in some way– but Rosie takes it from me.

“You’ll thank me in the morning.”

I’m shaking violently with the force of trying to not cry– trying to keep from howling again– and Rosie pulls me to her once more, her arm strong around me.

“What is all this, hon?” she whispers in the backseat. “You said it just didn’t work out– this is more than that.”

I shake my head, because if I start talking, I’ll fall apart all over again.

Rosie holds me until we get to her flat. There, she deposits me on her couch, wraps me in an afghan and makes me a strong, cup of tea. Then, when I’ve settled down and caught my breath, she sits beside me, puts her hand on my back, and insists I explain.

“I haven’t been honest with you, Ro,” I tell her, and everything inside of me deflates. “I’m utterly in love with him– have been since age fifteen.”

She nods and says nothing, just rubs my back and tucks the blanket around me.
“And I’ve–” my chest tightens momentarily, almost keeps me from letting the truth out. But the vodka has undone me, and the heartbreak has let down my last wall. I can’t do it anymore. “I’ve been lying to him for years.”“About what, babe?”This is the moment; the possible delineating moment between before and after. I could lose her after this moment right here– where I tell her how awful of a person I am, where I tell her how awful of a person I have been for years.
“Alex thinks I’m in publishing,” I tell her, the words coming out in a painful rush. “He thinks I finished at King’s College, and got a job in publishing.”
Rosie doesn’t look mad, just confused.“I didn’t know how to tell him when I had to leave school,” I confess. “I felt like such an utter failure, and I didn’t want to put a damper on his success– or look like a knob in comparison.”The realization settles behind her eyes, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit angry."And then I became a m-maid and I felt so shite. I was in a love with an international rockstar, but I was cleaning toilets, and I kept l-lying," I say, and I can't meet her eyes. “It all got away from me.”“He still doesn’t know then?” she asks. “After the way you both was together this time?”The tears come back without warning, and I shake my head as my vision goes watery.“What happened then?” she says firmly. “It didn’t just ‘not work out’.”
My throat closes, and I swallow hard. “He met someone else,” I admit quietly.
“I’ll fucking kill ‘im.”She has never sounded more South London than in the tone of her voice in this moment, and I almost laugh.“Where is ‘e?” she demands, her voice rising to near hysterical. “Fuckin’ Auckland? I don’t care– I’ll fuckin’– I’ll–”“Rosie, stop.”She sees the state I’m in– that it’s not helping– and she calms down.“It’s my fault,” I tell her. “I– I haven’t been honest with him, and I never made him believe we were anything but mates.”“You was shagging him!” she cries. “You was–” she cuts herself off and shakes her head.“That’s what we do,” I shrug. “That’s who we’ve always been. How was he supposed to know any different?”“I love you, babe, but do not make excuses for this twat right now.”“I still love him, Ro,” I tell her. “He’s still my best friend.”She considers me for a moment, and then decides to give me my phone back. “If you want to know what I fink, I fink you shouldn’t talk to him for a bit. Give yourself some space to get over this, love.”I think of Alex, of not talking to him for some time. We’ve gone days, weeks, without speaking, particularly when he was living in New York, or was busy touring. It doesn’t seem like it would be something he would even notice while off working. Part of my drunken brain still wants to talk to him right now though. I don’t know what time it is in New Zealand, but even an angry voicemail would do at this point.But I look up and meet Rosie’s eyes– this best friend who isn’t rejecting me for the truth, who accepts me without question– and I know she’s right. I bury my mobile under the afghan and I gulp my scalding tea, resolute in my decision.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2002

It’s been nearly six months since Alex and Melanie started dating, and over one month since he and I have spoken.

I’ve done a bang up job of tolerating Melanie, if I do say so myself. She’s vapid, and obnoxious, and willingly listens to American pop like it’s tolerable. Worse than that, she’s always

around

. Every time I hang out with Alex, or we’re in a group, or we go to a party, she’s there. I haven’t hung out with him alone in about four months, because Matt told me she doesn’t like him to– she gets jealous and pouts. And I never fought it, never complained, or even said anything to Alex about how mad it all is– that he’s letting this big-boobed-bird dictate his life.

But about a month ago we got tickets to see the Strokes in Leeds– just the two of us. Melanie’s not a fan, Matt was away in London looking at schools, but there wasn’t a chance we were going to miss them.

Just two days before it though, Alex told me he couldn’t go– to give my ticket to someone else. I was gutted, but more than that, I was

angry

.

I marched over to his house without warning, and when Penny let me in, I went up to his room and barged right in without knocking. And there he was, sitting on his bed, plucking away at his guitar, and he looked shocked to see me, soft in sweats and messy hair, but I wanted to spit on him.

“Why can’t you go to the Strokes?” I demanded, closing the door behind me, folding my arms as I rounded on him.

“What–”

“We’ve had these tickets for weeks,”  I insisted. “Why can’t you go all of a sudden?” I didn’t even let him answer, just steamrolled right over him and said, “Is it Melanie?”

He looked annoyed then, as he put his guitar aside and stared up at me.

“Because you’ve thrown me over for her enough times since the spring,” I went on. “I’m not stupid.”

“No, but you are barkin’!”

I rolled my eyes. “Why can’t you go to the Strokes then?”

He didn’t answer for a long time, and we just stared at each other, breathing angrily. I knew I was right, and I knew that was why he wasn’t answering, and it gave me immense satisfaction.

“She needs me–”

“You’re a twat.”

He looked like I had just slapped him.

“I never thought you would let some girl control you,” I said, and there was disdain in my voice.

I couldn’t help it. It was months of anger, and hurt, and rejection bubbling out with my words. It was finally getting back at him for fooling around with me and then dumping me for her, without even a conversation. It was the fact that he had never even mentioned what had happened between us in any way, and now was acting like it had never happened at all.

“Are you jealous or somethin’?”

I could have killed him.

“Is this because of what happened last year?” he was spitting fire too now, saying things that were meant to scathe, meant to burn– and they did. “You think I’m your boyfriend or somethin’ now?”

I could not form words right away. I was blind with rage.

“Fuck you, Alex,” I said, trembling with so much anger I knew I was about to start crying.

I didn’t wait for him to say anything else, or wait for him to possibly see me cry. Instead, I turned on my heel and slammed his door, running out of the house before his mum could ask what was wrong.

When I got home, hot, angry tears were streaming down my face, and Dad was bewildered. I tried to babble an incoherent explanation to him, but all he could gather was that Alex and I had had a massive row and that he wasn’t going to go to the Strokes. So, Dad offered to go with me instead. And he did. And we had a great time– maybe even better than I would have had with Alex. He bought me a pint at the venue, and though he didn’t know the Strokes, he bopped about in his dad way, and we had fish and chips at midnight when it was all over.

But Alex and I haven’t spoken in over a month now. Neither of us has tried to reach out to the other, and I know neither of us feels like it’s our job to. Matt has tried to mediate to the best of his ability– tried to convince me to forget it and apologize, or accept Alex’s apology even though he hasn’t made one. But I know Matt is saying the same things to Alex, and I know Matt doesn’t actually know what our fight is about. He doesn’t know how cruel Alex was, or how selfish he’s been, or how embarrassed I feel.

Dad, to his credit, doesn’t try to take sides or convince me to talk to him, but does try to reason with me.

“You just seem unhappy, Lils,” he says over dinner one night. “I know you miss him– whatever he did.”

“He’s a dickhead.”

Dad pauses, surprised at my language, then says, “He might be. But he’s been your best mate for years.”

“Well, now he can sod off.”

But really, I feel pained to have lost Alex’s friendship– and it really does feel like a permanent loss. I see him at school, and he’s laughing and talking with Matt and Jamie, and

Melanie

, and it’s like I was never his friend at all, like he’s not

missing

me at all. It makes me think our friendship must have always meant more to me than to him, because

I

miss him desperately. Not in the I-fancy-him-so-I-want-him-around kind of way, but in the way that whenever anything funny happens I want to tell him more than anyone else. I don’t have my usual friend to whinge and moan to. I have Dad, and Matt– who spends most of his free time with Alex, besides– but I’ve never felt so desperately lonely before, and I find myself getting home from school most days and crying because of it– and crying because he doesn’t seem to feel the same way.

It’s a Friday night. Nearly a month and a half since Alex and I have spoken, and Dad is at work. I’m sitting on the couch, in my biggest, saddest pair of sweats, watching old ‘EastEnders’ when the doorbell rings.

I shuffle to the door, sure it’s just a package or something, and open it to find Alex standing on my doorstep. To say I am absolutely gobsmacked is an understatement. When I saw Alex at school today he walked right by me with Melanie without even a glance in my direction, and now he’s standing in front of me looking sheepish and pathetic.

“Hi.”

I can’t find my voice to reply.

“Can I come in?”

Without saying a word, I step aside, and he walks into the sitting room as I close the door behind him. I sit back down in my place on the couch, and he sits at the other end of it, against the arm, refusing to meet my eyes.

I finally regain enough sense to push him to speak and I say, “Did you need something?”

“Lils, I’m so fucking, bloody sorry.”

I could cry from relief.

“I was such a bleeding knob,” he goes on. “I didn’t mean any of the shite I said– I were just annoyed. Melanie was naggin’ me for goin’ to the concert with you, and I felt like I just didn’t want to upset ‘er– and everythin’ you said were right, about ‘er controllin’ me, and I snapped at

you

.”

I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a month and a half.

“And I shouldn’t ‘ave,” he goes on. “I shouldn’t ‘ave brought up last summer the way I did either.”

My face goes scarlet– because this is the first time he’s bringing it up without it being in a fight– and I look at my hands.

“And I fuckin’, bloody miss you,” he puts his head in his hands. “I can’t talk to Melanie or Matt about nothin’– I’ve been a right mess without you to keep me ‘ead on straight.”

I know this isn’t true– I know he can at least talk to Matt– but it’s like a straight shot of morphine into my pain-riddled body.

He’s been suffering just as much as me, and while I don’t necessarily like that, I feel relief at not being alone.

“Will you please forgive me?” he asks. “I need my best mate back.”

I let him squirm for a moment– let him think I’m not going to say anything– before I roll my eyes at him and say, “Took you long enough, ya tosser.”

He heaves a sigh of relief and crawls across the couch cushions to hug me.

“And I’m sorry too.” When he pulls away, I ask, “Did you dump Melanie yet, or what?”

“No.”

I roll my eyes again.

“But the next concert is on me, and she can sod off if she has a problem with me takin’ you.”

My chest feels warm. My mate is back.

“Now please, can we watch somethin’ other than this rubbish?” he asks, sitting back beside me and grabbing the remote to find something other than my trashy television show.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Piece of my Heart

2014

Alex and I haven’t spoken in over two weeks. He’s been back on the

AM

tour, with shows in New Zealand and Australia, and I’ve been able to conveniently miss his two attempts at calling. I’ve managed short, noncommittal and cheery replies to the handful of texts he’s sent. I don’t want him to think anything’s wrong necessarily, but I also don’t have the strength or energy to get back into the way things were just yet– even as his best mate.
I feel like someone trying to heal after an injury– like I’m fragile and weak, like every movement brings me pain. Even walking down the street, or listening to music, feels like I need to tread gingerly. I avoid certain songs like hearing them will be pressing on a bruise, and I try to keep my thoughts occupied so they don’t stray and cause salt to spill on the wound. But I’ve never felt like this before– never in all the times Alex has found love, or had a one night stand, or started seriously seeing someone, did it hurt like this. And I don’t know if it was the fact that I truly, deeply hoped this time was different, or my love for him reached a point while we were ‘together’ that it hadn’t before, but I feel like I’m truly in recovery, and I’m struggling.
I haven’t gone to see Dad, because I just can’t bear to talk to him about it, and Rosie has been good about distracting me– about talking about

anything

else. And I keep myself busy, constantly moving. I clean the flat top to bottom, sort through mail, organize clothes to donate. I pick up extra shifts and work events at the Mannerly. And then I spend all my free time at Rosie’s, even if it’s just sitting on her couch and listening to her endless chatter. It’s as if being alone could make everything real– could force me to acknowledge the shitstorm of my life. And though I try to write, I can’t focus, and after several attempts, I give up all together.
I’m working an extra shift, on a Thursday afternoon in mid May, when everything unravels once more.
It’s Rosie’s day off, and I’ve split the rooms with another maid, so I’m mostly cleaning alone. I’ve got my headphones in, and I’m listening to Janis Joplin as I tidy up the guest rooms. In the solitary moments of work, I’m thinking about the comfort I feel in other women’s voices right now. I’ve been avoiding Alex’s favorites, and some of mine that remind me of him, but soulful, strong women seem to cradle me in my heartbreak. And there’s something about Janis’s rough and tough voice– even in

her

own heartbreak– that makes me feel strong.
So it’s with a sense of actual lightness that I walk down the hallway with my trolley of cleaning products and laundry. It’s the promise of hope– the possibility that I won’t feel so wretched forever. Until my whole body goes cold.Walking down the hallway, holding hands with a blonde I don’t recognize, is Alex.There isn’t even time for my heart to rocket into my skull before his eyes meet mine as he draws closer, and I can’t hide, and the blood is rushing to my head, and I yank Janis out of my ears.There is a look of absolute confusion on his face– a total lack of understanding. At me, walking with a cleaning trolley, in my pale, gray uniform and apron. I contemplate running, but they’re right here, and they’re stopping.“Lily?” he says.The leggy, giraffe-tall blonde looks between us, just as confused, but from an entirely different angle.I can not move my lips, or get air into my lungs. I might die on the spot. My hands tighten around the handle of the trolley, going sweaty.
“Lily, what are you

doin’

‘ere?”
Oh God, does he think I’m stalking him and his new girlfriend? That I’m walking the hotel halls– disguised as a maid– out of a jealous need for him?I still can’t speak, and I truly want to, though I don’t know what to say or how to explain.
“Do you

work

‘ere?”
Realization is dawning on him– I can almost physically see the truth seep into understanding in his brain, spread down his face– and then comes anger.
“

Do you

?” he practically growls, and I’ve never seen him like this– have never seen him so angry, or this angry at

me

.
“Yes,” I finally manage to choke out, looking in panic up and down the hallway.“‘Ow long?” his whole body tenses like a violin string, shaking from the pressure as he asks it, and his voice is rising in the small space of the hallway– and I’m worried at the attention he’s attracting.My throat has gone impossibly dry, so it sounds like a croak when I reply: “Seven years.”His eyes hold mine for a moment– as if he’s trying to eviscerate me with his dark irises– and the blonde looks uncomfortable. My mind is a blank with shock, fear, and I don’t know what to say– I can’t move or think or act.“You lied to me,” he says, his voice balancing on the precipice of rage, held back with restraint.I shake my head, though it’s true.“You’ve been lyin’ to me for years,” he goes on, and I can hear the delicate hurt under the stern anger, and tears are filling my eyes before I can stop them.“Alex, I didn’t–”
“No, yeh did!” he shouts, making the blonde and I both jump, making a guest turn and look from down the hall. “You’ve been lyin’ to me– on

purpose–

for years?”
I wish a tear wasn’t spilling from my eye, but it is, trailing down my cheek so pathetically.“After all we’ve been through,” he sounds disgusted with me, and he looks at me as if I’m something he found on the bottom of his shoe.He doesn’t say anything else– and I almost wish he would– because when he turns and goes back the way they came, disappearing down the hallway, with the blonde hurrying after him, it hurts worse than him yelling at me. 
Well, it happened.
The thing that I feared more than anything else for almost a decade has happened, and as I sit in the locker room at the end of my shift– completely immobilized– it feels worse than I ever anticipated. It feels like a limb has been severed from my body, like I’ve poured acid down my own throat, like I was staring down the barrel of a gun and it’s now hit me between the eyes.I hurt my very best friend in the entire world. I hurt someone I considered family– the love of my life. And what feels worse is that it didn’t hurt until now, until I was caught. I was fine with lying to him for years, wasn’t I? I must have been, or else I wouldn’t have done it. And now I’m shaking– panic-stricken– because I’ve gotten what I deserved, because I’ve been found out.Looking down at my mobile, still dressed in my uniform, I think about calling him, begging him for forgiveness. And the reversal of roles is not lost on me. Just weeks ago it was my heart he was breaking, me who should have been apologized to. In moments, I’m the villain, and I’ve forgotten all about my own pain for his– for what I’ve done to him.I have a hard time swallowing as I put my phone aside, start to unlace my trainers.I would give up any chance of having a romantic relationship with him– I would put my selfish, childish notions of romantic love aside– if only I could undo this.Shaking, I pick up my phone again.How could I even begin to apologize?
He has every right to be angry with me.
I think about phoning Dad, or Rosie, and a sob suddenly escapes my throat, taking me by surprise. I don’t deserve any comfort right now. I need to sit with this punishment for a moment.I put my phone aside, and I don’t call anyone. Instead, I change out of my uniform with weak, trembling fingers, and then I walk to the tube. As if to cement my punishment, I don’t listen to any music on my way to the station, or once I’ve gotten onto a train. Instead, I let people stare at me as I fight the tears filling up my eyes, as my body vibrates against my control.And once I get home to my flat, I crawl under the covers and get into bed without changing, and I let the truth sink in and smother me as I decide to deal with it all tomorrow. In the meantime, I let the pain blot out anything else.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

1998

When Mum first left, Dad made a lot of phone calls that ended in shouting. I know some of them were phone calls to my aunt, who lived in Reading but was acting as a mediator when Mum wouldn’t answer. Other conversations were with Mum directly– I knew, because I heard him saying her name harshly, at least once in every sentence.

“Well, you didn’t really leave us with much choice,

Maureen

!”

“

Maureen

, you have a child you’ve abandoned– she needs her mum!”

“We’re in Sheffield now,

Maureen

. If you need to contact us, this is our address.”

She never called us when she first left. She was very happy to be abandoning all responsibility and all connection to us. I know she didn’t ask her sister about our well-being. I know she was relieved to be free of us from the ease with which she shrugged off Dad’s clutching hands on the day she left– from the way she so easily looked me in the eye, with her suitcases in her hands, and showed no feeling at all. I know it was Dad reaching out to her, desperate, unable to let go.

But after we settled into Sheffield, he stopped calling. She made a call on my first birthday away, and then on Christmas, and I guess her reaching out– even if only to speak to just me, twice a year– was enough for Dad. Though recently, it hasn’t been enough for me.

I’ve been spending a lot of time with Alex at his, with his mum and dad. And I love Mrs. Turner, but the closer Alex and I become, the more she asks about my time in London, about Dad, about Mum. The more I catch her looking at me like she feels bad for me. And the more I feel bad for myself.

It’s been years without Mum, and the chasm she left behind sometimes feels like it could swallow me whole. Like when Mrs. Turner pulls Alex to her in passing, planting a kiss on the top of his head and straightening the tie of his school uniform. Or when she brings us a snack after school without us even asking, and I catch her looking at Alex so fondly– like the sun rises and sets on him. Or when I try to do something distinctly

girly

, and I can’t cope– like trying to figure out how to plait my hair.

Usually I’m very good at stamping the feelings down. Alex doesn’t know anything about Mum or why she left, or how I feel about it, and I know Dad feels bad enough– worries about me enough– without my making it worse. But today, watching Mrs. Turner smooth back Alex’s fluffy hair as she tells us she’s popping out to the shops, makes something inside of me crumble– makes something inside of me yearn for the love of my own mother, a love I don’t know if I ever had if she was so willing to leave us.

When Mrs. Turner is gone, I feel the tears rise up my esophagus like a tidal wave, and I swallow hard to keep them at bay.

I don’t want to cry in front of Alex. I don’t want to cry at all.

“I think I need to get home,” I manage to get out, without any reasoning or explanation to him, and I rise from the couch where we’re watching a documentary on deep sea creatures.

“What?” he asks. “We can do somethin’ else. You don’t have to go.”

I don’t say anything to him, just pull on my coat and hurry out the front door. He catches up to me in the front drive in moments. He didn’t stop to grab his own jacket or shoes, he’s in only a t-shirt and socks, and it makes me stop.

“Lils,” he says, using the nickname he’s only just started calling me. “What’s this? Why’d you want to leave?”

I’m rooted to the spot, right in the middle of the drive, in front of the Turners’ house. I know Alex is my best friend, but we’ve never talked about anything as serious as my mum. To be honest, I try not to even think about how Mum’s leaving makes me feel, or the seriousness of it.

“Was it my mum?”

He’s grasping for an explanation– he doesn’t know that he’s hitting the truth spot on, or how. Without warning, my face crumples like a piece of paper in on itself, and I’m hiding behind both hands.

“Shite, Lils!” he jumps into action, though I know Alex has little experience dealing with crying girls, and puts both hands on my arms to steady me. “What is it?”

“It’s not your mum,” I tell him behind my hands. “I’m sorry.”

He puts an arm around me, with my hands still pressed to my face, and steers me back to the house. Inside, he sits me down at the kitchen table, and I can hear him rummaging around the kitchen, setting the kettle on, and it somehow makes me cry harder behind my fingers. Something about this boy, making me tea to comfort me, in probably the same way his mum has comforted him, makes me suck down a sob.

When he sets a cup of steaming tea on the table, he pulls a chair up right next to me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I’m so mortified to be crying in front of him at all that I don’t speak, just sniffle behind my hands.

Gently, he takes hold of my wrists, and pulls my hands away from my face. I meet his big brown eyes, through the lens of my watery, blue ones. He’s looking at me with such concern, such genuine worry, that I nearly crumble again. He hands me a clean dish towel, and I swipe at my red, tear-stained cheeks, astonished at this sensitivity, at his compassion. I’ve known Alex for years now, but I’ve never see him like this– at least not for me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “I know it weren’t the angler fish on the telly.”

This makes me actually laugh, and he smiles.

He gives my arm a squeeze, leaning towards me, so I finally work up the courage to say, “It’s my mum.”

“Your mum? Is she–?”

“She’s in Barcelona. She’s been in Spain for years.”

He looks surprised, because he knew my mum and Dad weren’t together, but he’s never known the circumstances.

“She left before we came to Sheffield,” I tell him, and I reach out to wrap both of my hands around the warm mug on the table. “Just packed up one day and told us she was leaving.”

“What?” it doesn’t look like he can fathom it, with his wonderful mum and dad, and cozy home in High Green.

“I came home from school one day with my dad and she was leaving,” I tell him, and I’m surprised at how easily the words are spilling out– at how sharply the memories stay in focus. But it feels good to talk about it, because I haven’t talked about it with anyone– not even Dad– since she left. “And my dad cried, and he begged her to stay, and then he shouted, and she didn’t even seem

bothered

.”

Alex shakes his head in disgust, and it calms me for some reason.

“She only calls on my birthday, and Christmas,” I tell him. “And I don’t care– I can be fine without her– it’s just… my dad.”

I suck in a deep breath, because i’m afraid I’ll cry harder if I don’t. Alex, to his credit, doesn’t falter, just keeps his eyes trained on me, listening.

“I feel so bad for what she’s done to

him

.”

“Yeah, but Lils, you and yer dad ‘ave each other,” he tells me, giving my arm a squeeze. “She has nothin’.”

“She didn’t

want

us.”

“Then she can fuck off to Barcelona!”

Again, his words take me by surprise, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips.

“You and Major Tom are the two greatest people I know,” he says. “Don’t tell Matt I said that, but you are. And if she doesn’t see that, than it’s ‘er loss. And she’s a knob, and you don’t want a knob for a mum anyway.”

He gives me a crooked smile, and I can’t help it, I feel better from his words.

“If she only gets to talk to you twice a year,” he goes on to say. “Than it’s ‘er loss a million times over, Lils. Really.”

I blink away the tears in my eyes, and give him a smile as he pushes my tea towards me to drink.

“Now come on,” he says. “Let’s go find out what ‘appens with these bloody fish, yeah?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Stuck on the Puzzle

2014

After my run in with Alex, I don’t see him or the leggy blonde at the Mannerly again. And before long– according to Google– he’s back on tour, on his way to Germany and the Netherlands, and I haven’t heard a word from him– angry or otherwise. So I let myself wallow for a good couple of weeks. I can’t help it, I sink into the feeling like an old coat, wrap it around myself, hug it to me. I let myself have a good cry every couple of days, drink cups and cups of tea, and whiskey, mope about in my sweats and smoke, and though I feel guilty for it, Rosie says I deserve to wallow if I need to.“I don’t though,” I say to her, a week after telling her about my encounter with Alex and his new girlfriend. “I was the one in the wrong– I don’t deserve the luxury of wallowing now.”“You was both wrong,” she tells me, stripping one of the guest beds while I empty the wastebasket. “You lied, and ‘e broke your ‘eart. Doesn’t mean you don’t feel bad, love.”“I should have told him the truth years ago,” I moan, sinking into the chair at the desk, feeling weak.That’s been happening a lot lately– since Alex told me he had met someone. I feel faint, overcome, like a weak-limbed, baby deer at random intervals. It’s like the emotion, the thoughts, the pain, just buckle my joints into nothingness.“It’s past, babe,” Rosie tells me sternly, hands on her hips. And God bless her, honestly, because I don’t know how many times she’s patiently given me the no-nonsense, ‘Get off the ledge, dear’ talk in the last month. “If ‘e won’t talk to you now, the least you can do is give yourself time to ‘ave a little moan and whine, before you get back up, yeah?”I stare at her dubiously.“Give yourself a break for once, babe! Really!”So I do. I let the anxiety unwind from my mind, unspooling in tears, and excessive drinking, and napping. Years of fear and guilt stretch out for hours while I sit on my couch watching the telly, and I absorb it, hold the feeling, turn it over and look at it from all angles. I examine things from retrospect now, and I deal with it. I know I’ll rebuild, whether that’s with Alex in my life or not– whether he ever speaks to me again or not– but for now, I sit in the pain.The one thing I haven’t done is tell Dad. Something in me isn’t ready to share this pain with him– to burden him with my problems and my failures and my grief, though I know he would welcome it, shoulder it willingly. I don’t feel like I deserve that kind of comfort or relief yet.So, we talk briefly on the phone, over text, and I tell him that Alex is back on tour, that work is fine, I’m fine, everything is fine, and I’ll be coming home to Sheffield to visit soon. He doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t pry.It’s nearly midway into June when I receive the phone call, while I’m sat in my kitchen on a Saturday morning, drinking my coffee.I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway.“Hello, is this Lily Davis?”“Yes,” I reply, and for some reason my whole body has become electric with anxiety. The deep, authoritative male voice on the other side of the line sounds too official, too important for it to be a telemarketer or something. “Who’s this?”“This is Doctor Saks, at Northern General Hospital,” he says, and my vision goes fuzzy. “Is your father Thomas Davis?”My whole body goes hot and cold at once. “Yes,” I breathe.“Miss, your father was brought in this morning for tightness in his chest and shortness of breath,” he tells me. “He’s currently in surgery for what we believe is a massive heart attack. Would it be possible for you to get to Northern General?”
“I’m–I’m in London,” I stammer, thinking to myself

He’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s not dead.

“I don’t have a c–car– I can try to catch a train– I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Very good, miss,” says Dr. Saks, and he hangs up.I’m shaking uncontrollably as I go into my bedroom and pull on some clean clothes. I can’t quite work out how to breathe properly, and I’m letting out huffs of anguished breath as I grab my phone and my bag, and I worry I might be sick.
I don’t know when the next train to Sheffield is, and it could take me five hours to get there besides. My mind is racing as I sit down on my bed, trying to think. Alex has a car in London, but I don’t even know if he’s

in

London, or if he would answer a call from me right now. Not sure of what else I can do, I phone Rosie.
“My brother’s got a car, love,” she tells me in a hurry, once I’ve explained everything to her in a rush. “I’ll just nip over and get it and I’ll pick you up. Sit tight.”She gets to my flat in under twenty minutes, and we’re on the M1 in another twenty.“Babe, breathe, yeah?” she orders, as she speeds down the roadway, demonstrating long, slow breaths for me.
My hands twist together in a knot, and overwhelming waves of panic-nausea keep crashing over me. I have to keep repeating

He’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s not dead

, over and over in my head to keep from crying.
“‘Ave you phoned ‘im?” Rosie asks softly, gently.I look over at her, surprised, and shake my head. “No, they said Dad was in surgery–”“No,” she stops me. “Alex?”Having Alex here with me is all I want right now– second to knowing Dad will be okay– and I didn’t even realize it.I know he’s mad at me, but I call him with trembling fingers anyway. Somehow, Rosie gets us to Sheffield in just over 3 hours, and I’m astounded her reckless driving didn’t get us stopped on the way here. But we push our way through the front doors of the hospital, and find Matt sitting in the waiting room with Breana and Alex’s parents. I pull him into a hug the second I see him.“Thank you for coming.”“Of course,” he replies. “They won’t say anythin’ though, cause we’re not family.”When I called Alex on the M1, it went straight to voicemail. I left a message, telling him what had happened, my voice quiet and shaking, and I told him how sorry I was for everything, but that I needed him. Right after, I called Matt.
“Matt,” I sighed when he answered. “Where are you? Are you with Alex?”
“I’m at ‘ome,” he told me. “In Sheffield with Breana. What’s goin’ on– Are you okay?”“It’s my dad,” I said, and my voice broke. “He’s in hospital– he’s had a heart attack.”“Oh, shite–”“Can you get a hold of Alex? Do you know where he is?”“I think ‘e’s in New York until our next show,” he told me. “I can try to get a ‘old of ‘im.”“Thank you!” I gushed. I knew that if Alex just knew what was going on, where Dad was, he would find a way to come to me. Even if just for the time being.“Where’s your dad, Lily?” Matt asked. “I’ll go and wait fer yeh there.”So Matt and the Turners are standing in– in Alex’s absence, without a mum or any other family to stand by me– and tears are welling up in my eyes as he lets me out of his embrace. Mrs. Turner pulls me to her before I can say anything, crushing me in a rose-scented hug.
“How are you, love?”
It physically hurts to not cry– to not fall into a black hole of catastrophe– but I swallow hard and manage, saying, “I’m okay.”“We haven’t been able to get Alex,” she tells me sadly, as she lets me go, and her face is streaked with worry. “But I know he’ll be here.”It occurs to me that none of them know about Alex and my fight, or my lies to him– not Matt, or Alex’s parents– and I wonder if they would be so sure he was going to come if they did know.
I nod wordlessly to Mrs. Turner though, and approach the reception desk like I’m walking through quicksand.
They had managed to stabilize Dad while Rosie and I sped up the M1, but he had to go back into intensive care just before we arrived. So we sit in the waiting room, the six of us, drinking coffee and eating packet crisps, silently wringing our hands. Alex doesn’t call back, and I’m not sure he’s even gotten my messages. So when my heart thuds loudly as the minutes tick by– without a word from Alex, without a word about Dad– I feel absolutely gutted. Literally emptied of all my insides. Hollow. I don’t know how to feel or what to think, and I’m waiting for someone to tell me what to do.For some ungodly reason, Alex’s song, “Stuck on the Puzzle”, is trapped on a loop in my head. I keep singing the same lines over and over again in my mind, and it makes the dragging time that much more unbearable.

I have been searching from the bottom to the top

For such a sight

As the one I caught when I saw your fingers dimming the lights

Like you’re used to being told that you’re trouble

And I spent all night

Stuck on the puzzle

Rosie brings me another bottle of water, and some biscuits. I can’t eat, but I sip from the bottle distractedly. She gives my knee a squeeze, pats my back, chats with Matt and Bree. They have no idea how we know each other, and she doesn’t let on that we’re maids together, just talks about the weather, and the drive up to Sheffield.

I have been searching from the bottom to the top

For such a sight

“I’ll try Al again,” Matt says, pulling out his mobile.

As the one I caught when I saw your fingers dimming the lights

Like you’re used to being told that you’re trouble

“Don’t bother,” I say tersely.He looks up, brows pulled together. I’m aware of everyone looking at me, concerned, curious.“We had a row,” I admit. “Before Australia.”Penny smiles sadly, “Even so, love, he’d want to be here.”“I don’t think so,” I say, and though everyone except Rosie looks on, mystified, I don’t explain.A doctor steps into the waiting room, and I’m already on my feet before he even finishes saying, “Miss Davis.”“Yes?” I croak, hurrying over to him.

And I spent all night

Stuck on the puzzle

“I’m sorry,” he begins, and he keeps talking after a pause, but I don’t hear anything else except the rush of blood in my ears, the roar of pain through my body, the obliteration of my entire world.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2006

The Arctic Monkeys’ first official UK tour sells out on their website within an hour.

I think of Alex and I sitting in the Fat Cat when Dad calls me at my London dorm room to tell me. I can still see the scruffy-haired Alex in his bright blue polo, hear the excitement as he told me the news, as my planned confession of love evaporated on my tongue. But Dad is prattling on about how chuffed he is for the boys, how he’s going round to the Turners’ for champagne. He tells me that they’ve got tickets– a whole group of us from Sheffield– to go see them in London. Dad’s never seen them perform before, and from the way he’s gushing you’d think it was his own son who’s gone celebrity.

Truthfully, I haven’t seen much of Alex the last couple of months. Though we both technically live in London now, we’re living very different and separate existences. He spends most of his days recording or writing– late nights performing and networking and drinking like a fish– whereas I’m stuck in lectures, libraries, quiet cafes for hours revising. He’s been on a world tour since that day in the Fat Cat, and I haven’t even seen him perform since their album came out.

So, I’m feeling a thrill of excitement to take a night off my studies to go to the Forum in London to see the boys play. Dad is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as we walk through Kentish Town to the venue, giddy with excitement.

“This is brilliant,” he gushes. “The lads–

our lads

– sellin’ out a whole tour! It’s

brilliant

!”

I laugh, knowing full-well Dad is going to be returning to Sheffield kitted out in Arctic Monkeys memorabilia.

We sit with the Turners and the Helders at a booth in the balcony, and Dad hoots and hollers like a fangirl the whole time. After each song ends, he turns to Penny and David and says, “Brilliant! Just brilliant!” as if he hasn’t heard another adjective in his life. But he’s beaming– absolutely chuffed for them and their success. And I have to admit, I am too. Seeing my friends– my best friend in the whole world– doing what they love best, with a whole crowd of people singing along and cheering for them, makes my heart swell. I probably yell even louder than Dad.

And when we end the night in their dressing room, and the Turners offer Dad the pull out sofa in their hotel room suite, he looks hesitant. I have no room for him in my dorm room, and taking the train back tonight would be murder, so it seems like a no brainer. But he’s looking at me as if he doesn’t want to leave me– as if he doesn’t want us to part ways.

“I’ll take her ‘ome, Major Tom,” Alex says.

“No,” Dad says. “Not after your big night, lad.”

Alex shrugs. “We were just goin’ ‘ome anyway,” he replies. Throwing an arm around my shoulder, he squeezes me comically and says, “It’ll be nice to catch up.”

“Bills?” Dad prompts, seeing what I want to do.

“I don’t mind,” I tell him, because he looks knackered, and I haven’t properly spoken to Alex in probably a year. “Go get some sleep. We can get breakfast if the morning if you’re still here!”

“I’d love that,” he says, smiling so big his glasses move up with the apples of his cheeks. He pulls me out from under Alex’s arms and bear hugs me. “‘Ave a good night, my girl.”

I breathe in his familiar scent of soap, mint tea, tobacco– and tonight, ale– and smile.

When he releases me, he turns to Alex and says, “You get ‘er to King’s College in one piece, Aladdin, you ‘ear?”

Alex salutes him goofily.

“I don’t care ‘ow famous you are,” Dad jokes, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “She’s still my best girl.”

“Aye aye, Major Tom,” he replies. “I’ll take good care of ‘er, sir.”

We kiss our parents goodbye and everyone disperses for their respective cabs. Once Alex and I are shut in the back of ours, and pulling away from the sidewalk, I sit back and look at him.

“You don’t have to take me home,” I tell him with a laugh. “I live in London now, I’m capable of making it on my own.”

“But I promised Major Tom,” he smirks. “‘Besides, I ‘aven’t seen you at college yet.”

“Alex, it’s after midnight,” I reply with surprise. “What did you think you were going to see?”

He shrugs. “Your dorm, your books, your secret liquor stash.”

I roll my eyes and snort, “If I let you in, that is.”

Once we get to campus though, of course I let him in. He’s buzzing with post-gig energy and tequila, and I can tell he isn’t ready to call it a night. So I unlock my tiny dorm room and let him inside, pour him a drink of whiskey from my “secret liquor stash”.

“This is great, Lils,” he says, leaning back against the wall, legs sprawled across my bed, whiskey in hand. “What a scholar you are.”

I roll my eyes. I like him thinking of me as the collegiate scholar, nose in a book, studious. It gives me an identity that feels sturdy– rather than the one I have that is misshapen, a struggling, messy failure. I like his image so much more that I don’t correct him, just put on some Arcade Fire and crawl up to sit against the wall next to him, sipping my whiskey.

“So, what’s new?” he asks, adjusting his back against the wall, his shoulder suddenly flush against my own.

I shake my head, gesture around the room. “You’re lookin’ at it. This is my life 24/7.”

“What about your new friends? Any blokes? Write anything to rival Shakespeare?”

“Nah then,” I laugh. “High Green doesn’t have enough room for both our big heads. I’ll leave the fame to you.”

He nudges me with his shoulder and smirks.

This moment feels too nice, too intimate– us hanging around, sipping whiskey, so close together after one of his shows– so I force reality back into the picture just to keep my head on straight.

“How’s Johanna?”

Alex frowns, looks down into his whiskey. For a moment, with his long, soft hair, and forlorn eyes, he could be the sensitive little boy I met in maths class all those years ago. It’s like the man of the stage I saw only an hour ago has dissipated behind his vulnerable posture.

“We’re– uh– we’re on a break,” he says. “That’s what she calls it anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Al."

He shrugs. “I tried to end it– it’s weren’t workin’ out– but she just– We can’t– I don’t know.”

I’ve never seen him at such a loss for words– so inarticulate– and I realize he’s flushed, embarrassed.

“Hey, you don’t need to explain it to me,” I say, giving his knee a comforting squeeze. “I can’t get any blokes in London to even look twice at me, let alone make a relationship work.”

It’s meant to make him feel better, not to fish for a compliment, but he looks up and meets my eyes as if he’s gutted for me.

“Lils, any bloke would be lucky to ‘ave you,” he says earnestly, and his voice has gone soft, sweet and low. “You know that.”

I just laugh, slightly uncomfortable at the way he’s holding my gaze.

“You do know that, right?” he goes on, serious, angling himself to face me, his whiskey forgotten on my desk. “You’re the only one in the world ‘oo can keep up with my nonsense– and you’re funny– not to mention bloody brilliant. And, I mean, you’re

fit

, Lils.”

He actually scans my body when he says fit– and I don’t think he’s even conscious of it– and I’m suddenly flushed.

“Thanks, Al,” I say. “But you’re my best mate, you’re supposed to say things like that.”

He’s sounds suddenly, slightly, embarrassed when he says: “I think as your best mate, I’m

not

supposed to say things like that.”

I know I must be blushing, because my whole body has gone warm from his words.

“But, it’s true,” he goes on, after a long beat of silence, nudging my thigh with the knuckles of the hand closest to me.

My heart has started to beat very quickly, and I feel the rush of blood and whiskey through my veins as I meet Alex’s gaze once more. He gives me a crooked smirk, his big, brown eyes holding mine from behind a curtain of too-long hair, and I’m suddenly thinking about that autumn five years ago. All those afternoons kissing until our lips were practically sore, all the times we snuck away from a party to share an alcohol fueled make out session, all the clumsy and delicious shags we had before he started dating Melanie. I’m thinking about what would have happened between us if he

hadn’t

dated her, if we had continued hooking up– if we had maybe just

talked

about what we were.

I feel sad with the missed opportunity, with the nostalgia of what could have been, and it makes me act without thinking twice. I grab the back of his neck and lean forward, crashing my lips against his with more force than I intended.

He tastes like whiskey and salt, and I’m pleasantly surprised when his mouth opens immediately, his tongue searching for mine. His hand is on my waste, my hips, my ass, and I sigh against his kiss as he touches me, as if feeling an extreme sense of relief. I want so much more, and I straddle him as his lips grow more furious, as his hands begin clutching at me, squeezing. Even in jeans, I can feel his erection, and my mind is a swirl of color and heat as I grind against him, as I bury my hands in his hair.

I’m reaching for his belt, when his hands go to mine, stopping me. He pulls away suddenly, and I feel like I’ve had an electric shock, jarred and burned.

“Lils, we shouldn’t,” he whispers, his dark, hooded eyes looking dazed.

It’s like being doused in cold water, and I look down into his eyes from where I’m still straddling him, feeling like a fool. My whole face must be beet red from the height of embarrassment I feel. I have no words, so I just bite the inside of my cheek.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says, and it makes it worse because he’s trying to

comfort me

now. “It’s just– Johanna– and I just– It doesn’t feel right.”

I climb off of him, properly rejected, and sit with my back against the wall beside him, hugging a pillow to my body.

“Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I know we used to– God, Lils, I’d love nothing more than to shag you right now,” he groans, looking up at the ceiling. “I just don’t feel right about it– not with Johanna still in the picture.”

“It’s fine,” I say, though I still feel like I’d like to be swallowed into a black hole if it were possible. “I get it.”

There’s a long stretch of silence where I grab my whiskey and finish it, listening to the sound of my heart beating up and down my limbs.

“Can I sleep with yeh?”

I look at him, confused, because didn’t he just say he didn’t think we should? But then I realize, he means actually sleep with me, in my bed.

I nod, and he takes my glass from me and sets it on the nightstand, and then takes my pillow and puts it at the head of the bed. Taking my hand, he lays down, and he pulls me down to lie against him, pressed to his warm chest. He wraps his arms around me, and I turn off the light.

In the quiet darkness, after I’m sure he’s fallen asleep, he whispers, “I do love you, Lils.”

It makes my heart stop for a split second, but I know he means he loves me, not that he’s

in love

with me.

“I love you too, Alex,” I reply, though it breaks my heart to say these words in an entirely different way than I’d like to.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Let it Be

2014
I’m still staying at Dad’s days after his death. I’ve taken off work until after the funeral in order to sort his things, make the arrangements, and find an agent to sell the house. Matt and Bree offered to stay in the spare room, and Rosie offered to use her sick days to stay in Sheffield until I come back to London, but I told them all I’d rather they didn’t. And it’s the truth. I want to be alone in the house I shared with Dad, the place he made home for us for over a decade– alone to cry, and to mourn, and to wrap my head around this new reality.Except I don’t do that. I don’t cry. I don’t mourn. Autopilot switched on as soon as the doctor finished speaking in hospital. I became a machine of sorting, arranging, planning. I’ve been all business for nearly 72 hours. I don’t sleep except by accident, sitting up on the couch, organizing bills. I don’t listen to music except when it comes on the telly, which I leave on at all times. When people reach out to me– and my phone has been inundated with messages and phone calls of support and condolences– I don’t even look at who they’re from, or read what they say. I send a perfunctory, nondescript text message response back and get on with my business.I call all of Dad’s friends and our remaining relatives personally though. I sit through their grief, listening to colleagues cry, friends go absolutely silent, relatives bring up past, happy times. I accept their apologies for my loss, their tears for me, their offers of help and support and food, and I feel absolutely numb, closed off to any feeling at all.I have lost the best person I have ever known, and my brain has not been able to understand it.After finalizing the details for the funeral, I drive home in Dad’s car and sit alone on the sofa. I look around the room, at the photos of myself all over the walls and mantle, the blanket I used to wrap around myself when home sick from school, Dad’s shoes sitting by the front door, and my whole body hurts. I feel the sadness edging forward like a fog, and I know that once it hits me, it won’t let up. So I do something instead– something I’ve been putting off since that day in the hospital.I call my mum.I got her number from my Aunt Judith when I called her to give her the news. I asked her to let me be the one to tell Mum, even though I haven’t spoken to her in over ten years. So when Mum answers she sounds as if it’s any number she doesn’t recognize calling– like it could be a bill collector, or a doctor’s office.“Mum,” is all I say in return.The other end of the phone goes silent, and I know I’ve taken her off guard. I wonder if she’s shocked that it’s me, or just trying to work out if it’s the wrong number.“Lily?”It’s strange how much her voice is exactly the same as I remember it– how she sounds like she’s just walked into our London kitchen after work, and I’m sat at the table doing my homework. Even more bizarre is how much it bloody hurts to hear her voice after all this time, how much I didn’t realize its absence has wounded me after a decade.
“How are you, darling?” she asks, and the anger that blots out my vision astounds me. I could spit, could very seriously chuck my mobile phone against the wall, could tear her eyes out if she were sitting right in front of me.

Darling

, she calls me, as if she has any right, while Dad is at a funeral directors’ being prepared for burial.
“Dad’s gone,” I snap. “He had a heart attack.”She goes quiet again, and I let the anger settle into place, let it take over the sadness from her absence and Dad’s death.“He’s dead.”I hear her take a sharp breath.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice sounding strangled and sad, but it doesn’t make me feel bad for her. She chose to leave us– to leave

me

, to have nothing to do with the life we were living– Dad didn’t. The supreme unfairness of it all isn’t lost on me, and I grip my mobile harshly, gritting my teeth. “I’m so sorry.”
“Fine,” I spit. “I don’t expect you at the service, it’s a long way from Spain. I just thought you ought to know.”“Lily–”“What?!” I’m shocked at my anger– shocked at how quickly it’s overcome everything else, making me shake.“Darling, I’m sorry I haven’t phoned,” she says. “I’m sorry it’s been so long–”“Don’t apologize,” I say harshly. “I had Dad. He was more than enough.”She inhales sharply again, as if sucking in a breath in shock or pain.I want to say that it should have been her, that I don’t need her and it wouldn’t have made a difference in my life if she had been the one to die. I needed Dad– I need Dad still– he has been everything to me my entire life, and now he’s gone, and I’m completely on my own and it’s all her bloody fault. But even though I’m angry and hurt, I don’t need to maim her with my words, or make her hurt the way I’m hurting– she knows how little she’s made herself mean to me now.“But now he’s gone, so I accept your condolences for that.”“Lily–”“I have nothing more to say to you,” I tell her curtly. “This was a courtesy. You made a choice to cut yourself out of my life, and I don’t want you in it now– of all times.”She’s silent.“Goodbye Mum.”When I hang up I suddenly feel absolutely anguished, with a wave of grief crashing over me so that I double over on the sofa, stop breathing all together. I just want my dad.I don’t need Mum. Truly. I haven’t needed her since she left. Dad made it that way. He was everything and more. He was in pain too, but he comforted me, he held me, and he fixed it all. She left no gaping hole because he filled it without a second thought.Animal sobs escape my throat without warning, and I grab my mobile and go upstairs. Crying like a baby, I crawl under the duvet of Dad’s bed, where it still smells like him, but I know it won’t forever, and I pull up the music on my phone. I put on the Beatles, Dad’s favorite, and I sob into his pillow, knowing there is no one left to sort me out, to wrap me up no matter what.Alex is still not here. It’s been days since my voicemail. Days since Dad died.
A sudden thought hits me that makes me sob louder– a guttural noise that comes from deep within my chest. I never told Dad that Alex found out the truth– I never told

Dad

the whole truth.
I cry and cry and cry to the Beatles, until I finally fall asleep in Dad’s bed, dead to the world for a solid twelve hours. 
I’m raw, skinless and fragile at Dad’s funeral service. I stand completely alone in front of his casket, and I shake every hand, accept every hug, endure other people’s tears and grief. I don’t cry, because I haven’t really stopped since my call to Mum, and it feels surreal to do it in front of all these people now. And there are

a lot

of people– an

astounding

amount of people. The room is stuffed full of Dad’s friends and colleagues and acquaintances, and it does comfort me some to realize just how many people appreciated him.
Matt and Breanna are here as well, and Mr. and Mrs. Turner, and Rosie. They all stand to the side in a cluster, ready to come to my aid if needed, but I’ve been so busy, so overwhelmed with sympathy that I haven’t really had a chance to talk directly with any of them in days.So I don’t know Alex is coming until after they’ve lowered the casket into the ground and I’ve dumped a handful of soil onto the grave, when people are filing away, ready to come over to Dad’s house for the wake– where Mrs. Turner has agreed to play host. I don’t know he’s coming until I see him getting out of a taxi, dressed in black, with the tall blonde behind him.
“Lils,” he says when he reaches me, rushing across the grass. “I’m so sorry–”
But I don’t let him finish. In fact, I absolutely snap.
Years of loving him and hoping and being disappointed shrivel into an angry lump in my stomach, and it turns into pure, acidic rage. I think of all the times we’ve had sex or kissed or literally slept together over the years. All the times he’s used me and I’ve used him and we’ve gone back and forth with our stupid, bloody games. What’s more, I think of how he was the only other person in the world who mattered just as much to me as Dad did– who I considered family, who

Dad

considered family– and how he’s now walking toward me, after not being here for Dad’s death, or his funeral, with this new girl in tow, like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s not the biggest insult in the bloody, fucking world that he’s bringing a

date

, to my father’s funeral.
I go momentarily blind when he reaches me apologizing, and I don’t recognize myself when I come at him, slapping him across the face.
I could tear him to bloody pieces for how much I love him, for how much he hurt me, for how much Mum hurt me, for how much Dad hurt me by leaving me alone. I do recognize that it’s not just him I’m angry with, that’s it’s not all his fault, but the leggy blonde has giant eyes and I want to fucking kill

him

for it.

“You bastard!” I shriek. “You bloody, fucking

bastard

!”
I’m hitting him hard, pummeling at his chest like an animal, and he’s trying to shield himself from my blows.“Lily!” Matt is shouting, and he’s grabbing hold of my arms, trying to pry me away from Alex, but I’m spitting mad, lunging forward again before he can stop me.The last funeral goers are staring now, and Breanna and Rosie are looking on in worry, and the blonde looks absolutely horrified, stepping back in fear.
“Where have you

been

?” I shout, shoving him hard, sending him staggering back. “You fucking

bastard

!”
To his credit, he looks absolutely gutted– eyes red-rimmed and tired, shadowed in gray circles. His hair is a mess and he looks exhausted, spent, like he’s been crying for days too.“Lily, I tried–”
“Fuck you!” I shout, pointing a violent finger at him “

Fuck

you, Alex!”
And I walk around him, staggering blindly toward the road, where I’m sure the hired car is waiting somewhere. Rosie appears at my side immediately, and she gives me my space, but leans in and says, “Are you all right, babe?”“No,” I practically grunt, my entire body vibrating with some wild rage I’ve never experienced before, not even when talking to Mum. “But I will be.”“Good for you,” she says after a beat, quietly, almost proudly, and she gives my arm a quick squeeze, before silently finding the car for us to go home.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2008

When Alex calls me from France and tells me all about the chateau he’s staying in, the wine he and Miles are drinking every day while they record, the walks he’s taking in the countryside, I think he’s just taking the piss– bragging. But then he invites me to come for the weekend.

“Al, I don’t know,” I stammer, my mobile clutched to my ear.

“It’s the weekend,” he cuts me off. “You can take a coupla days off to visit your mate in

France

, can’t you? Bring all your books and do some revising with a glass of wine.”

I deliberate. I don’t know how easy it will be to take a weekend off from the Mannerly, and I still haven’t told Alex the truth.

“Come on, you can fly with Alexa– she’s coming too.”

This doesn’t make me want to come more. I like Alexa, but I haven’t hung out with her more than a handful of times since our meeting in January, and I would prefer to have Alex to myself besides. I can’t remember the last time we hung out just the two of us, messing about and talking like we used to. But I do miss him, and I know there’s no use in telling him no, so I agree.

I meet Alexa at Heathrow the following Friday afternoon, and she looks positively casual-chic in her skinny jeans, ballet flats, and leather jacket. She pulls me into a hug when she sees me, and I marvel at her ability to make someone feel so

wanted

– like we’re a couple of chums going on a trip together, and it wouldn’t be the same without me. This feeling continues as we grab a drink before boarding, chatting about my writing (or lack thereof) and her modeling. Somewhere over the English Channel, she confesses her feelings of insecurity about DJing, and I vent about my difficulties writing. She thinks she has good enough music taste, but there’s more to it than that, and she feels like she’s shite. I tell her I lack such confidence in what I’m doing when I write that it gives me writer’s block.

By the time we land in the Loire Valley, I feel like no time has passed at all. I so thoroughly enjoyed talking to Alexa, laughing and gabbing like we’ve known each other for years, that I hadn’t even noticed the flight.

We get a car and drive to the boys’ rented chateau at dusk, listening to Iggy Pop as Alexa navigates the winding, countryside roadways.

“Have you met Miles?” I ask, admiring the orange twilit sky, deepening on the horizon of farmland.

“Yeah,” Alexa answers. “He’s great! You haven’t yet?”

“No,” I tell her. “I

feel

like I have– Alex talks about him so much.”

Alexa laughs. “They fancy each other a bit, those two.”

I laugh, knowing what she means.

When we get to the chateau it’s almost completely dark, but the enormous, brightly lit country home is easy to see. It’s a vast estate, with empty, rolling grass stretching for miles, and elegant turrets punctuating either side of the manor. As Alexa pulls up in front of the house, next to a navy blue roadster, she seems unaffected by it. I reason that she’s probably done a ton of photoshoots in places like this, but then it occurs to me– she’s been here before.

Alex and Miles have been writing and recording here for weeks.

Of course

she’s been here before.

As we get out and start to pull our things out of the boot, Alex comes outside.

“Lils! Alexa!”

He reaches me first and pulls me into a hug, smacking a kiss onto the top of my head.

“Good flight?” he asks, taking Alexa’s bag and leaning in for a proper kiss from her.

“All right,” I tell him.

“Miles is cookin’,” he says. “Believe it or not. And we ‘ave wine.”

Alex grabs my bag as well, and we all go inside, dumping our things in the front foyer. The inside of the chateau is equally vast, open but warm, with elegant, antique furniture and gilt-framed paintings as far as the eye can see. Alex seems small and out of place here, with his rumpled jumper and scruffy hair, but he looks comfortable. The rock star life has made him at home in places like this– as if renting out chateaux to write best-selling albums with other rock stars is just de rigeur.

He and Alexa hold hands as they lead the way to the massive kitchen. It smells like garlic and herbs, and the counters are littered with ingredients, pots and pans simmering on the stove. Tending to them, is a skinny, messy-haired Miles. He could be Alex’s doppelganger for the dark-haired gangliness of him, but he’s dressed in a bright red polo and tracky bottoms with a lime green stripe down the side. When he turns to greet us with a spatula raised in his hand, I see that he’s wearing a frilly, floral apron as well.

Alexa gives him a kiss hello, before he turns and gives me a giant, crooked smile.

“Lils, this is Mi,” Alex says. “Miles, Lily.”

“The famous Lily!” he cheers, and he doesn’t put his spatula down when he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “Wine, love?”

Alex pours us all a generous glass, and then offers to show me my room.

Alexa stays to keep Miles company, and as we take our wine back into the foyer, rap starts blaring from the kitchen at top volume.

“Is that Wu-Tang Clan?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Alex laughs, grabbing my bag and leading me towards the stairs. “We’ll probably find them having a riff off when we get back.”

We ascend the elegant, winding staircase, and Alex takes me to the first door on the landing. The room is cream-colored, with a white, fluffy four-post bed and toile-patterned armchairs in front of a dormant fireplace.

“This is amazing,” I say, walking around the room as he deposits my bag by the bed, and I peer at the painting of a lady in teal above a desk.

“Miles found it,” Alex replies, referring to the whole chateau. “There’s a full studio in the barn out back. We’ve ‘ad some guys come out to stay to do some production work on the album– it’s goin’ to be great, Lils.”

“You’re a proper rockstar then,” I turn to him and say, teasing. “It’s finally happened. I have to call Penny–”

“Nose down, Davis,” he laughs, and leads me back out onto the landing and downstairs.

We walk through the sitting room and the elegant dining room for a tour, and then he shows me the portrait gallery, and the veranda outside. It’s chilly, but we stand in the quiet night air for a moment, looking out over the stretch of countryside, the horizon looking endless, sipping our wine.

“They ‘ave ‘orses,” he tells me, after a beat of quiet. “I’ll take you out for a ride tomorrow if you’d like.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been on a horse,” I laugh, making a face.

“Well, a walk then,” he amends. “It’s beautiful– I’ll show you round.”

“All right,” I agree.

We go back inside to find Miles hauling a platter of chicken and vegetables into the massive dining room. Alexa has set the table with china and silverware, and does a little flourish and bow when we enter.

“Tuck in!” Miles cheers, and we all sit at one end of the gargantuan cherry oak table to dinner.

We tuck into a delicious roast chicken, with the lights low and candles burning in the middle of the table. Miles has changed the music from Wu-Tang Clan to Françoise Hardy, and I feel my brain go fuzzy from the wine, from my appreciation that nights like this exist. We sink into the comfort and the warm glow of the night, listening to Alex and Miles talk about their album, about France.

Before we’ve even finished eating, I begin to understand why Alex is so smitten with Miles. He’s funny, and charismatic, and seems so comfortable in his own skin. He laughs louder and harder than anyone I’ve ever met, and he has a way of making everything sound charming. He and Alex play off of each other like school chums, and I can’t deny there is something so entirely different about them, but so shockingly

kindred

. He’s enough like Alex, charming enough, that I feel smitten myself, and I can’t help the unexpected flutter I feel when Miles turns his attention on me.

“So, what can you tell us about Al as a babe, then?”

I laugh, taking a drink of wine. “His head used to be smaller.”

Alexa laughs and ruffles Alex’s hair, just as he scowls at me and mimes chucking his napkin my way.

“‘E said you was a writer.”

“Aspiring writer,” I amend.

“Nah then, Al said you was brilliant.”

“He’s biased.”

“This one’s modest, Al,” Miles laughs, giving me a cheeky wink. “I like that.”

Are Miles and I flirting? Am I

blushing

?

“I’d love to read summat,” Miles tells me with a smile.

Now I’m definitely blushing, embarrassed.

“Good luck, mate,” Alex cuts in. “She doesn’t let anyone read ‘er work.”

“If you really wanted to I wouldn’t mind.”

Alex looks surprised, and he sits back in his chair.

“I’d love it,” Miles says.

Alexa abruptly stands up, saying, “I’ll clear these,” as she begins collecting our empty plates. “More wine? Alex, would you grab that platter for me?”

Miles and I are left alone in the dining room, and he pours both of us more wine from the nearly empty bottle.

“So what do you do in London?”

“I’m a student,” I stumble over the lie, almost answering honestly.

“Where?”

“King’s College.”

“Me cousin goes there,” he says with a smile. “Maybe you know ‘er?”

“Probably not,” I say, feeling my stomach clench in anxiety. “It’s a big place.”

“You’re studying’ English?” he prompts, looking excited– thrilled– at the prospect of me possibly knowing his cousin. “She’s doin’ Classics!”

“I– I keep to myself,” I stammer, gulping down more wine. “It’s likely I don’t– I don’t know.”

He looks slightly confused, and I’m worried I’ve given myself away. Without thinking, with nothing else to do, I empty the rest of the wine into my glass.

“I’ll go see if they’ve got another bottle yet!” I say, and hurry out of the dining room.

I breathe deeply, needing to catch my breath as I kick myself for being so stupid. Why didn’t I just act normal, calm, and ask him what his cousin’s name is? I could have just pretended not to know her anyway!

I’m just outside the door of the kitchen, when I stop at the sound of Alexa saying my name from inside.

“I don’t think so, Lex,” Alex says, and I can’t exactly discern the tone of his voice.

“Why not?” Alexa counters. “I think it’s brilliant! They’re both your best mates!”

“I don’t think Lily is exactly Mi’s type.”

Now I can hear it. His tone is sarcastic, incredulous. He’s laughing.

“Come on,” Alexa sounds nonplussed. “Miles doesn’t have a type– she’s pretty, and smart, and they seem to be hitting it off!”

“Miles shags models as a ‘obby, Alexa,” Alex replies. “I don’t think ‘e’d be interested in settling down with

Lily

.”

He says my name like it’s impossible– like I could never live up to Miles’s model standards. Anger simmers under the surface of my skin, and I shake my head in annoyance, shocked.

Who does he think he is?

“Just drop it, yeah?” he says to Alexa. “Play matchmaker another time.”

I back up from the door and walk loudly up to it once more, calling, “All right in there?” as I walk in. “We’ve run out of wine.”

Alex, appropriately, looks guilty, but Alexa grabs the bottle from the counter and holds it up triumphantly. I give Alex a sweet smile as I take the wine, and turn to go back to the dining room without them.

The next morning I wake up early, when it’s still light and misty outside, and I bundle myself into some jeans and a jumper, and wander downstairs in search of something hot to drink. The house is quiet, sound asleep, as I take the stairs slowly, padding along in my socks. I assume it’s because everyone is still sleeping off our late night of wine and talk, so when I find Miles in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, I’m surprised.

“Mornin’,” he says with a crooked smile. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

I went back into the dining room last night with the wine, diving in to talk with Miles more about his music, his career, his life in London. When Alex and Alexa came back a few minutes later, we barely took notice of them, but I couldn’t deny I focused all of my attention on Miles for the rest of the night. While we sipped wine and listened to French pop, I held his gaze, spoke coyly, teased him– flirting shamelessly– just to show Alex how wrong he was.

And this morning, I’m still annoyed. Does he see me as some dowdy scholar who isn’t worth a rock star’s time of day? I’m just the poor man’s Alexa Chung?

Sod off.

“I was thinkin’ ‘bout nippin’ into town for some breakfast things if you’d like to come.”

“I’d love to.”

We take our coffee to go and hop in the roadster outside, driving through the brightening spring morning, the mist burning off with the warm streaming sunlight.

“‘Ave you been to France before?” Miles asks, coolly navigating his way down the dusty, country lanes.

“Once,” I tell him. “With my dad when I was a teenager.”

“Paris?”

I shook my head. “Monte Carlo.”

He raises his eyebrows, impressed.

“You never went and saw the Monkeys on tour then?”

“What, are you asking me if I’m a groupie?”

He laughs, makes a turn and glances my way. “Nah then.”

“I’ve never shagged Alex, if that’s what you were wondering. Don’t follow him around like a puppy dog.”

“I never–”

“Everyone thinks it, don’t worry. But not me. Alex is just my mate. I have my own life. ”

“Well, then,” Miles replies. “I like the sound of that.”

We pick up eggs and cheese, and some assorted pastries and baguettes in town. Alex and Alexa are sipping coffee in the kitchen when we get back, and when we walk into the room, Alex looks gobsmacked.

“I thought you were both asleep still.”

“Nah,” Miles answers, setting the bags on the counter. “Nipped into town for some bits and bobs.”

Alex looks between the two of us with narrowed eyes, and the look doesn’t leave his face for the rest of the day. Not when we go into the studio and they show us some of the work they’ve done, and Miles is smiling at me while he’s singing. Not when we go to dinner in town, and Miles and I can’t help but be drawn to each other, to laugh and flirt, and delight in each other’s gazes. And I’m not doing it to spite Alex. I mean, I’m not doing it

just

to spite Alex for what he said. I really like Miles the more I talk to him, the way he makes you feel important, desired, charmed, just by existing with him. Besides, Alex is all loved up with Alexa, why don’t I deserve to have someone? And why couldn’t that someone be Miles?

When we get back from dinner and it’s late, we settle into the monstrous living room, strewn about the furniture with the Rolling Stones playing low.

“Wine?” Miles suggests.

Alex has his hand on Alexa’s ankle, her feet in his lap, and they look so comfortable, that I stand up and say, “I’ll help.”

In the kitchen, Miles pulls a bottle of wine from the winerack, and I get clean glasses from the cabinet. He stops and pours both of us a glass before we go back into the living room, so I lean against the counter to take a sip, aware of his eyes on me, holding me steady.

“You’re very beautiful, Lily,” he says quietly.

I smile, and say, “Has the wine gone to your head?”

“Only a little,” and suddenly he’s closing the space between us, walking right up to me, his hand on my waist. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

I can hear Alex’s voice faintly in my head when I nod, allowing his lips to fall open against mine. He tastes like wine and cigarettes, and his mouth is languid, lazy, delicious– but I’m still thinking of Alex. When his body is pressed against mine, and his tongue slips between my lips, grazes against my own, I’m not thinking of what Alex said last night, I’m wishing it was him I was kissing.

It makes me unbelievably sad, but I keep kissing Miles anyway. I keep kissing him until the kitchen door opens and there’s a voice that breaks off in surprise.

Miles and I pull apart, and Alex looks absolutely shellshocked. He looks between us like he’s lost, and then says, “Just wanted to see about the wine.”

Miles hands him the bottle casually. As if Alex always walks in on him kissing his best mate.

Awkwardly, I grab one of the clean glasses and my own wine, and I take the lead back into the living room. We only have one glass of wine each before Alex is saying he’s tired, is going to turn in, avoiding my eyes. Alexa goes up with him, and Miles and I stay in the living room for another drink.

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asks. “When we’re back in London.”

“I’d like that,” I say, though I’m not sure if Alex would.

The next morning, Alex asks me if I want to go for a walk on the grounds before we have to leave for our flight. Miles looks eager to join, sitting with his coffee in the kitchen, but Alexa knows when to give us our space, so she suggests she and Miles make a bang up brunch for us while we’re out. Wrapped in jumpers, and plodding along in our wellies, we set out into the chilly, spring sunshine.

I’m still cross with Alex about what he said to Alexa, and things feel awkward after him walking in on Miles and me last night, so we don’t say anything as we walk behind the house, past the barn.

“The next farm isn’t for miles,” Alex says, his hands shoved into his pockets as we follow a footpath down the gentle slope of grass.

“Hm.”

“Apparently this place was destroyed during the Revolution– everything had to be restored in the 1800s.”

I don’t say anything. He isn’t going to bombard me with random facts and think that he didn’t say Miles Kane wouldn’t settle for me.

“The man that lives here now apparently rented the chateau out to Zeppelin–”

“How long are you going to do this?” I snap. “Prattle trivia at me like we’re strangers.”

He looks properly shame-faced, and he keeps his hands in his pockets, shoulders turned up as if to shield him from my annoyance.

“Well, then?” I counter, stop walking in the middle of the path, surrounded by wide open, French farmland. “Let’s have it.”

He turns to me, looks hesitant, and then he finally blurts, “

Miles

, Lily?”

I cross my arms, raising a single eyebrow, daring him to continue.

“Why Miles?” he throws his hands up, as if he can’t grasp it.

“‘

Why Miles

?’” I throw back. “What does it matter?”

“‘e’s my best mate!”

“So am I!”

He stops, looks around, as if unable to understand me.

“What, are you so shocked that Miles would be interested in

me

?”

It comes out like acid, meant to burn, but he looks at me, confused. “No,” he says. “Don’t be daft.”

“Isn’t that what you told Alexa?” I question. “That he was used to supermodels, and wouldn’t settle for someone like me?”

Realization dawns on Alex’s face, before his shoulders slump, and he actually drops his chin to his chest in shame for a moment. When he looks back up at me, he says, “You ‘eard us.”

“I did.”

The anger is dissipating into hurt, that my best friend could say or even

think

that about me– that the man I’ve loved since age 15 thinks someone would be settling for me. It might be the wine hangover, but it feels like tears are climbing up the back of my throat, so I swallow down hard and refuse to meet his eyes.

“Lils, it weren’t like that,” he says softly, taking a step toward me, ducking to catch my eye. “Really.”

“Oh, it

weren’t

?” I snap, mocking his Sheffield drawl.

He frowns, opens his mouth to say something, and then stops.

I listen to the birds chirping, twittering, whistling peacefully in the golden, French countryside, staring at Alex while he deliberates on what to say.

Finally, he says, “Lils, if anything, you’re too good for Miles.”

I roll my eyes, because of course he’s saying this now– and of course he doesn’t mean it, because he thinks Miles hangs the moon.

“I said that to Alexa because she wanted to– set you two up– play matchmaker– and I didn’t want ‘er to.”

I stare at him.

“I love you, and I love Miles, but– Lils, would you believe me if I told you I don’t want to share you with ‘im?”

I screw my face up in confusion. “Alex, that doesn’t–”

“I want you to be ‘appy, but it’s just– it’s too close to me, innit?”

“That’s ridiculous–”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“Alex, that would never happen,” I shake my head. “You have Alexa and I haven’t lost you.”

“I know,” he says, looking bashful. “It’s just– Not Miles. Please.”

Maybe it’s too close for comfort for him. Maybe he really doesn’t want to share me with another best mate. I don’t know. And maybe I should tell him to fuck off, that I can date and kiss and do whatever and whoever I want. But something in the way his big, brown eyes are begging me, makes me stop, makes me feel like the grass has given out underneath me and I’m hollow with my inability to say no to him when it means this much.

“All right,” I say. “Fine.”

He pulls me to him, hugging me, and I somehow feel no bitterness about letting go of a possible relationship just because he asked me to.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Do Me a Favour

2014

I can’t speak when I get into the rented car, I’m absolutely paralyzed in the backseat beside Rosie, seething with something I can’t name. It feels like something has broken inside of me, and all my years of loving Alex and pining for him unconditionally have morphed into cold, fuming anger. Rosie doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my knee and then gives me room to process everything, to fume in silence as Sheffield passes behind my window.When we pull up to Dad’s house, I can see that it’s already full of mourners. My chest spasms at the thought of mingling for hours, of chatting about Dad, and sharing memories, and accepting more condolences after everything that’s happened. I’m about ready to jump out of my skin, so when the car stops I get out and cut my way across the lawn, hurrying through the front door. People look up, move to approach, but I push my way to the kitchen before anyone can get to me.Mrs. Turner is filling up a platter with mini sausage rolls, and just the sight of her makes my throat constrict further.“Lily?” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel, frowning at the look on my face– which I’m sure has gone stony and pale.I suck in a deep breath and go to the cabinet above the fridge, pulling down a bottle of whiskey without saying a word.Rosie comes in behind me, waiting in the doorway.Mrs. Turner looks to her, back to me, and then back to Rosie, confused.“She’s smacked your son,” she tells her, quite inelegantly.“Oh dear.”“He brought that leggy blonde slag to the cemetery.”“Leggy blonde?” Mrs. Turner sounds absolutely mystified, but then watches me, taking another swig straight from the bottle. “Oh dear.”I don’t know for sure if she realizes, in this moment, that I’ve been in love with Alex our entire lives, but I can guess she does from the way her eyes go soft and she looks like she might cry.
I can’t cope, so I take another glug of whiskey before I push past Rosie and go back into the living room.
I’m immediately pulled into a current of conversation. People come up to me and apologize again, talk about Dad, share fond memories, tell me how alike we are. It feels like there’s a rock the size of a fist sitting in my stomach, and I swallow down the glass of whiskey Rosie discreetly hands me, hoping the weight will dissipate. I feel overly sensitive and fragile, like my body has been flayed open and my insides left exposed to the world– like I’m suffering from shock after seeing Alex. My thoughts ping back to slapping him across the face, machine gun memories battering the inside of my eyelids with every blow I laid against his chest. I can see the way he stumbled backward, looking so fragile and vulnerable himself, shocked, when he’s always so calm and cool. I almost feel bad. But then the giraffe-tall blonde floats across my vision and I throw back the rest of my whiskey.I might be having an out of body experience.When Matt and Breana come in not longer after, he makes a beeline for me, looking harried.“It were a fight, but I told ‘im to stay away,” he says into my ear, as soon as he reaches me. “Told ‘im to let you cool off.”
“I don’t need to

cool off

, Matthew,” I spit back, the fire of rage resurging under my skin. “This is not a schoolyard row.”
“Lily, ‘e didn’t–”My dad’s boss is approaching me though, so I don’t let Matt finish his sentence, and I avoid having anything more than superficial conversations with anyone until the end of the night. Rosie plies me with alcohol without anyone being aware, and it numbs the feelings of exposure, dulls the sting just enough.
But I can’t pretend I don’t keep looking at the door, that I’m not waiting for Alex to walk through it. Part of me dares him to, dares that cocky fucker to come into Dad’s house after I laid into him the way I did. Another part of me really hopes he doesn’t, because I don’t think I can handle seeing him right now– thinks that seeing him in person would send me into a tailspin, would make me weep and disintegrate from the sheer pain of it all. And the part I don’t want to face desperately wants him here– wants him to fight to be with me,

beside me

for all this, and to fix everything– for things to be what they should. Whatever that is.

As the hours tick by, a heavy feeling of abandonment sinks into my stomach, though I know it shouldn’t. I was the one who told Alex to fuck off, I was the one who lied to him for years, never told him how I felt. But something feels like

Mum

.

Mum wasn’t there when I needed her to be. Alex wasn’t either. All those years of not being wanted by either one of them, and I think I might cry

now

because of it.
I make it through in one piece somehow, and when the last mourner leaves, Alex still isn’t here, and I’ve had so much to drink that I’m unsteady on my feet, but sad under the drunken surface.Mrs. Turner is tidying up without being asked, Mr. Turner helping in order to avoid my bleary, forlorn eyes. Matt and Breana are sitting on the couch, staring, probably waiting to see if I’m about to go off again. Rosie looks like she’s ready to fight any battle I ask her to, the whiskey bottle within her periphery.“Lily,” Matt finally says, standing up and crossing the living room to where I stand by the kitchen door. “Alex–”“I’d really like to be alone right now,” I cut across him sharply. My brain feels fuzzy, swirling in pain and alcohol, and I don’t want Matt trying to defend Alex right now, because I might kill him.
He looks frustrated, tries to reason with me again: “I think you really ought to–”

“Matt, stop!” I snap, and it comes out like a shriek. It makes Mr. and Mrs. Turner pause their cleaning, makes Breana jump. “I’ve had a shit day, and I’d like– I’d just like to be alone right now.

Please

.”
Mrs. Turner comes over to me, puts a hand on my arm. I might dissolve into tears just from the genuine look of concern on her face. I can’t bear her kindness right now– her love– when I’d like to throttle her son so badly.
“Love, are you sure that’s what you want? I could tidy up for you.”
“I could stay the night,” Rosie offers. “I’ll clean– Keep ya company.”The tears are forming in my eyes, making my vision waver. I shake my head profusely to keep them at bay, saying, “I just need some time to myself.”Mrs. Turner nods, seeing the desperation on my face, and gives my arm a squeeze. She ushers everyone out, taking the responsibility off my hands, but Matt is lingering, looking like he wants to say something.“Matthew,” Mrs. Turner says sternly, standing in the open doorway.He looks to her, pulled by her motherly tone, and starts for the door. Before he walks out of it though, he says, “I really think you should try talkin’ to Al, Lily. ‘ear ‘im out.”I don’t say anything, just give him a tired look, and he nods, closing the door behind him when he leaves.Alone, I slump onto the sofa, spent. The house is quiet, and I listen to the sound of car doors closing, engines starting, traffic passing outside, the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of my own heart in my ears. I consider getting up to clean, but my brain feels weighed down with whiskey, so I stare at the wall, feeling myself spinning without moving.
Cups and leftover appetizer trays litter the living room and kitchen, and I look at them, but I don’t really see them. I’m thinking about Alex, I’m letting the tears harden into anger again, because it’s so much easier. I stand on wobbly legs and start to tidy the house, just for something to do. I gather paper cups and plates, bleary eyed and pissed, tossing them into the rubbish bin one by one. While I work, moving slowly and clumsily, I consider putting on music, but the thought dribbles out of my mind before it can materialize. I’m too busy thinking of my phone conversation with Mum, seeing Alex step out of that car with that girl before my father was fully in the ground.
I’ve only just started working when I hear my phone chirp from the couch. I’m too pissed to stop myself from looking.

Alex

I don’t pick up the phone to read the text, just grab a crumpled up napkin and go to toss it out in a huff. My stomach is twisted and angry, but I can’t pretend I’m not relieved to see him reaching out.
My phone beeps again.

Alex

I stare at it for a minute, lit up on the sofa, and I feel the rage break over my head once more. I was standing alone when they told me Dad hadn’t made it. I was

alone

, accepting condolences, sorting the house, crying. Alex doesn’t get to show up with his girlfriend, after breaking my heart for the

millionth

time, and then text and make it all better.
My phone starts to ring.

Alex

I ignore it, heart hammering angrily in my chest, and I go over to Dad’s ancient stereo, hit play on whatever he was listening to last.The drum beat alone tells me what it is, and I actually laugh out loud, because my only alternative is to cry at this point.

Well the morning was complete

There was tears on the steering wheel

Drippin’ on the seats

I turn it up to full volume, let it fuel my anger while I drunkenly clean the rest of the house, ignoring the calls that and texts that continue to roll in past midnight, from the boy whose voice is now pushing me further into rage.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2007

If I knew Glastonbury was going to be such a disaster, I wouldn’t have gone. But I don’t know that when I take the train to meet Alex in Pilton, headphones jammed into my ears, blaring Bowie and The Kooks in intervals.

I’ve spent the last several weeks adjusting to and accepting my withdrawal from King’s College. Dad and I packed up all of my things and moved them back to Sheffield only a few weekends ago, and I’ve been waffling about, listless, ever since. I haven’t started looking for a job, or even

thinking

about what’s going to happen next. Instead, I’ve been setting aside books to read, thinking about stories to write, and then watching reality television instead, anchored to Dad’s couch like my body is made of lead. So, honestly, I think Dad was pleased to see me off at the train station, because it means I’m getting out of the house, that I have some kind of purpose– even if it’s just for the weekend.

But if I’m being honest, I haven’t been coping with leaving King’s College very well. At least, I’m coping even worse than I thought I would. After getting my exam results, I really thought it would be a relief to withdraw, to have one less worry and failure hanging over my head. Instead, it’s like I’ve lost my identity, like I don’t have a purpose any longer, and it makes me feel like I’m adrift at sea, gasping for air.

And I still haven’t told Alex. All the weeks leading up to us reuniting at Glastonbury were spent talking about it, about how chuffed he was to be performing, about all the artists we were going to enjoy, the drinks we were going to have, how fun it would be to have a festival weekend together. I’ve been telling myself I’m going to find a quiet moment to tell him though, once the music and alcohol and time spent together have melted the distance between us, and the high of performing the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury has diffused enough that Alex can

see

me again.

I’m

going

to tell him. No elaboration on my failures, or how shit it makes me feel, just a perfunctory announcement: I’m not going back to King’s College. I’ve temporarily moved back in with Dad. I’ll be looking for work soon.

Simple.

And when I see Alex– when he picks me up at the station in Pilton– I feel instantly comforted, relieved of the tension and anxiety that has come with my academic and career failures over the past two years. He pulls me into his arms, that goofy, wide grin lighting up his face, and I know everything will be set to right.

As headliners, the boys are staying in the poshest RVs at Glastonbury– far enough that it’s private and comfortable, close enough to still be a part of the action. I’m sharing a bed with Alex, and no one bats an eye over it. It’s

Glastonbury

, we’re lucky we’re not camping out in the mud.

The first day is spent in a whirlwind. I’ve never been to Glastonbury, and the first day alone sets me spinning. I wander around the grounds while the boys do soundchecks and press things, and I can’t believe the size of it, the energy of it, or the absolutely astounding amount of mud. I stick near the Pyramid Stage mostly, with a drink in one hand, and my mobile in the other, for whenever Alex texts to check in. I watch Amy Winehouse and the Fratellis from the fringes of the crowd– too nervous to get into the thick of it alone– and my VIP wristband and wad of cash from Alex gets me proper pissed by the time he texts me and tells me they’re on next.

He sets me up backstage, amidst a gaggle of VIP onlookers. The crowd is enormous, a near-pitch-black sea of darkened faces and limbs. I’m shocked at the enormity of it– at the size of the stage itself. Alex plies with me drinks, before he’s swept into work, until it’s time to go on. Camera flashes and glow-in-the-dark shapes punctuate the dark of the crowd, until the stage lights come on, and the crowd goes absolutely mad.

When they start “When the Sun Goes Down”, I wish I hadn’t had so much to drink. I’m emotional, near to tears watching the crowd absolutely erupt, jumping feverishly as they sing in unison. They know every word, and they love them– they love

Alex–

and he’s so comfortable, singing and playing and doing absolutely amazing in front of thousands and thousands of people. I think of the little, soft-haired boy I met in maths on my first day at school in Sheffield. He was so painfully shy, so uncomfortable with attention and connection, that we were immediately kindred in our anxiety. He’s commanding an entire festival right now, and I feel like I could dissolve from my love for him– from how proud I am of him.

But it isn’t until they play “505” where I actually start crying. I don’t realize it until halfway through the song, with my beer clutched in my hand, tears streaming down my face, surprising me. It’s because of how overwhelmed I feel with how much I love him, still, and how chuffed I am for him, but it’s also how much love is in the song– how sad I can still feel that these love songs touch me so deeply, without any of them being about me.

After Friday, the boys are done, and the weekend turns into a piss up of watching performances, dancing in the mud, and drinking until we can’t feel our faces. Alex doesn’t leave my side all day Saturday, so I get to witness his celebrity firsthand, and it lodges a lump in my throat the size of a fist. No matter where we go, he’s recognized– girls stopping him to sign their wellies, people wanting photographs, people snapping photos of us trudging from one stage to the other in the mud. Alex doesn’t seem fazed, and he holds my hand as we slip and slide through the quicksand-like fields, puts an arm around me while we listen to Paolo Nutini and The Killers, places his hand at the small of my back, lips brushing my ear as he asks me if I want another drink, as if the photos being taken don’t matter. But it means I don’t get a moment alone with him– not a single moment of true privacy or closeness– and watching people fawn over him makes it harder to tell him about King’s College besides.

When we crash into the RV just before the sun comes up, peeling off muddy boots and trousers, we finally have a moment of quiet, climbing into the tiny bed, pressed together like old times.

I realize, in the dark, that it’s the first time we’ve been alone together– close– since he and Johanna officially broke up, and I can’t pretend my heart doesn’t start pounding. I think of that night in my room in London, the last time we kissed, and he said it wasn’t right, because of Johanna, that he wanted to, but he couldn’t. I wonder if there’s anything standing in the way of us being together now.

“I’m glad you’re ‘ere, Lils,” he whispers in the dark. Matt and Jamie and Nick are all snoring and breathing softly in their sleep, hidden behind a half wall.

“I’m glad I’m here too.”

I should tell him now. This is as alone and quiet as it’s going to get this weekend for us. It’s not ideal, because we’re exhausted, pissed out of our minds, high on a long day of music and dancing and festival energy.

I open my mouth to say it– about to just blurt it out while the alcohol is slogging my brain– when I feel Alex’s fingers slide around the dip of my waist, his mouth burying itself in my hair, nuzzling my neck.

“What are you doing?” I whisper in the dark, feeling my blood humming at his touch, at the closeness of his body to mine.

He doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips below my ear, opening them to gently suck at the sensitive skin there. I want to question him further, but I’m drunk, and the blood has rushed from my brain, and the sigh I let escape gives me away.

His arms wrap around me, his hands sliding up underneath my shirt, and I have goosebumps all over. I can feel his erection growing against my back, and I know this is a hopeless battle– that I don’t want to fight at all. I turn to face him in bed, his arms still around me, and I press my lips to his, our mouths both falling open hungrily, tongues lashing, prying, searching.

The rough pads of his thumb find my nipples, pushing aside my bra, and his knee is pressing against me, making me squirm. I push at his trousers, and he pulls at mine. We’re not fully naked when he’s inside of me, and his mouth swallows my whimper of pleasure. The whole thing is over in seconds, both of us too drunk to hold on for too long, or stay awake for much long after.

I’m alone when I wake up in the morning, and I find the boys outside the RV, talking to a group of strangers– a group of too-pretty girls, and high-looking guys also staying in the VIP area. Alex beckons me over for some coffee, and he acts like nothing happened at all, making me wonder if he was too pissed to remember. I watch as he flirts with a ginger, as she asks if he can teach her to play the guitar, and my day slides into disaster.

When I’m still sober, I vow to confront him before we leave. Not only will I tell him the truth about King’s College, but I’ll ask him why we shagged, why he would do that if it didn’t mean anything to him. But that disintegrates into meaninglessness once I start drinking heavily, once one of our new friends offers me a joint, once we’re watching The Who and I have a full on nervous breakdown in the crowded mud.

It crashes around me without warning– this sense of abject panic, of being physically unable to move for fear I might disintegrate, the need to vomit– while everyone sings along to ‘Pinball Wizard’. I can’t see as I push my way out of the bodies, as I find an empty spot to stand on the fringes of the crowd. The flashing lights and pulsating bodies makes everything look nightmarish, and I gasp for breath, before throwing up into the empty mud at my feet.

I’m shaking, whole body vibrating noxiously, and I realize I’ve definitely smoked too much weed.

The irrational idea that I’m overdosing sinks its claws into my brain. I don’t think it’s possible, but what if I’m the first, what if my body can’t tolerate it, what if I’m going to die in the middle of Glastonbury, alone and purposeless in life?

People look, but they don’t pay me any mind, despite the fact that I’m hyperventilating and shaking in the middle of an open field. Scrambling for my mobile, I try to call Alex, but it just rings and rings. He probably can’t hear it in the middle of the crowd, with The Who breaking out with ‘Baba O’Riley’ and the entire audience screaming in madness.

I text him:

I need you. Think I’m dying

I wait, and I wait, and I throw up again, and I know I’ve definitely drunk and smoked too much. The rational part of my brain tells me this will pass, that I will be fine, but the part of my brain that has felt hopeless and purposeless, an utter failure since leaving London, thinks I’m going to die. Alex doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t find me. I stand, shaking, gasping, holding my arms around myself to stay together, until I feel steady enough to try to find my way back to the RV.

When he and the boys stumble into the RV at four in the morning, I’m still awake, and the panic has subsided. I know Alex has been too wrapped up in the night to check his phone, because when he sees me, pale and shaky in the bed, he looks shocked.

“Lils?” he’s pissed, and he stumbles forward, lowering to his knees to look at me. “What’s wrong?”

I consider telling him off, right in front of Matt and Nick and Jamie. I should wind up and give it to him good. Ask him why he shagged me last night and then abandoned me tonight. Tell him I dropped out of King’s College and I haven’t been able to tell him for months because it’s like I don’t even know him anymore, because how much I bloody love him shoves the truth aside every time. I should make him wince with the truth, with my anger, with my hurt.

Where were you? I should shout. Where have you

been

?

But I just tell him I don’t feel well, and I leave it at that.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Beast of Burden

2014

I’m sat in the middle of Dad’s living room on the floor, packing boxes and newspapers strewn around me. The old stereo system is blaring the Rolling Stones so loud that the house is shaking, but it’s keeping me from thinking about anything in particular as I divide Dad’s belongings into boxes to be kept, sold, and thrown out. I know my hair is a wild, flyaway mess, and I look a state in one of Dad’s old t-shirts, and some dirty leggings, but I can’t be bothered. I just want to get this done and go back to London to try and rebuild my life.When I woke up this morning, I had several voicemails– all from Alex– but I shoved my phone away. I didn’t listen to a single one, or read any of his messages, just set about packing up the house immediately.The music helps. So, Mick Jagger’s lilting voice is at top volume, and I’m covering picture frames with such ferocity I’m surprised I’m not tearing the wrapping paper. But I’m in a trance of work and concentration and the Rolling Stones– blissfully so, hypnotized– so that I don’t hear Alex knock, or ring the bell, or walk in the front door, until he’s standing in front of me, and I’m startled by his shadow.I lift my eyes to meet his gaze, and we stare at each other without saying anything. I’m sure my face is stony with rage already– from yesterday, and that he’s barged in this way now– because he looks shamefaced.The music thumps and roars over us inappropriately– “Come on baby make sweet love to me”– and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, but Alex doesn’t move. So, annoyed, I grab the stereo remote and switch the music off. The silence is abrupt, startling in its own right, and I can see him flinch at it, at the responsibility to now speak.“I rang the bell,” he says stupidly. I just stare up at him from where I’m still sat on the floor, until he’s forced to speak again, saying, “What’re you doin’?”“Packing,” I reply tightly. “The house needs to be tidied for a showing at the weekend.”“What?”“To sell,” I snap. “I can’t afford to keep it. You know that I’m a maid now, so you must also know I’m broke.”
He looks at the floor, and then sits down on the couch, shoving some books and VHS tapes aside to make a spot for himself. The action, his comfortability in Dad’s home, amongst his things, with

me

even though I tried to eviscerate him with my fists yesterday, makes me shake from the inside out. But it’s not just anger that’s pummeling its way through my bloodstream, it’s exhaustion, and frustration, and

giving up

.
I can’t fight or lie or pretend anymore. There’s nothing left for me to give him but the truth and what I’m really feeling– however ugly it all is.But he can speak first, because he’s the one that walked in on me.
It

looks

like he’s trying to speak, licking his lips, wiping his palms on his trousers, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and I’ve never seen him at such a loss for words.
Finally, he says, “Lils, I’m sorry–”“For what?” I cut across him. “For not being there when my dad died? Or for bringing a date to his funeral?”Alex winces, and I find some small comfort in that, at least.“Yes,” he breathes, as if he’s in pain. “For all of it.”I don’t say anything, just watch him squirm.He angles himself towards me, and says, “Lily, I was on a flight to New York when you tried to call me– I didn’t get your message until I landed.”I fold my arms.“The second I ‘eard it I called you back, but you didn’t answer,” he looks like his eyes are swimming, like he hasn’t been sleeping or like he’s going to cry. “Matt got ‘old of me and told me, and it ‘ad– your dad was already gone.”
I suck in a breath, because he sounds like he’s in physical pain saying it, and it feels like I’m being stabbed just to hear it.
“I texted and I called, but you just sent a message back saying you appreciated my sympathy– like I was a stranger,” he shakes his head. “I didn’t know where things stood with us after London and seein’ you with Taylor and then me bein’ in New York…”

Taylor

. She has a name.
I think of the time between Dad’s death and the funeral, where I didn’t talk to anyone directly– didn’t let myself slow down enough to read any text or answer any phone call on its own. I sent out so many perfunctory ‘thank yous’ without reading what the condolences or well wishes said. Alex was mixed in with that. And I didn’t talk to Matt long enough for him to tell me Alex had tried to reach me.It doesn’t make me feel much better.
“I couldn’t get a flight out until yesterday mornin’,” he tells me. “Lils, you ‘ave to know I wouldn’t– I

tried

to get ‘ere.”
The pull to cry is so strong I bite down on the inside of my cheek. I’m not going to let him see my tears, no matter how much I might wish I could let this all go.
“And you managed to bring your girlfriend,” I respond flatly, because it’s so much easier to be angry and cruel than vulnerable and forgiving.

He runs an anxious hand through his greasy hair.

I stand up without saying anything and grab the whiskey bottle from the kitchen table, where it’s sat since last night. I bring it into the living room and take a drink from it, offering some to him in an aloof way. He shakes his head, so I leave it on the coffee table.

“You both must have had a laugh after you saw me at the Mannerly.”
He looks up and meets my eyes, looking hurt, looking angry.“Silly twat of a mate messing about as a maid and pretending to be in publishing all these years,” I spit.He shakes his head.
There’s a beat of silence where I can see his thoughts shift– he starts to think about the lie, about the

years

of me lying– and he’s angry again. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?” he sounds exasperated, frustrated, with

me

.

“You were the famous Alex Turner,” I counter. “

The Arctic Monkey.

”
“Is that what you think of me?” he snaps. “After everythin’– you think that little of me? I’m just an elitist rock star ‘oo doesn’t know any different?”
“You brought your girlfriend to my dad’s

funeral

!”
He falls silent, momentarily chastised.
We’re both quiet for a long stretch, and he won’t meet my eyes. Finally, I say, “I

am

sorry I lied. I was trying to protect myself from how much of a fuck up I felt– and then from the possibility of losing you to the lie I had lived for so long. A lot of good it’s done me.”

He’s still angry, I can see it in the tightness of his shoulders, in the way his eyes are narrowed ever so slightly at me.
“‘Ow?” he asks accusingly, looking like he’s trying to put it all together– how did I get from King’s College to maid? “‘Ow did it ‘appen?”I throw my hands up in frustration, “What does it matter now, Alex?”He stares at me, his jaw set in a hard, angry line.
“I failed out of King’s College,” I shrug. “All right?

Satisfied

? I failed and I couldn’t bear to tell you– couldn’t find the right time between

Glastonbury.

And you moving to New York with

Alexa

.”

“That’s shit,” he shakes his head, sounding disgusted. “You couldn’t be honest with your best mate because ‘e’s got a life apart from

you

?”
He may as well have slapped me across the face for the shock of it– for the anger that rises up from my gut once more. It’s been happening so often lately– this rage– that it’s beginning to feel like an old coat. And maybe it’s good, because it’s steeling me against the desperate anguish I know I’ll sink into once this all settles. So, it’s with cold disbelief that I stare at Alex from across the living room, that I think about the soft, wide-eyed boy I met and fell in love with all those years ago. I think of all we’ve shared– the good and the bad– and how much I’ve loved him, and how deeply he’s left me wounded, and it makes the anger run rampant through my bloodstream.If this wild fury hadn’t been set free, maybe I wouldn’t say the next words that come out of my mouth.
“No, you twat,” I spit. “I couldn’t be honest because I was in love with you– because I’ve

been

in bloody love with you for years– and I couldn’t face any of it– because I

knew

you would hurt me.”
His mouth falls open slightly, and he looks paralyzed where he sits.“And I was right,” I shake my head. “No one can hurt me like you have. My entire life. And especially now.”There’s a beat of silence where I feel my heart pounding violently, my skin twitching. I feel the anger slowly dissipating, but I don’t want it to, because then I’ll have to face what I’ve just done.Alex looks like he’s about to say something, but I don’t let him. Without a word, I cross the living room and walk right out the front door, and I don’t stop walking until I’ve nearly crossed the city, until I know for sure he’s not coming after me.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2010

Alex rings me from New York, and I can’t tell if he’s crying. His voice sounds off– slow and slightly strangled– and he’s the one that’s called me, but he’s not saying much. It’s late afternoon in London, and the spring sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, casting the city outside my kitchen window in a golden light. I try to imagine Alex in his Brooklyn apartment, nursing a coffee, his guitar propped against the couch beside him. Maybe it’s sunny there too, maybe the sun is spilling through his window onto the floor as well. It’s difficult to picture though, because I’ve never seen Alex’s New York apartment, and I think he’s cut his hair again, but I haven’t seen his face in months.

“What are you doing?” I ask, pouring myself a tiny finger of whiskey to unwind from my workday. Alex is not being very forthcoming, but there must be a reason he’s called, so I’ll just have to drag it out of him.

“Watchin’ cowboy films.”

“Really?” I take a sip of my whiskey and lean against the counter. “Not writing?”

“A bit o’ that too.”

“What about Alexa?”

“Workin’ a lot,” he says. “She’s the face of everythin’ now, tha knows? Lacoste, DKNY, can’t keep up.”

“Feeling left out, rock star?” I quip lovingly, thinking the best way to get him out of his funk is to poke and prod him with jibes, rile him up.

“Nah then,” he says, but his voice still sounds wrong, like he’s trying to force some cheer into it, like he’s failing. I hear him take a shaky breath.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“What?”

“You don’t sound right,” I push.

“‘Aven’t been sleepin’ well is all,” he says, and his voice sounds warbled again, like he’s struggling to speak, and I put my whiskey down, suddenly anxious for him. “They’ve got these mad thunderstorms over ‘ere– apocalyptic, almost.”

“That’s why you’re not sleeping? Because of the weather?”

He takes another breath that makes my heart start pounding a little.

“Al, what is going on?” I ask, my voice getting stern. “Should I be worried?”

“Lils,” he replies, his voice breaking. “I feel a right mess.”

I go into the living room and sit by the window, sinking into the beat up armchair and pulling my legs against my body. I don’t know what’s wrong with Alex, and I’m worried, but I’m relieved that he’s talking, and I’m determined to fix it.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what I’m doin’ ‘ere some days, tha knows? Sittin’ in this apartment, watchin’ films, muckin’ about, while Alexa is out there runnin’ the world.”

“Al,” I say, admonishingly. “That can’t be what’s bothering you– Alexa has always done her own thing, run the world, been an “it girl”– That’s

why

you love her.” I wait a beat, but he doesn’t say anything, so I go on, “And besides, how many times has she sat at home while you’ve been off on tour, or recording, or writing?”

I hear him take a breath again, and I realize that it’s very likely he’s been crying, or is currently crying, and it makes my chest hurt in an excruciating way.

“I think I’m losin’ ‘er.”

“Alex, you’re not,” I say. “She

loves

you.”

“What if we’re not right? I’ve been ‘avin’ me doubts– I just– Bloody ‘ell, I miss you, Lily.”

My throat goes tight with emotion, and I bloody wish I could afford to get on a plane and hold him in my arms right now.

“I miss you too,” I tell him. “But you’re having a bad day– a bad week– it’s nothing more than that.”

“What if it’s not right?” he asks. “What if it ends?”

I’ve never known Alex to worry about being single– to fret over loneliness. He’s always been someone who likes their time alone, to think and work and explore all his favorite novels and films. He’s a romantic, but he’s not desperate to be in a relationship just for the sake of it. This must be because he’s so deeply in love with Alexa, so desperate for it to be forever– because he’s stuck in a spiral in his own head and worrying himself over nothing.

“Alex,” I say gently. “You’re only twenty-free. You have all the time in the world to worry about this kind of thing. Besides, there’s nothing to worry about with Alexa– you two are perfect and you know it.”

My throat and chest hurt to say it, to know it’s true, to feel him hurting about this, but I say it anyway.

“When can I worry then?” he says, and I can tell it’s a joke, that he’s trying to be light. “You’ll tell me?”

“Not until thirty, at least,” I lob back playfully. “That’s old.”

There’s a beat of silence, before he asks, “What about you?”

“What about me? Alexa and I will be fine, we’re also soulmates.”

He actually laughs at then, then says, “I mean are there any blokes on the ‘orizon?”

“I don’t have to worry until I’m thirty, remember? Or, for me, forty, because I’ll still be fairly young at thirty. You won’t, you’re already an old man.”

This makes him bark a laugh into the phone, and it makes me smile to hear him coming back to life.

“I love you, Lils,” he says, and his voice sounds somehow sad again, which is strange since he’s coming off the tail end of a laugh.

“I love you too, Alex,” I reply.

It’s the last time I’ll hear about any doubts or worries regarding his relationship with Alexa, and weeks later, when he tells me he’s started writing for a new Arctic Monkeys album, I know he’s fully recovered.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

She’s Not There

2014

Only a week after the funeral, I go back to London, back to work, back to my life. I haven’t heard from Alex since I confessed the truth to him in Dad’s living room, and I haven’t tried to reach out to him either. Matt has called repeatedly, trying to ask what happened, what’s going on with me and Alex, if I’m okay, but I brush him off, tell him I’m too busy with packing up Dad’s house to talk. And when I leave Sheffield to return to London, I take one last look at the house– the place where I grew up, where Dad built a life for us, where I felt so unconditionally loved and protected, safe, and I feel like crumbling on the front step once more. But I can’t afford to keep it, so I pack several boxes to take to my flat, I leave the house plain and nearly bare for the estate agent, and I lock the door behind me when I go.
I’m surprised at how grateful I am to get back to the job that I thought I hated for so long– that has embarrassed me, and exhausted me– the one that caused me so much grief, and made me lie to my best friend. But I take solace in pulling on my uniform for the first time since Dad died, in pushing our cart of supplies down the halls, in stripping beds and wiping down showers alongside Rosie once more. And to her credit, she doesn’t ask after how I feel or how I’m doing– she doesn’t bring up Alex, or Sheffield, or Dad. Instead, she prattles on about her boyfriend, about her flat having a leak, about Kate Middleton, and it is so comforting and appreciated– so

Rosie

.
I also haven’t told her anything about what happened that day after the funeral. She doesn’t know that Alex reached out to me after Dad died and I just missed it, or that he showed up the day after the funeral and we both put everything on the table. She doesn’t know I confessed my love for him, and though I want to be truthful, I don’t think I’ll tell her. I just can’t. I haven’t heard from Alex since, and it hurts too much to think about it.So I don’t. I work, and I go back to my flat and watch telly, and I drink when I start to feel a bit too anxious or sad, or I wander around London, around Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and I let my mind become a complete blank. It becomes easy to switch on autopilot during the day, to go through the familiar motions of life without any thought or feeling mixed in. It helps to not listen to music, because so much of my music is infused with Alex– songs we discovered together, or introduced to each other, or had on when we shared one moment or another. There isn’t a single song in my library that I can’t attach to Alex, or Dad, in some way, so I mostly avoid it all together. But there are some rare moments– maybe when I’ve had too long of a day, or a bit too much to drink– where I let myself listen to something, and I cry, alone in bed, until I fall asleep and forget.It’s like this for nearly two weeks after my return to London, when Rosie and I are cleaning one of our rooms and she snaps at me.“All right, darlin’, what’s this then?”I’ve just finished yanking the fitted sheet off the bed when she straightens up and asks it, hands on her hips, like she’s angry with me.“What?” I ask, standing to my full height as well, confused.
Across the width of the bed, she squares off with me and says, “Sumfin’s ‘appened. Uvva then your dad, I mean. You’re not

you

. Was it Alex? At the cemetery?”
I stare at her from across the room, feeling cold, feeling numb, unable to let myself sink into any particular emotion, too scared. A Zombies song begins to play on a loop in my head, after days of not allowing myself to think in music, and it makes my throat tighten painfully.

Please don’t bother trying to find her

She’s not there

“Lily.”I shake my head, unable to speak.
“Babe, what

is

it?”
I sit on the bed heavily, and she comes around to my side, sitting beside me, concerned.“I told him,” I finally manage to get the words out. I’m not crying, just feel like I’m being crushed under something that is far too heavy. “I told him I loved him. He came to my dad’s after the funeral.”Rosie looks absolutely gobsmacked, but she stays silent, listening.“He didn’t– He didn’t even react,” I tell her, meeting her big, familiar eyes. “There was just… Nothing.”“Oh, babe,” she whispers, arm coming up around me.“And there’s been nothing since then,” I explain. “And after everything– I have– I have nothing left. My dad. Alex.”My throat is painful, as tears begin climbing up from my chest.She squeezes me to her, comforting, but her voice is sarcastic and chiding when she says, “What am I? Shite on your boot?”
I pull away from her, meet her gaze, tears suddenly filling my eyes, and I say, “No! Rosie! I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have you, after

everything

! I just– I still bloody love him and I just–” I press my lips together, afraid I might let myself break down into sobs. I swipe a stray tear off my cheek and take a deep breath, saying, “I feel so pathetic. I’ve lost Alex, and Dad, my childhood home– and I don’t know what I’m meant to do– Who I’m meant to be anymore.”
She rubs my arm, giving me a sad smile, and then tucks a stray curl behind my ear, then says, “You need to do sumfin’ different, babe.”I swipe at my tears again, taking another deep breath. “What do you mean?”“You said you was writin’– a coupla weeks ago– Why don’t you take a holiday and write some more? Or send it somewhere?” she suggests. “Why don’t you bloody move out of this city? Go to France, Italy, Spain–”“Not Spain.”“All right,” she amends, understanding. “Just– get out of your comfort zone, darlin’, it’s not doing you any good.”“I don’t feel very comfortable as it is.”“Well, then, it shouldn’t feel too different then,” she says. “But do sumfin’ that’ll do you good, yeah?”Her words send my thoughts into motion, rolling down the slope of my brain like marbles. I haven’t been able to write for ages now, not since Alex came back from L.A. Truthfully, the idea of sitting down to write– after what happened with Dad, more than anything else– feels absurd. It’s as foreign as the idea of giving myself a root canal, or trying to translate Chinese. What’s the point now? How would I even cope? But the idea of breaking this cycle of sleeping, working, drinking, numbness, makes the idea feel like I could put a crack in the icy exterior I’ve surrounded myself with. It couldn’t hurt me anymore than I’m already hurt.So, when I get home from work I make myself some tea, put on the Zombies, sit by the open window, with the rain starting up outside, and I force myself to write. 
I don’t even recognize Alexa when I run into her on the street on my way to the tube from running errands in Covent Garden– it’s so unexpected, I’m wrapped in my own thoughts. But she spots me right away of course.
“Oi! Lily!”I turn on the sidewalk, and see I’ve walked right by her. She gives me a hug, a bright smile lighting up her face.“It’s so good to see you! How are you?” she asks.Seeing her, so suddenly, feels warm and comforting– like turning my face to a sunny, break in the clouds.When she pulls away to look into my face, I don’t even need to reply. She sees something in my eyes, in the fall of my shoulders.“What’s happened?”I give a dry laugh, saying, “How much time do you have?”“I don’t have to be anywhere until four,” she tells me. “Fancy a coffee?”She loops her arm through mine, and we head for the nearest cafe– a quiet, corner place with squashy couches and real books in shelves all over the walls.When we’ve sat down with our cappuccinos and scones, in a secluded corner by the window, Alexa waves her hand at me, saying, “Spill.”I take a deep breath and say, “My dad passed away.”She actually gasps, her face wide with sympathy and horror, and she shakes her head, saying, “Oh, Lily, I’m so sorry.”It hits me all over again– the way it’s been doing at random times over the last few weeks. There are whole gaps of time where I forget that Dad’s gone, where I think to call him, or text, or make a plan to visit him on the weekend. I’ll talk to someone who doesn’t know what’s happened and they’ll ask after him. I’ll be going through my day feeling fine, for the first time in weeks. And then something happens, and I realize he’s gone all over again, the weight of what that means hitting me like a punch to the gut, and I’m forced to mourn once more. And it’s happening now, like it does whenever I have to tell someone what’s happened, and I’m worried I’m going to cry, after not seeing Alexa for months, in this random coffee shop in Covent Garden.
“I wish I had known,” Alexa says. “Are you okay?”
I shrug, because I’m worried that speaking will unleash the tears.“And Alex?”I inhale a sharp breath, like she’s just pressed her thumb against a tender bruise.She considers me over the rim of her cappuccino, lowering the cup slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. It’s been forever, but she can read my like a book.“What?” she says, her voice tentative, worried and suspicious.“I told him,” I say, looking down at my untouched scone. “That I love him, I mean. The truth.”Her beautiful, crystalline eyes bulge slightly, and she opens and closes her mouth several times.“What happened?” she finally asks. “What did he say?”I shake my head.
“What?” she sounds incredulous. “

How

did it happen? Are you

sure

?”
With a breath, I begin to spill everything. Really, everything. I tell her about the way Alex and I were as teenagers, when we started shagging and I was in love with him, but we were never anything more than friends with benefits. I confess about the lie– about telling the both of them I was still at King’s College, and then in publishing– and I got so stuck in. I tell her about Alex coming back to London, and the shagging starting back up, me thinking it was different this time. And then Alex’s trip to L.A., and him coming back telling me he had met someone, and I acted like everything was fine. She listens to me, silent, her coffee forgotten, as I recall the details of the day Dad died, when I couldn’t reach him, didn’t hear from him– or so I thought– until Dad’s funeral, when he brought his new someone. Taylor. I cringe as I explain the way I attacked him at the cemetery, and the way he called and texted after, and then the way our conversation unfolded the next day. I describe the shocked and frozen look on his face as I told him I loved him, and how badly he had hurt me, and how he didn’t say or do anything when I left.

I couldn’t be honest because I was in love with you– because I’ve been in bloody love with you for years– and I couldn’t face any of it– because I knew you would hurt me

By the time I finish, I’m shaking, and I take a drink of my cold coffee just to calm myself down.“Jesus, Lily,” Alexa says, sounding properly shocked. “I don’t even know what to say.”I shrug. “Me either.”“You still haven’t heard from him?” she asks.I shake my head.She looks out the window for a moment, then looks at her watch, and says, “How about a proper drink? Something stronger? I can cancel my four o’clock, it’s not that important.”Feeling so grateful, and so comforted by her presence, I agree eagerly. 
We have a drink at a pub right in Covent Garden, which turns into dinner, which turns into Alexa inviting me round to hers, where we drink wine and watch

Bridget Jones

. I’m shocked at how much better I feel being around her. I was sure, the moment I bumped into her, that she would cause me pain– just because of her past proximity to Alex, because he once loved her fiercely– but instead, it feels like being with Rosie, or Alex himself, side-by-side with a best friend. And as we unravel over wine, giggling or going teary-eyed in turns, I realize the advantage to being friends with Alexa: she knows Alex, understands him, and

us

, in a way Rosie doesn’t.
“He’s just got to get his head out his ass,” she says. “He gets in his own way sometimes, you know? Just give him time, he’ll come ‘round.”
I shake my head, her living room– massive and posh and

cool

, located in East London– going fuzzy. I take another sip of malbec and reply, “I don’t think so– and what’s more I don’t care. I’ve got to just move on, focus on

me

for a change.”

She considers this, staring off into space, and then, an idea strikes her. “Are you still writing?” she asks.
I think of the work I did before Alex came back from L.A., the writing I’ve therapeutically poured out since Rosie all but knocked me in the head for wallowing, and I nod hesitantly. The beginnings of a novel that I haven't put much weight in with everything that's been going on. “Send it to me,” she says. When I just stare at her, she continues, “Tomorrow. I’ll send it along to my friend– she’s in publishing in New York.”“Oh no,” I say, remembering her distant friends from years ago, all the connections in writing. Of course she’s got these connections, then and now, after writing a book. “I couldn’t–”“I’m not promising anything, all right?” she says with a smile. “But maybe she can give you some feedback, or pass it on to someone who might want to publish it.”“It’s not finished–”“Do you want to focus on yourself, or stay where you are, the way you are?”God, are she and Rosie exchanging notes on how to cope with me?“All right,” I agree, finally. “I’ll do it.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2005

I’m in a state, and Dad can see it. He watches me as I fidget from across the living room. I take my hair out of its bun, and then feel how wild my curls are around my head and put it back up. I chew on my thumbnail. I get up and look out the window, sit back down, get back up and walk to the kitchen, then check the window again.

“Blimey, Lily,” Dad finally says, startling me. “Should I get you a stiff drink or summat?”

I throw myself down onto the couch beside him with an audible sigh, crossing my arms.

“What are you so worried about?” he asks, elbowing me in the side. “Think all the celebrity has gone to his ‘ead?”

“No,” I say, because that’s not what I’m afraid of. At least, not exactly.

“Then what?”

I hesitate. The worries have been circling my brain for weeks– ever since Alex left to go on his first national tour, ever since I last saw him after I failed to tell him the truth at the Fat Cat– and they’ve morphed and gotten a mind of their own at this point, and I’m hesitant to voice them. Afraid I’ll bring them to life.

At first it was concern– concern over the fact that Alex was out on tour, meeting new people, bonding with Matt and the boys, and he wasn’t calling or emailing nearly as often as I was used to. I tried to convince myself he was just too busy, but then I

also

managed to convince myself it was because his life was so much cooler than a sixth form mate from Sheffield who was on her way to university. Then it became worry that Alex would become so famous I would never be able to keep up, that he would party harder and live like a rockstar and he would try to stay my friend, but it just couldn’t work, and it would feel pathetic and pitiful. And then the anxiety sprouted up, and I started to agonize that things were just going to be too different– in whatever way that might be– that we would never be the same again.

I still love him. It’s only been a couple of weeks since I vowed to forget my romantic feelings for him, and I’ve been

trying

, but it hasn’t happened yet. My heart still rockets in my chest when he does email or call, and I’ve been having dreams nightly where he just holds my hand, or kisses me on the cheek, making me wake up with a strange ache in my chest. But more than him not returning my feelings– which I’ve accepted– I’m worried he’ll come back from this tour and we won’t be best friends anymore. I’m terrified we just won’t fit the way we always have, that something will have shifted between us because of the new paths our lives are taking. It’s left me lying awake at night wondering if I’ll even recognize him when he comes back, if talking to him will be like speaking to a stranger.

“I’m just worried things will be different,” is all I can manage to explain to Dad.

He puts his arm around me and pulls me to his side on the sofa, squeezing me hard, releasing some of the tension from my tightly wound body. “Who says different is bad?”

I let out a wounded breath.

“Maybe he’ll have spent all this time missin’ yeh,” Dad says. “Maybe he’ll realize he’s in love–”

“Dad!” I pull away from him and meet his eyes, cross, but he’s smirking at me.

“I could be right.”

“Stop it.”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry over nothing, my girl.”

There’s a honk outside, and I fly off the couch and to the window.

Parked at the edge of the garden is Alex’s beat up, forest green Peugeot. I can see him at the wheel, fiddling with his radio, shaggy fringe falling into his eyes. From here, I can’t tell if he’s different– if

we’re

different– so I can’t fend off the way my heart starts pounding at the prospect of us being together again.

“Is ‘e John Lennon yet?” Dad asks jauntily from the couch.

Rolling my eyes, I give him a kiss on the cheek, grab my bag, and go outside. Alex looks up as I come down the length of our front walkway, and meets my eyes. He gives the faintest smile, and a casual, limp wave, and it turns my stomach to bits. Why is he being so aloof? I only feel worse when I get into the car and he doesn’t reach to hug me– after not seeing me for weeks– just turns up the Stone Roses and pulls away from the curb once I’ve shut the door.

“All right?” he asks, as we join the flow of traffic on Mortomley.

“Yeah,” I reply. “How was the tour?”

“Great,” he says. “We’ve got a coupla offers from some recordin’ companies for our first full album.”

“A

couple

?” I blurt out, unable to contain my excitement and surprise. “Don’t sound so blasé, Alex, that’s brilliant!”

A real smile crosses his lips, and he looks at me sideways, nodding.

“So, you’ll be recording a full album, then?” I continue, once his smile slips into a cocky smirk and he looks back at the road. “When? Where?”

He shrugs, nonchalant, and the slight movement– this noncommittal attitude he’s putting on,

adopting–

turns my anxiety to annoyance.

“Have to pick a recording company first, tha knows?”

Though my fingers twitch in irritation– “

pick

a recording company”– I choose not to dwell on it, or let it get to me. I’m suddenly and painfully cognizant of the fact that this is not really Alex, this is some show he’s putting on, and I’m not sure why he’s doing it, but maybe he’ll stop.

We get to the pub in city center, where we’re set to meet a group of friends. Matt is there, and

he

gives me a hug when we join the table, asks me what I’ve been up to, buys me a pint. And as we settle into catching up– the whole, huge lot of us– Alex is back to his old self. He’s laughing and taking the piss out of the boys, and when people bring up the tour or the record companies, he goes pink and subtly changes the subject.

But as the night wears on, and we order more drinks and a couple rounds of greasy chips, Alex continues to put his act on. Just for me, though. If I speak to him directly, he gives me a cheeky, aloof response, a smirk, a shrug, and I keep trying to chip away at him regardless. I’m sure he’s just having a laugh, or taking the piss, or that I’ll be able to melt this strange exterior and get to the real Alex underneath, but with every indifferent interaction, my anger simmers to a boiling heat.

Finally, when Alex goes to the loo, I’ve had enough. I corner him in the darkened hallway by the toilets, and he looks surprised when he walks out. And then, appropriately, he looks slightly uncomfortable.

“Oi,” I say, low and stern. “What gives?”

“What you on about?” he counters, that new,

cool

smirk jumping right back to his lips.

I can’t help it, I don’t even think about it, I cuff him on the ears.

“Bleedin’ Jesus, Lils!” he yelps, grabbing his ear, actually sounding like himself again. “You barkin’?”

“Are

you

?”

“What’d yeh do that for?”

“Why are you acting like a prat?” I demand.

He has the decency to go slightly pink at that, avoiding my eyes.

“Well?” I shout.

He doesn’t say anything.

Shaking my head, I point one last murderous look directly at him, and then turn on my heel. I storm my way through the pub, and right out the front door, my blood boiling. This isn’t exactly what I feared, but it’s close, and I’m no longer anxious, just furious. Fuck him if this is what he’s going to become the second he gets a lick of fame.

“Lily.”

He’s behind me on the street outside the pub, his hand on my arm, stopping me.

“Wait.”

“Why?” I shout, rounding on him.

“Lils,” he says, sounding wounded. “I’m sorry– All right?”

I stare at him, eyes blazing, making him wince slightly.

“I didn’t mean– I didn’t know ‘ow to–”

“What?”

“How to what, Alex?”

“After all this time apart– I didn’t know– I missed you, tha knows?”

“You’ve got a bloody odd way of showing it,” I snark.

“I didn’t know if things would be different,” he goes on to say. “If you would ‘ave moved on with your life and– God, Lils I’ve been terrified of losin’ you this whole time.”

The pained look on his face, and the uncomfortable tone of his voice, makes me know it’s true, and I don’t know how it’s possible. How was he scared of the very thing I feared, during our first time apart since we were eleven?

“You’re daft,” I shake my head, giving a begrudging laugh. “You’re the one who was off on tour, ya knob.”

“Once I were on the road, I just– I don’t know– All the lads were there and it just felt– It felt like you shoulda been there too,” he tells me. “I wanted you there.”

I smile, feeling my stomach flutter, my blood going fizzy. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight, asking, “You want me to be a

groupie

, Alex?”

He holds me to him, and I can feel his heart pounding when he says, “Nah then. You’re too good to be a groupie.”

When I pull away he looks nervous again, and he can’t meet my eyes, so I say, “What is it?”

“I wanted to tell ya,” he starts, and my hearts sinks. “I mean, I’ve realized the last couple of weeks…”

The way he’s so nervous– practically trembling– and the way he can’t meet my eyes, the things he’s saying, it makes my heart rocket around my body. I feel sick at the possibility of what he’s about to say. What has he realized the past couple of weeks? What has he realized from wanting me on tour with him?

My tongue feels thick in my throat, and I swallow.

“What is it?” I urge, my voice shaking too.

A burst of laughter sounds behind us, and he looks up, meets my eyes, and I can see him changing track, his mind working a mile a minute, the gears spinning out of control.

“I did meet someone,” he says, and my stomach goes leaden. “In London.”

My throat is so dry I find it difficult to swallow, but I try, because I’m worried the tears are going to well up in my eyes if I don’t push them down.

“I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere,” he says. “Do you think I should– Should I see ‘er?”

I pull my eyebrows together. “Why shouldn’t you?”

He holds my gaze for a moment, and then says, “I wasn’t sure if you could think of any reason why I shouldn’t.”

I’m suddenly exhausted by these games he’s playing, and I’m not going to encourage or discourage this relationship either way. It’s not my decision to make. Alex can be a big boy and choose his girlfriends on his own.

“Do whatever makes you happiest, Alex,” I say, trying to smile, giving a shrug. “I’m going to get another drink.”

He waits a long beat, before following me, and that’s the end of the conversation for the night.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Bitch is Back

2014

I begin to spend more time with Alexa, and it helps me actually start to feel like my wounds are beginning to close up.I realize that I haven’t ever thought of Alexa as separate from Alex until now– even after they broke up. I only thought of her in relation to Alex, as his girlfriend, the love of his life, his ex. But now, I’m getting to her know her all over again, and she’s quickly becoming one of my best friends– a positive force in my life, a lovely distraction. We spend a whole Saturday wandering around the National Portrait Gallery, making ridiculous sketches and sharing headphones, before getting tipsy at a late lunch, gabbling about writing. We watch old films on her couch and order a takeaway, and I end up sleeping on her sofa more than once. We ask Rosie along for drinks in Shoreditch, and they spend the night becoming fast friends, analyzing the Alex situation in great, drunken detail for me, calling him a knob, talking up my “inevitably successful” writing career, and I could cry from how much I love them. It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve seen Alex, since I told him the truth at Dad’s, and I’m beginning to accept the fact that things are truly over between us. Romance, sex, friendship, it’s all in the past. If there was anything to repair, or if he felt the need to speak to me, he would be here. But he’s not. So I write, and I work, and I spend my time with Rosie, and Alexa, and I manage to get on. I’m at work, tidying one of the guest rooms with Rosie, and we’re listening to Elton John when my phone begins to ring on a sunny Thursday morning. “It’s Alexa,” I tell Rosie, answering it. “Hello?” “Lily.” “Alexa.” “Are you sitting down?” I look around the disheveled hotel room, at the pillowcase I’m currently pulling off, standing at the bedside, and I say, “No.” “You should.” “What is it?” I ask sternly. I’m expecting the worst, but I don’t sit down, I stand straighter and brace myself. “Jane called me,” she says, referring to her friend in New York, and her voice gives her delight away. “She has someone at HarperCollins that wants to meet with you in London. She mentioned a possible book proposal.” My heart stops in my chest– in a positive way, for the first time in months– and I almost don’t believe my ears. 
“She said it’s a rough draft, for sure, but it’s an amazing start,” Alexa continues. “Lily, they’re

really

, bloody impressed!” 
Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I blink furiously. Rosie stops her work and meets my gaze, giving me a quizzical look and a roll of the hands, as if indicating for me to explain. “Are you still there?” “Yes,” I manage to croak. “I just– I can’t believe it.” 
“Believe it, babe,” she says, and I can tell she’s smiling by the tone of her voice. “I told you this would happen– you’ve

earned

this.” 
I nod to myself, trying to stamp that into my brain. After everything that’s happened this past year, I do deserve something like this. Don’t I? “Expect a call from the HarperCollins bloke before the weekend, yeah?” she tells me. “I know you’ll make me proud.” “Alexa,” I say, voice choked with emotion. “Thank you– for everything– I don’t know how I could ever–”“Not at all,” she says sternly. “I’m glad we’re friends, Lily, honestly. Whatever happens, let’s not let that change again, all right?” “Thank you.” “Cheers, babe, see you soon!” I hang up, and that is when I do sit, sinking onto the bed in disbelief. “What is it then?” Rosie demands. 
“I have– I’m going to have a meeting with a publisher,” I manage to say, staring into space as the truth unfurls before me. In an instant I’m thinking of the possibilities that could come with this news. I think of getting a nicer flat, visiting New York–

moving

to New York– taking Rosie on holiday to Ibiza or Monaco, spending my days writing instead of cleaning. “They liked my work.”

“Well, of course they bloody did, you knob!” Rosie says, as if this is the most obvious news in the world. She goes back to cleaning, genuinely nonplussed by my success when she continues: “What did I tell you? I knew you was goin’ to be big. Just don’t forget to take me on holiday when you’re rich.” 
 
Alexa agrees to come along to my HarperCollins meeting, because I have no idea what I’m doing and she’s a published author herself, and a businesswoman to boot. And, of course, not only has she agreed to come, but she’s also kitted me out in a dress, blazer, and heels– all from her own closet– and tamed my hair. 
We sit in the wide open reception area of the HarperCollins office in London, waiting for a meeting with an agent called Richard. My knee bounces nervously, making my kitten heel tap annoyingly against the wood flooring. I keep bringing my finger to my mouth to chew on my thumbnail until, finally, Alexa swats it back to my lap. “Relax, babe,” she whispers. “They already love you. You’re in control here.” I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then I nearly choke on it, when I see Alex turn round the corner from the lifts, and enter the reception room. Alexa sees him too, because she stiffens beside me, and says, “Shite,” under her breath. “Why is he here?” I ask her, as if she should know. She shakes her head, just as stunned as me, and then he’s before us. “Lily–” he begins, but I cut him off, standing to my full height. “What are you doing here?” “Alexa told me you was ‘ere,” he says. “I’m only in London for the day– I needed to talk to you.” 
“You

what

?” I turn to Alexa, angry.

She stands, looking proper guilty, glancing at the receptionist– who is now staring– and she whispers, “Lily, I didn’t tell him to

come here

. He texted me asking after you because you wouldn’t talk to Matt and I told him you were doing well, that you had this meeting and I was coming along. When he asked me when the meeting was this morning, I didn’t dream he would

show up

!” Rounding on Alex, she hisses, “I thought you were in Auckland, you prat! I’m not your

spy,

for chrissakes!” 
“Lily,” Alex says. “I need to talk to you.” “So talk,” I counter, folding my arms.He meets Alexa’s eyes, who’s staring him down like a watchdog, like she might go for his throat if he makes the wrong move. And then he glances at the receptionist, who looks intrigued– who seems to recognize him and might be reaching for her phone. He meets my eyes once more, and he looks to be struggling. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and then opens it again. “Can we– Can we talk privately?” he asks, and he takes my arm and guides me around the corner, toward the isolated bank of lifts. “Alex, I have a meeting any minute,” I say, though my heart is pounding at being in the same room with him once more, at his hand on my arm. “What?” “After everythin’ that’s ‘appened,” he says. “I needed to see you– I needed to talk to you properly.” I wait, staring him down, arms still folded. He struggles to meet my eye, and I can see the machinery of his brain working, getting in the way of his words. The ever-eloquent Alex Turner, award-winning lyricist, Mr. Wit and Brilliance, is at a loss for words.
“This needs to be

today

, Alex,” I snark. “Although you’ve sure taken your time about speaking to me after I left you sitting in Dad’s living room, so what’s another couple

hours

?”

He deflates slightly, and I can suddenly see he looks nervous. My heart ricochets in my chest, and I’m desperate to hear what he’s come to

HarperCollins

to say, but that desperation quickly makes me angry. I’m tired of feeling desperate where he’s concerned, and the dread that’s curled up like a snake in my stomach makes me see red. Because here it is, the rejection, the letting-me-down-gently, the moment where he tells me he loves me as a friend and doesn’t want to risk losing that, the conversation that has been keeping me from telling him the truth for over a decade.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me an age,” he says. “I’ve still got the tour and…” he trails off at the icy look I shoot him. “It doesn’t matter.” 
“No, it doesn’t,” I agree curtly. He steps on one foot, and then the other, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. I haven’t seen him like this in years, and it should make me feel sympathetic to what he’s going through as well. I consider things from his perspective. I think of how it must feel to lose one of your best mates because she had to up and confess she was in love with you all this time, just while you were starting a new relationship. But it doesn’t make me feel bad– it can’t, after all these years– it just cements my resolve and my anger. “All right,” I finally say. “If you won’t speak, I will.” He meets my eyes at that, his body finally going still. 
“I have loved you for years,” I tell him. “Bloody

years

. And I have watched you travel the world, and fall in love, and write beautiful music, and the whole time I was too afraid to tell you the truth– about my failures, about who I really was and how I really felt.”

I can see his eyes go bigger, just slightly at my words, and I realize how angry they sound, but I don’t hold back. 
“And for years I’ve been terrified of losing you,” I go on. “But I’m not anymore. Because I realize that I’ve already done it before. All the shagging we’ve done, or the times you’ve kissed me, or told me you loved me– every time I thought you finally felt the same, and every time I lost you.” He tries to speak, but I steamroll over him. “But I’m done now, Alex,” I say. “I love you. I always will, because you’re my very best friend. But I need to move on from this, and that means that you need to leave right now and give me time to myself.” “Lily–”“Get into the lift, and go.” His face goes stormy, and he’s suddenly stubborn once more, defiant. “Do you really want to ruin this opportunity for me? On top of everything else?” I counter. “You’ve hurt me, Alex. If you care about me at all you will go, and you will let me be for a while.” His face flashes anger, and then hurt, and then he turns and punches the button for the lift, disappears inside, and he’s gone.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

2014

Alex

I’m left sat on her dad’s couch after Lily slams the door behind her, feeling quite like she’s given me a right hook to the middle of my chest. It takes a moment for me to regain my breath, to get my thoughts straight, and when I do, I still can’t get up. 
How did I miss this? Did I

really

miss this for all these years? 
God, I’ve been such a bloody knob. I sink my head into my hands, leaning on my knees, and I try to clear my head. It’s impossible though, because I should get up and go after her, I should fix this now, before anything gets any bleeding worse between us. I should tell her the truth. Except I just can’t make myself get up. 
It’s the venom echoing from her words that stops me:

I couldn’t be honest because I was in love with you– because I’ve

been

in bloody love with you for years– and I couldn’t face any of it– because I

knew

you would hurt me. And I was right. No one can hurt me like you have. My entire life. And especially now.

Everything turned to shit the moment I touched down in New York to stay with Taylor before continuing the tour. More so than when I saw Lily at the Mannerly Hotel and found out she had lied to me for years. I was angry, of course, but I knew we could recover from it– I knew when I cooled off and we reunited, she would explain it to me, and we would be fine. I was just bloody hurt and surprised. But when I got to New York, and I was only in baggage claim, my mobile chirped with a dozen messages and voicemails, and it was the beginning of the end. I ignored everything else when I saw the voicemail from Lily, and I played it straight away, as I watched strangers’ luggage rotating on the carousel in front of me.Part of me was expecting a cheeky, angry message– a fuck-you-for-being-angry-with-me tirade– and I welcomed it. Anything to get us back where we were supposed to be. Instead, Lily’s voice came over the line, shaky and quiet, and it stopped my heart cold. “Alex, it’s Lily. I know things haven’t been the best between us but– it’s my Dad.” Her voice broke on the word, and I winced, right in baggage claim, almost forgetting where I was. “He’s had a heart attack and– and he’s in hospital. I’m on my way to Sheffield now, but I…” she sounded like she was in pain, and it made my chest ache. “I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened between us, and I’m sure you’re still angry with me but– Alex, I really need you right now.” My heart was pounding when I immediately tried to ring her, but it went straight to voicemail. I kept trying, even as I absently looked for my bags. When it never went through, I tried Matt. “Mate,” he answered finally, and his voice sounded sad. “Where are you?” “I’m in bleedin’ JFK, aren’t I?” I countered. “What’s goin’ on? ‘Ave you spoken to Lils? I’ve been tryin’–”“Mate,” he cut me off. “‘Er dad’s died.” 
My stomach fell to my knees, and I sank down right onto the edge of the carousel.

Major Tom

. My second father, and Lily’s whole world. It made my entire body hurt, and I pressed the fingers of my free hand into my eyes, because I could feel the burn of tears behind them. 
“You need to get back ‘ere, mate.” “Yeah, yeah,” I replied, trying to gather myself. “I’ll get a ticket for the next flight out.” Except I couldn’t get a ticket for the next flight out, or the one after that, and I had to spend several days waiting for the next available flight to Manchester, holed up in Taylor’s apartment. And she didn’t seem to understand the urgency, or the absolute dread I was feeling at not being able to reach Lily. She hadn’t answered any of my calls or voicemails, and I’m shite at texting, but I tried that too. And when I got a reply, where she treated me like a stranger offering their condolences, I knew for sure that things were truly fucked between us, and I needed to get to England to fix it– be there for her for what was surely the worst time in her life. “If she’s not answering, maybe you should leave her be,” Taylor offered, and I could tell she was growing tired of me. We hadn’t been together very long or very seriously, and here I was, sharing her bed and refusing to touch her or look at her because I was a wreck about Lily and her dad. I spent hours walking around New York City, from bridge to bridge, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I called Matt. “She’s a right mess, Al,” he told me, sounding worried. “I’ve never seen ‘er like this– it’s like she’s manic.” “What do you mean?” “She won’t talk to anyone– I don’t think she’s cried,” he said. “She’s just been ‘oled up at her dad’s, making calls and cleaning. I’m really worried, mate.” I couldn’t catch my breath after that. It was like I was constantly trying to breathe under water, thinking of her suffering, trying not to dissolve into tears, aching to be there to talk to her, comfort her, just sit by her side. And sometimes, in the shower, I did bloody cry– for her, for Major Tom, for all the ways I had bloody fucked up.When Taylor got a ticket without my asking and hopped on the plane with me, I was baffled. But she told me she wanted to be there for me, that she knew this would be hard for me, and I was too preoccupied– too relieved to be on my way back to England– to think that it might be better if she stayed in New York. She was trying to be romantic, and I wasn’t going to fight her.I never dreamed Lily would react the way she did. When I got out of that taxi at the funeral I could see her across the lawn, and she looked so small, so fragile, and I rushed across the grass to her. 
“Lils, I’m so sorry–” I said, but she caught me off. I watched, in an instant, as her face caught sight of me, and of Taylor, and went from broken to murderously angry. I watched, in shock, as she came at me and smacked me right across the face, and I can’t say I didn’t feel a little like I deserved it. “You bastard! You bloody, fucking

bastard

!” 
It felt appropriate, and I let her hit me, took it, even though she was snarling, and Matt was yelling and trying to hold her back, and Taylor looked horrified. 
“Where have you

been

?” she shouted, shoving me hard, and it sent me staggering back. “You fucking

bastard

!” 
“Lily, I tried–”
“Fuck you!” she yelled, pointing a violent finger at me “

Fuck

you, Alex!” 
And then she was storming off, past me, and I tried to follow her and the stranger beside her, but Matt grabbed my arm and stopped me. “I wouldn’t do that, mate,” he warned. “Matt, I’m not goin’ to just bloody leave ‘er– after all I’ve done to get to ‘ere?” “Al, she’s ‘ad a rough go of it,” he said, and he kept a hand clamped around my arm, as if afraid I would make a run for it. “Give ‘er some time.” Taylor was standing a few feet away from me, studying me like I was a science project gone wrong, but I kept arguing with Matt, saying, “That’s why I ‘ave to get to ‘er, innit? Because she’s ‘avin' a rough go of it!” Matt shook his head, so I continued, “Jesus Christ, do you know what this ‘as done to me, mate? Bein' in another country while she’s goin’ through this?!” Matt put his other hand on my other arm, holding me at arm’s length, and he said, “Let’s get a drink, yeah? You both need to cool off a minute, tha knows?” So I let him drag me to a pub and buy me a pint, while Breana tried to console Taylor, who was starting to feel confused and neglected and obviously annoyed. I let him convince me not to go to Lily’s dad’s house, where there would be a crowd, where Lily was still raw, where it wouldn’t be the right time to ingratiate myself when she didn’t want me there. I let him convince me I was doing her a favor by staying away, that this was what she wanted, and I drank myself into a drunken numbness until he and Breana left. It seemed Taylor had rallied by the time we were alone, but I hadn’t. And when she looked at me expectantly, hopefully, I realized that I just couldn’t do it anymore– not today– so I avoided her eyes when I said, “I think it might be best if I stay in Sheffield alone.” Her eyebrows pulled together, and her pert nose flared. She didn’t say anything, just gave me a questioning look. “I’m a right mess, Taylor,” I told her, because it was part of the truth. “I don’t want to drag you into it.” “I want to be dragged into it,” she said, and bless her. If I was in love with her it would have been the right thing to say. “I can pay for your ticket back to New York,” I said, as if she hadn’t even spoken, and I felt like a dick but I was drunk enough to keep going. “Or in Manchester, or London.” 
“You’re trying to get rid of me?” She didn’t sound hurt. I didn’t know Taylor to do “hurt” in front of the person hurting her. She just sounded pissed. 
I sagged against her words, because this fucking week had been shit enough without me hurting someone else on top of it. “I just– I need to be alone– I need to be ‘ere for Lily and–”She put up a hand, stopping me. “No, I get it,” she said, and her voice was flinty. “But you could at least be honest about it.” I tried to speak, to ask her what she meant, tell her she was wrong, but I didn’t have the energy, and she was getting up and leaving the pub besides. An hour later, I was sitting in my childhood bedroom, mobile in hand, waiting for someone to call or text. I hoped Matt would come through and say it was okay to come to Lily’s. Or that Lily herself would call and ask for me, without apology or question. At the very least, I hoped Mum would scold me and demand that I show some respect and come round. But nothing happened. So I sat against the wall, in the same clothes and shoes I had worn on the plane, and I stared into nothingness, feeling like absolute shit. When Mum and Dad got home it was dark, and I hadn’t moved to turn on any of the lights in my old bedroom.“Alex?” Mum knocked and came into my room, and I felt like a wretched teenager all over again. Head a mess, emotions an unnavigable tangle in my mind. “‘Ow is she?” I asked, and it came out like a croak, my throat dry and rough. Mum sat down, and she looked unbelievably sad. “Why didn’t you come after ‘er?” she asked quietly.She probably knew about what happened at the cemetery, and I slouched under her scrutiny. I wasn’t going to tell her Matt had convinced me not to, because that sounded as pathetic as it was. “Why did you bring another girl?” 
I winced, because–

Jesus–

hearing Mum say it was like being forced to look in a mirror. All I could do was shake my head. 
“She wanted to be alone,” Mum said. “But you ought to reach out, Alex. She needs you, and you know you need her.” That was when I started texting, and calling, and trying to get through all night. I didn’t sleep, just sat up in bed staring at my mobile, waiting for her to respond, hoping something would get through to her. But if anything did, she never let on. So I waited until noon the next day, bleary eyed and running on caffeine and cigarettes, before I walked over to her Dad’s and let myself in when I heard the music blaring and she didn’t answer the door. I stood before her in the living room, and I heard Matt’s word echo in my brain. Manic. She was wrapping and packing things into a box with a mad frenzy, looking small and broken, wired with a high frequency voltage that made me anxious. I watched her for a minute, afraid to disturb her, afraid it might make her shatter into a million pieces, when she looked up and startled at the sight of me. She stared at me for a beat, and her blue eyes were challenging, strong, and I felt my heart surge to see her still in there somewhere, under all that grieving kinetic energy. But the more she stared at me, the more I realized how angry she was, and I felt myself shrink from the force of it. Grabbing the stereo remote, she switched off the Rolling Stones, and I flinched at the sudden silence. “I rang the bell,” I said stupidly, feeling clumsy and inefficient, so desperate to be everything she needed me to be and worrying that was nothing. “What’re you doin’?” “Packing,” she replied tightly. “The house needs to be tidied for a showing at the weekend.” “What?” “To sell,” she snapped. “I can’t afford to keep it. You know that I’m a maid now, so you must also know I’m broke.” I had forgotten she was a maid at that hotel– I forgot all about the lies and being angry with her in all the chaos of trying to get to her side these past few days. I forgot to be angry because I was so bloody worried about her. Feeling my legs get unbelievably tired, I shoved some things aside and sat down on the couch, feeling my whole body sag. I wanted to ask if she was okay, how she was feeling, how she had been coping these last few days, but she looked too prickly, a spring coiled to fly, so that I hesitated. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was– that her father was gone, that I wasn’t here when it happened, that I got angry when I found out the truth at the hotel– but, again, nothing felt appropriate enough to bridge the chasm between us, so I swallowed my words. Finally, I started with, “Lils, I’m sorry–” She cut me off, the spring uncoiling, and said, “For what? For not being there when my dad died? Or for bringing a date to his funeral?” I winced, and breathed, “Yes. For all of it.” She stared at me. “Lily, I was on a flight to New York when you tried to call me– I didn’t get your message until I landed.” She folded her arms. She hadn’t told me to shut it though, so I continued: “The second I ‘eard it I called you back, but you didn’t answer. Matt got ‘old of me and told me, and it ‘ad– your dad was already gone.” My throat tightened as I thought of him– Tom Davis, gone– and everything hurt. “I texted and I called, but you just sent a message back saying you appreciated my sympathy– like a stranger,” I shook my head, because I felt so ineloquent, like there was a million better ways to explain myself and fix this. “I didn’t know where things stood with us after London and seein’ you with Taylor and then me bein’ in New York…” She didn’t say anything, and I knew I was fucking everything right up. 
I went on anyway, saying, “I couldn’t get a flight out until yesterday mornin’.” She just stared at me, and I wished to God I could read what was going on behind her eyes. “Lils, you ‘ave to know I wouldn’t– I

tried

to get ‘ere.” 
“And you managed to bring your girlfriend.” 
Even though it was directed at me, I admired her cheek– the barbs she used. I ran a hand through my hair, because I was not going to go down without a fight. I just had to figure out the best way to go about this. And while the cogs of my brain were working far to slowly, she got up to retrieve a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen. I passed it up when she offered it to me, and I watched as the wheels of

her

mind turned rapid fire, and she geared herself up to speak again. 
“You both must have had a laugh after you saw me at the Mannerly.”I didn’t know what she was talking about for a moment, and then I realized– she was talking about the hotel. Talking about being a maid. As if Taylor and I laughed at her after we saw her. The anger flooded my brain before I could stop it. After all I had tried to do to fix this, all the worrying over her well-being, and she was getting defensive about all the lying she did? The lying I was ready to forget?“Silly twat of a mate messing about as a maid and pretending to be in publishing all these years,” she spat.I shook my head. I wanted so desperately to just grab her and hold her to me, because why were we so shite at communicating– now, of all times? But I didn’t. If she wanted to talk about this, we’d talk about it. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”
“You were the famous Alex Turner.

The Arctic Monkey

.”

“Is that what you think of me?” Now I’d forgotten why I was there and

I

was angry. “After everythin’– you think that little of me? I’m just an elitist rock star ‘oo doesn’t know any different?”

“You brought your girlfriend to my dad’s

funeral

!” 
This pulled me up short. She was right, of course. Given our history, it was a thoughtless thing to do. But I didn’t know what to say in response to that, I didn’t know where to go from here. We were both quiet for a long stretch, and I was sure she was going to wait for me to be the one to speak. So I was surprised when it was Lily who broke the silence. 
“I

am

sorry I lied. I was trying to protect myself from how much of a fuck up I felt– and then from the possibility of losing you to the lie I had lived for so long. A lot of good it’s done me.” 
I narrowed my eyes at her, because how could she think she had lost me– how could she think anything would pull us apart for good? “‘Ow?” I asked. “”’Ow did it ‘appen?” She threw her hands up in frustration and retorted, “What does it matter now, Alex?” I stared at her, trying to read her once more, but it felt like I was looking at a stranger. 
“I failed out of King’s College,” she continued, shrugging, and I was surprised. “All right?

Satisfied

? I failed and I couldn’t bear to tell you– couldn’t find the right time between

Glastonbury

. And you moving to New York with

Alexa

.”
I had a faint memory of us shagging at Glastonbury, and I felt shit again. But I was also angry, because how many times had I asked her if I should stay in Sheffield, London, England, by her side? And she had always shrugged me off, told me to make my own decisions. “That’s shit,” I said, shaking my head. “You couldn’t be honest with your best mate because ‘e’s got a life apart from you?” It didn’t come out the way I meant it, but it was too late, and I was angry, so I left it. 
“No, you twat,” she spat, and I could see the anger building with her words. “I couldn’t be honest because I was in love with you– because I’ve

been

in bloody love with you for years– and I couldn’t face any of it– because I knew you would hurt me.” 
It set my heart to pounding, her words, and I stared at her, dumbfounded.“And I was right,” she went on. “No one can hurt me like you have. My entire life. And especially now.” I didn’t know what I was going to say– the truth, maybe?– when I opened my mouth to speak. But it didn’t matter, because she was out the front door, slamming it behind her, before I could even get a sound out. So here I am now, sat on the couch still, with my head in my hands, while the light fades outside and she still isn’t back. And I should still go after her, find her, call her, but I can’t bloody move.  
I’m forced to move though. Of course. We have to leave for the States the next afternoon, for a bloody festival lineup, so I just do that and try not to think about anything at the moment. I sleepwalk through the traveling, the sound checks, the shows, the rounds of questions Matt fires at me for hours and then at random. I’m not sure what to make of Lily’s parting words, or the best way to proceed with her, so I don’t. I get trapped in my own head and I don’t try to fight my way out just yet. 
Taylor tries to reach out once, before I have to end things for good over the phone. She gets short with me, understandably annoyed, and then hangs up. I don’t feel much about it, and this numbness isn’t new, but it sticks around. The only time it slides off of me is when we’re performing, and I’m putting my all into the show, reliving the words I’ve written, seeing all the memories that made them happen and letting a thousand fans propel me along. 
The sleepwalking sensation– the feeling of being underwater and not really here– continues for weeks. The days start bleeding into one another, and all the lines around me blur, and I’m thinking about Lily.

Of course

I’m thinking about Lily. Even though I feel dissociated, separate from myself, she’s on my mind all the time, anchoring me back down. And at the end of every day, when I have nothing left but the quiet emptiness of my bunk on the bus, I stare at my phone and contemplate calling her, sending her a message. But how do I bloody convey what I need to over a thousand miles and a wireless connection? 
So, I do the next best thing. I text Alexa.

All right?

She texts back quickly, saying,

All right. All right?

I smirk and write:

You in London?

Yes. Are you?

No. On the road. Have you seen Lily at all?

Are you spying on me?

She replies.

So you have?

I have

How’s she doing?

Ask her yourself, you prat

I pause, wondering if Lily told her what’s happened between us, or what she said to me. I consider whether or not I want Alexa to know. 
Before I can decide, she texts again:

She’s all right. Doing better every day

I don’t know if she means doing better after her father’s death, or in my absence, and I don’t think to ask. I don’t want to bombard her, so I leave it at that, and she doesn’t ask any follow up questions. Which makes me believe she knows more of the story than I’ve told her, whether from Lily or from intuition, I don’t know. Alexa was never a jealous girlfriend, never pried or needled– especially where Lily was concerned– but she always had a sense of things I didn’t say, a way of reading me without my knowing. And when we broke up and remained close, she never faulted me for the things she knew that I had kept to myself, or threw it back in my face, and she never lost that ability to understand me imperceptibly. So our texts now are the same way. I’m not saying what I could or should say, but she’s reading between the lines and getting it anyway. I text her every few days while we’re in the States, asking after Lily, looking for updates. She’s precious with the information she shares, and it shows that her loyalty hasn’t shifted necessarily, but that Lily needs it now. I respect her for it, but I’m so bloody frustrated to know the truth. When we’ve finished our last festival and I’m waiting with Matt for our flight back to England in the lounge, I try Alexa again.

How is she?

Brilliant

, she replies back, after several minutes. 
My stomach drops. I send her a single question mark back. I’m worried she’s going to tell me Lily’s met someone else, moving to New Zealand, moved on from me and cutting me out of her life entirely.

She’s got a meeting with a publisher tomorrow. Our girl is going to smash it

My heart starts racing for her. She did it. She bloody fucking did it! I start grinning at my phone like an idiot. I’ll be in England by tomorrow, and I’ve been thinking about talking to Lily for days. I have to talk to her, after the way things played out last time I need to tell her the truth. It may bloody suck, and she may never speak to me again, but I need to see her. She won’t let me in if I show up at her flat, and I doubt she’ll even look at me if I corner her at the hotel– if I could even find her there. And I only have one day before we need to go on to our European festivals. My mind begins racing at this new opportunity. Maybe she would be willing to hear me out in public– maybe she’d be feeling good enough about this meeting that she would feel hopeful about talking to me. So I’m nonchalant when I text Alexa early the next morning to ask her when the meeting is, who it’s with, if Lily’s excited. And she answers, because I know Alexa, and she’s excited for her, and she tells me everything like a proud parent. I know she also thinks I’m still on the road, and I don’t let her think otherwise. When I walk through the lift and round the corner, I spot Lily right away, and I feel nauseous at the prospect that this could be the last time I ever see her– panicked at the idea that she’ll turn me away. So I walk slowly and memorize the look of her, the way her golden curls fall around her face, the intense, captive look of her forget-me-not eyes, the familiar shade of her skin and the slope of her nose, and my stomach twists anxiously. And then she’s looking up, and her eyes meet mine, and she’s shocked, and annoyed, and I rush forward to her. “What is he doing here?” she asks Alexa, who looks proper shocked as well– proprietary– and shakes her head. “Lily–”“What are you doing here?” she cuts me off. “Alexa told me you was ‘ere,” I tell her, and I realize too late this is not the way to go about this. “I’m only in London for the day– I needed to talk to you.”
She rounds on Alexa and snaps, “You

what

?” and I realize that this is definitely now how I should have started.

This thought is further cemented when Alexa speaks, saying, “Lily, I didn’t tell him to

come here

. He texted me asking after you because you wouldn’t talk to Matt and I told him you were doing well, that you had this meeting and I was coming along. When he asked me when the meeting was this morning, I didn’t dream he would

show up

!” Alexa’s angry, blue eyes turn on me now, and I flinch when she says: “I thought you were in Auckland, you prat! I’m not your

spy

, for chrissakes!”
Lily’s eyes are on me again, and I say, “Lily, I need to talk to you.” “So talk.” I look at Alexa, whose nostrils are flaring, making it look like she could rip my carotid artery out and use the blood spill for nail polish. I glance the receptionist, who looks disgustingly intrigued by our drama. When I meet Lily’s eyes once more, I try to speak but I fail. “Can we– Can we talk privately?” I finally manage, and I take her arm and guide her back by the lifts. “Alex, I have a meeting any minute. What?” “After everything that’s ‘appened,” I say, turning to face her. “I needed to see you– I needed to talk to you properly.”She just stares, and in the blue of her eyes I see everything we’ve been through since we met at age eleven. I feel sick at the thought of losing her, terrified of her in a way I never have been, and I find the words I want to say stuck in my throat. I almost laugh, at the idea that I can sing and sway and be cheeky in front of the whole world without batting an eye, but right now I feel ill at being within her gaze. 
“This needs to be

today

, Alex,” she snaps. “Although you’ve sure taken your time about speaking to me after I left you sitting in Dad’s living room, so what’s another couple

hours

?” 
I swallow, and finally say, “I’m sorry it’s taken me an age. I’ve still got the tour and…” I see the look in her eyes and amend: “It doesn’t matter.” “No, it doesn’t.” The struggle to speak– to do this right– weighs me down. I feel like I’m heavy with lead and walking a tightrope, and I think I might be sick. She watches me as I squirm and fidget, and I watch the patience and hope drain from her body. She finally gives up and says, “All right. If you won’t speak, I will.” I meet her eyes, frozen, but strangely calmed by the fact that she’ll do the talking– that I’ll know more about what she’s thinking and feeling. “I have loved you for years,” she says, and it stops my heart. “Bloody years. And I have watched you travel the world and fall in love, and write beautiful music, and the whole time I was too afraid to tell you the truth– about my failures, about who I really was and how I really felt.”My chest aches at her words, but I can see her growing stronger for saying them– her whole body radiating, and she’s so beautiful, so I sit with the pain. “And for years I’ve been terrified of losing you. But I’m not anymore. Because I realize that I’ve already done it before. All the shagging we’ve done, or the times you’ve kissed me, or told me you loved me– every time I thought you finally felt the same, and every time I lost you.”I try to tell her she hasn’t, but she cuts me off, saying, “But I’m done now, Alex. I love you. I always will, because you’re my very best friend. But I need to move on from this, and that means that you need to leave right now and give me time to myself.” The last thing I want to do is leave her right now, and I wonder if I should insist. Insist on being by her side the way I didn’t at her dad’s house after the funeral. The way I haven’t for years and years when I should have done.“Lily–”“Get into the lift and go.”I can’t. Not this time. I won’t. “Do you really want to ruin this opportunity for me? On top of everything else?” she asks, her voice angry and beautiful, and so, so strong. “You’ve hurt me, Alex. If you care about me at all you will go, and you will let me be for a while.” I hesitate a moment, and my resolve takes its time in slipping, but it does. This is different from after the funeral, and all the times before. She needs me to go away now. For once, not being by her side is the right thing to do. So I give her one last look, punch the door for the lift, and I leave.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I Always Knew

2014

I arrive at Kings Cross station on Friday afternoon, and I grab a coffee before boarding my train. I’m distracted as I navigate my way through the bodies and find a window seat, volume turned all the way up on the Vaccines streaming through my headphones. It’s been days since my meeting at HarperCollins, since Alex showed up and tried to speak to me, since the estate agent told me she sold Dad’s house, and my head has been done in by it all. The meeting went better than I could have hoped. The HarperCollins agent, Richard, told me that they had loved the pages I had sent to them, that they wanted to work up a book proposal with me so they could officially give me an advance and sign a contract. Alexa deftly asked the right questions, made the right suggestions, and then said her lawyer would be working to represent me in all business matters. She even scheduled our next meeting for the book proposal, for which she would be present again. When we left the HarperCollins building, stepping into the summer sun, Alexa elbowed me, and asked, “All right?” I shook my head, feeling overwhelmed. We walked in silence for a beat, before I finally said, “This is everything I’ve ever wanted…”“But?” “But– Alex…”
“Please don’t let that dickhead distract you from this,” she said. “I mean, I love the boy, but– Jesus! Has he no

sense

?” I smiled at that. “He’s always been in the spotlight, babe, please let yourself have it right now.”

I let this sink in. I thought about all the times I’d traveled the country– the

world–

to visit Alex, or see the band perform, or be by his side while he wrote or recorded. I thought about all the days I spent in a maid’s uniform, in empty hotel rooms and hallways, on my knees scrubbing, vacuuming, unseen. I remembered the weight of failure when I had to drop out of King’s College, when I accepted the job at the Mannerly, every time I lied to Alex. I felt the sting of annoyance– replacing my yearning to know what he wanted to say– from Alex nearly interrupting my once-in-a-lifetime meeting after all that. 
“You’re right,” I said to Alexa. “Thank you for this.” But Alexa didn’t want my gratitude, she just wanted to help me. And she did. She came up to the proposal meeting, and then introduced me to her lawyer. And she was there, in the background, grinning but quiet, when I signed a formal contract with HarperCollins and received my advance. Then, when I gave my notice at the Mannerly, she and Rosie both took me out for drinks to celebrate, and she would never let on how much she had been to one to help me– she simply congratulated me like she had had no part in any of it. After that, my days emptied of mundane obligations to the Mannerly, of drudgery and boredom, and have been replaced with writing. I set my alarm early and spend my days diligently working on my novel, pushing myself to keep at it hour after hour. I start in my living room, and then move to a cafe, and then to my bedroom. And in between writing, I’ve tried to not think of Alex. I’ve wanted to know what he wanted so desperately to say to me before my meeting. Was he going to turn me down? Was that why it was such a struggle? Was he going to apologize? I’ve no idea, and I desperately want to know, but I know there’s a chance it will derail me from my writing if I dwell on it– or if I seek Alex out and open up all these old wounds. So, I don’t. I push forward. 
Until the estate agent calls and says she’s sold Dad’s house.

It leaves a pit in my stomach to think of someone else living in our home in Sheffield, to think of a stranger taking over, painting the walls, stripping the floors, starting anew and emptying it of our memories, but I’ve no choice. I agree to meet with the agent at the house on Friday afternoon to finish the last of the paperwork to sign it over, and to take any remaining belongings I might want from the house, and I try to think of the future.

I’m not going to move out of my flat with Tess, or do anything drastic with my advance. For now, I just want to enjoy the security of being paid to write, and to see where the writing goes. I want to figure out how to be fully okay again– without Dad in my life, without the lies weighing me down– and I don’t need any major life changes for that to happen. I do think I will be taking a holiday with Rosie and Alexa to the Amalfi coast at the end of the summer, so I browse hotels and excursions on the train ride to Sheffield, and then distract myself with thoughts of pasta and wine and beaches on the walk to Dad’s. It actually manages to buoy me along, makes me think that signing these papers will only be painful for a moment– ripping the plaster off of an old cut, momentarily jarring– and I’m feeling good as I unlock the front door and step into the empty living room. 
But when Alex walks out of the kitchen as I’m shutting the door behind me, all of that bravado falls away and my stomach plummets, making me a nervous teenager in love with her best friend all over again. 
I put my bag down by the door slowly, in case I need to make a run for it to avoid him, and ask, “What are you doing here?” my voice far shakier than I’d prefer. “How did you get in?”

The second question comes out better, stronger sounding.

He holds up a keyring. 
I shake my head, not sure why he’s got a key, not sure if that’s an explanation.“I needed to talk to you,” he says. “The way things went last time… I’m sorry.” I just stare at him, waiting, heart pounding. “I didn’t do it the right way,” he goes on, taking several steps towards me. “I shouldn’t ‘ave cornered you like tha’– particularly not when it was such a big moment for yeh.”“Thank you,” I say, holding my breath. “‘Ow did it go, by the way?”Is he serious? “Well,” is all I say in response. “Or haven’t you already asked Alexa?”He shakes his head, looking properly shamefaced. “She told me to bugger off asking about yeh.”
“What are you

doing here

, Alex?” 
He looks up, meets my eyes, and holds my gaze as he lets out a breath that feels like resignation. It makes my heart start to pound. Shoving the keys into his pocket, he walks toward me, but stops a few feet away still. 
“Lils,” he says, his voice soft, pleading. “I’m

so

sorry.”
I don’t look away, don’t blink, keep his brown irises locked on mine, but I don’t say anything. “I know I fucked up,” he says. “You ‘ave to know I’ve been in agony these last few weeks.” 
“Have you,” I don’t really pose it as a question, because I find it hard to believe. Maybe it’s unfair, but

I

was in agony for the last few weeks, from the moment he came back from L.A. until I pushed him away at HarperCollins– because of him, because of Dad, because of my whole bloody life crumbling apart. What right does he have to be in pain too?

“Yes,” he breathes, and he

does

sound anguished, actually. He doesn’t flinch or look away, just lets my blue irises hold his brown, gauging what’s going on behind his eyes, judging him. “From the second I ‘eard your message in New York I’ve been a right mess, Lils.” 
But not before. Not when he broke my heart yet again, for this new girl. 
“I tried to get ‘ere– I wanted so badly to be with you when your dad…” he trails off, swallows hard, and I can see his eyes swimming. His figure goes momentarily blurry with my own tears, and I blink furiously. “It

killed

me not to be by your side, Lils. To know you were goin’ through tha’.”
I nod, and force myself to speak past the pain in my clutching throat, “Okay. Thank you.”He shakes his head, says, “It’s not okay. And it’s not okay that Taylor were ‘ere for it.”This surprises me, and I lick my lips– my mouth suddenly dry– as my hands and feet go tingly. “I’ve been an absolute knob, Lils,” he tells me, almost laughing at himself, and he’s stepped up right in front of me now. “To not see ‘ow you felt all these years– to think that what we ‘ad was just shaggin’ and messin’ about as mates.”
I blink, feeling like I’m pinwheeling in the middle of the room.

“I

love

you, Lils,” he whispers, taking my face in his hands. “I’ve loved you all this time– and not just as your mate. I’ve proper loved you– I was just too much of a prat to tell yeh– or to think you could feel the same.”
I’m spinning, and I can’t believe him– after everything we’ve been through and everything that’s happened the past couple of months. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s too good to be true, isn’t it? Feeling like I can’t catch my breath, I pull away from his hands, walk further into the living room, before I turn around and face him several feet away, breathing hard. Shaking my head, I open and close my mouth several times, but I can’t find the words to express my disbelief. 
All this time. He’s loved me

all

this time?
“Lily–”“How is this possible?” I finally manage to spit out. “This can’t– I don’t–”
“Lils,” he takes a few steps towards me once more, at my new position in the center of the room. “It were always you. I

asked

you if I should date Johanna, if I should move to L.A., if I should see Taylor–”

“That’s not fair, Alex,” I cut across him. “Those were never

my

decisions to make!”
“I ‘oped if you felt something you would fight for me,” he says, shaking his head. “It were a stupid thing– Our shaggin’ and goin’ back to being mates was just– It seemed so natural and you never showed me anything else!”
“Neither did

you

!”
“I didn’t, and I should ‘ave done. I’ve wasted too much time not bein’ with you.”I shake my head, go over to the only piece of furniture in the room: the couch I haven’t been able to move. I sink down onto it, and he comes and sits next to me, taking my hand in his, lacing our fingers together. The scent of him– so very familiar and comforting– fills my head, and I’m suddenly thinking of Alexa, of Arielle, of every girl he’s ever been with, and I can’t think straight.“What about Alexa?” I blurt. “Arielle?”
He looks at our hands, saying, “Lils, that fall we spent shaggin’ and foolin’ around in sixth form… I fell in love with yeh. I didn’t know what to do with meself– or ‘ow to tell you– and it scared the bleedin’ ‘ell out of me. I was

mad

for yeh.” Looking up, he meets my eyes once again, and continues, “You were the most important person in my life, tha knows? You still are. And the idea of tellin’ you the truth and losin’ you… I couldn’t bear it.”
Of course I understand that. Hadn’t that kept me from telling him the truth for years as well? “What scared me even more,” he goes on, smiling sadly. “Was the idea of you lovin’ me back.”My eyebrows pull together, my whole face a question. 
“I was petrified I would love you

wrong

, that we would be together and then break up– that I would ‘urt you,” he shakes his head. “And I couldn’t ‘urt you, not after what ‘appened with your mum. I couldn’t let things go bad between me and you– You weren’t any other girl I could get things wrong with and then forget.”
I’m trying to understand what he’s saying, but my heart is pounding in my brain, and I’m mesmerized by the look in his eyes, the way he’s staring at me. “I’ve been a coward,” he shrugs. “It were easier to try to love other people, than to risk losin’ you.” He squeezes my hand, and I swallow hard. “I loved Johanna, and Alexa, and Arielle,” he admits. “But there were a reason I ended things with all of them. No matter how ‘ard I tried, it were never the way it was with you.”
My eyes must look doubtful because–

Alexa

? I saw how in love they were, their synchronicity. How could this be true? 
“Don’t you remember when I rang you up from New York?” He called me from the States loads of times while he lived there, I know, but the way he says it makes the memory shake loose from my mind. Alex’s voice sounding off; him talking about cowboy films and the thunderstorms in New York; worrying he and Alexa weren’t right and wouldn’t last.“Bein’ away from you like tha’– tha’ far away for such a long time– it made me feel like I ‘ad a goddamn toothache,” he sounds anguished. “I felt like absolute shit because I knew what it was. I were still in love with you, and I could feel me and Alexa growing apart the longer I was away from you, and I loved her but– but it wasn’t like it was with us, and there was nothin’ I could do about it.”
There are tears shining in his eyes as I he says it, and I know it wasn’t easy to end things with Alexa, to watch the disintegration of their relationship. I’ve watched it happen to my own relationships, watched them die slowly because those people weren’t

Alex

. 
He laughs mirthlessly, and says: “‘Too busy bein’ yours to fall for somebody new’?” It takes me a moment to realize it’s his own song lyric, and that he’s saying it in response to my disbelief, my inability to speak. 
“‘Do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways– Sad to see you go, sortin’ hopin’ that you’d stay’?

Lils

, I wrote that right after you left L.A., when I kissed you after my fight with Arielle.”
“What?” I laugh, because I hear him, but it’s like the words won’t reach my brain for translation. “‘I’ve found a better method of pretendin’ you were just some lover’,” he says, by way of a reply. “It were easier that way than thinking I ‘ad fucked any chance with you.”
Is he saying– Are all these songs about

me

?
“That’s not–” I stammer. “That can’t be…”
“Lils, ‘505’ is the number of the ‘ouse we lost our

virginity

in,” he laughs, exasperated with my hesitation to accept this.

And when I think about it– Kyle Foley’s family house, the Strokes playing, a summer party– I remember. It’s

true

.

“I can’t tell you ‘ow many of my lyrics are about you,” he shakes his head. “I thought you’d work it out.”

“How could I know?” I counter, searching his eyes for confirmation, understanding–

hope

. “I never thought– I never

imagined–

”

He cuts me off, kissing me once more, his hands pulling me towards him. This time, I sink into it, feeling like I’m finally all right. Because I know it’s all true, and it’s like someone’s erased all the pain of the last several months– of the last decade. Kissing him, our bodies drawn closer to one another, feels like coming home. And it’s always been that way. Years of kissing, touching, sleeping beside one another, has always felt just like coming home, every single time. It was why I was always convinced everything would end with ‘Lily and Alex’, even when he was in love with other people, or halfway around the world. I had worked so hard to shake that idea from my mind, that it wasn’t going to be us at the end of the day. For it to be happening now feels so right. And I haven’t felt that way since Dad died– that it was

possible

, that I would ever find another home without him– it makes this feeling so welcome that I start crying, my tears wetting Alex’s cheeks as his fingers thread themselves in my hair.

He pulls away when he feels them, his eyes searching mine, concern pulling his brows up in a question.

I shake my head and hold his wrists where they cradle my face, saying, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he whispers.
Meeting his eyes, I say, “I really, bloody love you.”
He laughs, wiping the tears still streaming down my face with his rough fingers. “I

really, bloody

love you too. And I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out, feeling like I’m ripping off a plaster. “Oh God, Alex, I’m so sorry.” The guilt of lying for a decade, for not just telling him the truth about my job and school and my feelings for him, hits me between the eyes and nearly makes me double over while he cradles me. 
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about university,” I whisper in a rush, because he’s shaking his head as if it doesn’t matter. “You have to know how absolutely wretched I felt– I was just so stuck in that I couldn’t– I didn’t–”

“Forget tha’, Lils,” he says. “It doesn’t matter.”
“No, it does,” I press. “I felt so horrid when I left King’s College, and you and the boys were just starting out– headlining Glastonbury– I didn’t want to bring you down, or admit how badly I was doing.” 
His eyes hold mine, and it looks like he’s in pain

for

me, at the idea of my inability to tell him– to be myself, made worse in the face of his success.

“And then I didn’t know how to stop it,” I whisper, trailing off. 
He shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter now,” he says. “Really.” He kisses me again, and when he pulls away, “It was always you for me, Lils– no lies, or even obliviousness on my part, were goin’ to change that.” 
I stare into his eyes for a long moment, and after all the bad that has befallen me the past few months, I have a hard time processing something so monumentally

good

for me. 
“Do you believe me now? Or do I ‘ave to start quotin’ more lyrics about yeh?” he jokesI laugh, looking at my lap, at the material of the couch between us, and I don’t say anything. After a long beat, Alex goes on, “I thought I might ‘ave to prove it to yeh.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the key ring he was holding before, pressing it into my hand.I look down at it, and then back up to him, my eyebrows pulled together in a question. “I bought the house for yeh.”
For a moment, my brain is a blank. What house? He bought me a

house

? And then the room around me– nearly emptied of everything, stark and sad with the promise of me never seeing it again– makes it all come into focus.

“You bought me

Dad’s

house?” 
Alex nods, smiling– the kind of slow, smirking smile that is so reminiscent of him as a cheeky little boy– and I’m crying again. Fresh, hot tears pour down my face for how much I love this man, for how much he loves me, for how much this means to me– especially now that I’ve lost Dad. He pulls me to him, and I’m kissing him fiercely, hands buried in his shirt, pressing myself against his body like I’m trying to meld us together. It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to sex. At least, not necessarily. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a lifeline– like an oxygen mask or an electric shock. It’s the kind where you just need the connection, to become as one with someone as you can, to know and touch and absorb as much of another human being as possible. When we both pull back for air, Alex’s bright eyes match exactly what I’m feeling. It’s the feeling of “finally”, of rightness, of finding each other after all this time. “I love you,” he breathes, that slow smile again, as his fingers squeezing at my waist. I smile back at him, and feel light as I finally say, “I know.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Epilogue

2018

By the time my plane lands in New York, it’s midday and the sun is setting. I took an afternoon flight from Heathrow, and it’s been strange to watch the sun through the window, the light changing against the clouds, but somehow staying the same the whole time. When we finally touch down on the tarmac at JFK, I’m exhausted and nauseous from the long-haul flight, and from going more than twenty-four hours without sleep. I’m eager to get off the plane though, and I grab my bags in record time, before I’m standing on line waiting for a cab.

I’ve just finished a month-long book tour of the U.K. and I’m drained. It’s my fourth one since I published my first book, but it hasn’t gotten any easier. It’s why Alex and I agreed I wouldn’t fly to meet him when I was done, even though I had just missed one of his breaks because I was in Scotland. And I had fully intended to take several days to rest at home, catch up on some work, and then meet him in Norway for the last few stops before his next time home. But after the past couple of weeks, I need to see him in person.

The last four years have been nothing if not a whirlwind. My writing career, life with Alex, life

without

Dad, all of it. In the beginning, when I hadn’t been published yet and I still lived in my flat with Tess, things were much the same as they had been when Alex and I were just friends who occasionally shagged. We had a hard time shifting gears, treating each other like proper partners, telling people we were together. But when the

AM

tour ended, and Alex stayed in London to work with Miles on

Everything You’ve Come to Expect

, we settled into our new relationship as well as we had once settled into friendship.

And, of course, everyone celebrated it with us– congratulated us, teased us for having taken so long. Penny flat out started crying.

“

Mum

!” Alex scolded her, when we went round to Sheffield after the tour ended.

We had just sat down to a Sunday roast like old times, and Penny had been looking between us like a bomb was about to go off. After the way things blew up at Dad’s funeral, she had been left in the dark about us– apart from Alex calling to tell her we were all right before he went back on tour. But then sitting in their dining room, like a million other Sundays past, he took my hand right on the table and told them we were together. Properly together, now.

“I’m sorry,” Penny sniffed, wiping her eyes with her napkin, smiling amidst the waterworks. “I’m just so happy. Your

father

would have been so happy.”

She got up and kissed us both, held me tightly to her, and I could have cried too, because this was my

family

.

Other people weren’t so emotional.

“Well, thank bloody Christ!” Alexa cheered dryly, when we met her for dinner after it became official. Of course, she had talked to both of us and knew already, but seeing us together, in front of her, she rolled her eyes and then grinned like a cheshire cat. “I thought I was going to be playing biased therapist to you two for

years

.”

The only difficulty was Dad’s absence. I tried to truly enjoy being with Alex in the beginning– because how long had I loved him? How many years had I longed for exactly what we had? But as we shared our relationship with our friends and family, and then the public– with paparazzi pictures popping up all over the internet– I felt a gaping hole in my insides despite the circumstances, and it left me feeling suffocated more days than not.

In fact, one morning when I had stayed at Alex’s apartment that first summer, he found me in the bath, gasping through a teary panic attack.

“Lils,” he said, sounding alarmed as he knelt by the bathtub, an arm going around my wet shoulders. “What is it?”

I felt like an idiot. We had just had a beautiful dinner out the night before, had strolled through London as a real couple, with random people snapping photos of us. And Alex hadn’t cared. In fact, he had put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him, kissed the top of my head, smiled for the cameras, as if he was publicly proclaiming that I was his girlfriend. And I had felt positively elated with joy. But I had woken up with a lead weight in my guts the following morning, wanting to call Dad, anxiety twisting at the hard truth that I would never be able to do that again. So while Alex slept in, I tried to take a bath to soothe myself, but the quiet music filtering from my phone on the windowsill had shuffled to the Beatles, and I had lost it.

I shook my head at Alex’s question, the warm water cooling around my naked body.

Alex kissed me on the side of my head, and he didn’t seem to notice that his clothes were getting wet from where he touched me. And then when I couldn’t speak through the strain in my throat, the attempt to keep from outright sobbing and gasping for breath, he didn’t ask any more questions, just helped me stand, and wrapped a towel around me. He dried me off and put me into bed, holding me against his warm body, running his fingers through my hair until I had exhausted my shaking and the tears had stopped.

“What’s this, love?” he whispered into the skin of my neck, when everything was quiet again and my breathing was steady.

Slowly, so as not to upset the relative calm that had finally resettled over me, I turned to face him, with his arms still around me, and I quietly said, “I miss my dad.”

I could see his heart break for me, and he tucked the hair behind my ear, brushed my cheek. He knew there was nothing he could say to make it better, so he was quiet as I sat with my unwinding grief.

“I just wish I could tell him about us,” I murmured. “He loved you. He would have been so happy to see how things worked out. But he’ll never know.”

It sent a corkscrew of pain into my sternum, and I had to take a deep, slow breath until it subsided.

“I’m so sorry, Lils,” he pulled me to him, holding me tightly, until we both fell asleep again in the late morning warmth. And that was what I loved about Alex so much– as eloquent as he could be, as much as he understood me, he also knew when to say nothing at all. It didn’t help to hear people say Dad was watching over me, or somehow knew the way things had turned out, because I didn’t believe it or feel it. All I felt was his stark absence. So when I cried to Alex about it, he never said that Dad could see me now and was pleased, he just held me until I could work through my pain.

And I have for the most part. The pain of losing Dad is something I’ve learned to live with, and it’s gotten softer around the edges the further I get from it. And being in love with Alex, having Rosie and Alexa to gab and drink wine with, Mr. and Mrs. Turner acting as my surrogate parents, having several books published that have changed my life entirely, have helped.

As I wait for a cab at JFK, I think about stopping somewhere before the hotel for something to eat and a coffee. The motion sickness after landing is still swimming in my stomach, and a toastie seems like it could settle it, but then I check the time again, and I realize it’s far later than I had originally thought. I’m going to have to drop my bag off at their hotel and then go straight to the venue.

I finally reach the front of the queue with my bags, and the cabbie helps me load them into the boot. When I slide into the backseat, I tell him, “Manhattan. Fifty-sixth and seventh, please.”

As we pull away from the airport, I put my earbuds in and listen to Patsy Cline, tilting my head back against the seat and closing my eyes to ease my empty, anxious stomach. I think about the first time I came to New York and I smile despite my nerves.

My first book had just been published in late fall, and Alex brought me to New York for Christmas– to celebrate, but I knew it was also to take my mind off of the fact that it was my first holiday without Dad. And it did help. When we landed at night, and took a car to our hotel near Central Park, I was mesmerized at the vision of the Manhattan skyline on the horizon, at the beautiful, magical snow beginning to fall in thick flakes around us. And then in the days that followed, Alex took me around New York City– showing me his old Brooklyn neighborhood, his old apartment, his favorite bar in Soho. We did all of the tourist things– the Empire State building, a Broadway show– the things he never did when he lived here, and explored secret, hidden bars and lounges, freezing and shivering in the snow and wind, but laughing as we explored the city together.

It was on Christmas Eve, when we bundled up and walked from our hotel to the Rockefeller tree, jammed into the crowd with the other tourists, that he pulled me to him and kissed me.

“I love you, Lils,” he whispered, as people bustled all around us, but it felt so calm and quiet in his arms.

“I love you too.”

“I’ve wanted to ask you,” he said, looking bashful all of a sudden. “When we get back to London– can we– ‘ow do you feel about lookin’ for a place to live together?”

Since he had bought Dad’s house for me, I had been dividing my time between my shared London flat, and Sheffield. I was slowly making our family home a home of my own, a place to have and live forever, but I wasn’t ready to settle down in Sheffield yet. There was still too much of my life in London– the beginning of my writing career, Rosie, Alexa. Our flat was too small though, too crowded, and I spent most of my time at Alex’s anyway. So the idea of moving in with him, somewhere in London, finding a place of our own, felt right.

I nodded, the lights of the Christmas tree reflected in his big, brown eyes, and kissed him again, smiling against his lips.

When we got back to London, it only took a couple of weeks for us to find our flat– a beautiful, old 3 bedroom on Columbia Road, right near the flower market. We both immediately fell in love with its old world charm, the bright, natural sunshine that streamed into the living room, the back garden where we ended up stringing lights and housing a neighborhood tom cat we called Fred, whom Alex fed salmon and chicken nearly every night he was home. Though, when we moved in, Alex was hardly

ever

home– he was spending most days, and some nights, in a studio, or flying to L.A. to work on the next Shadow Puppets album with Miles. So we FaceTimed, and emailed, in order to decide on the right sofa, the right artwork, the right coffee maker even. And when he couldn’t be there, or even over the phone because of work, Alexa and Rosie showed up.

“I don’t know about them curtains, babe.”

I rolled my eyes the first time Rosie and Alexa came over with housewarming wine and a lot of advice I didn’t ask for.

“I have a great bust of Marie Antoinette that would look great in that corner.”

“Would you two quit it?” I snapped playfully. “The place isn’t done yet. Alex has been gone so much, so it’s still a work in progress.”

But as the recording for

Everything You’ve Come to Expect

wrapped up, Alex came back to London, and we were finally able to make our new flat our home.

Sitting in a taxi in New York, all of that feels so far away now– like the two people who moved into our flat on Columbia Road were just kids I don’t even recognize anymore. Opening my eyes, I look out the window to see we’re in Manhattan now, and I take in my surroundings with Patsy still crooning in my ear.

The bumps in the road came when Alex was literally

on

the road, and it did change our relationship. By the time he and Miles began touring for their second album, I was working on my second book, and we planned for me to join them on the road when possible. In the beginning, I was able to follow them for whole legs of the tour– writing from hotels and cafes and on the bus, all over the world. At night Alex and I would be together, unable to keep our hands off each other from the high of being on the road, falling asleep side by side. And some days, if we had time, we would explore the different cities around us– or I would wander around by myself, getting lost in New York City, writing in random parks in Dublin, sampling pizza in Rome.

But then when the first draft of my book was finished, I had to go home to London to work more closely with my editor, and the boys kept touring. At first, it didn’t feel any different from when we were friends and he was traveling. I was used to long stretches of Alex not being physically present in my life, and I was working anyway– fully immersed in ripping apart and deconstructing my second novel. But then, as a part of a couple, I saw things I hadn’t seen as Alex’s best mate. I realized that Alex on tour is a very different person from Alex at home.

It wasn’t necessarily

bad

, just different, is all. He drank more on the road, smoked more weed, was absent-minded with his phone because he was with Miles and the boys, at a bar, enjoying himself. Alex could be shit at texting on the best of days, so when wrapped up in a tour, with one of his best mates, he sometimes forgot to answer all together. And I’ll be honest, this sometimes bothered me, only because I missed him– and I also hated being needy and clingy, but I just wanted to talk to him and it felt like our schedules and lives weren’t matching up.

Except when he liked to drunk dial me before he went to bed.

He called me three times in the middle of a meeting with my editor, and when I finally called him back afterwards, worried it was an emergency, I could tell he was high out of his mind.

“I just miss you, me girl,” he mumbled into the phone. And I knew it was late where he was, and he was already starting to fall asleep, but I was annoyed and raring for a fight.

We had been playing phone tag for days– hadn’t had a proper conversation in probably a week– and then the three calls in a row… I thought something bad had happened. My mind went to the worst places in the time it took for his phone to ring. In a split second I saw him having his stomach pumped from a bad tour bender, him confessing to cheating on me, a car crash, a rabid fan. I saw our relationship and friendship ending from something awful. My adrenaline was spiked from it, the anxiety gone hard in my stomach, and I let it out in frustration.

“Alex,” I snapped. “You can’t just bloody call me whenever you please and expect me to drop everything.”

“I didn’t–”

“Especially if you’re not even

sober

.”

“Lils,” his voice sounded sad, soft, and it almost broke my tirade.

“I can’t put my life on hold whenever

you’re

ready to talk,” I barreled on. “Or whenever

Miles

is busy and you’re feeling lonely.”

He was silent for a beat, and I thought maybe I was being too harsh– maybe he was annoyed now– but I held firm.

“I’m sorry Lils,” he finally said, and his voice sounded clearer, like he had sat up in bed and screwed his drug-addled brain on straighter. “I know me tourin’ like this isn’t easy.”

I stopped on the sidewalk where I had been walking, and I suddenly felt like crying. I missed him so much– more than I ever had while we were just mates and he was on tour, more than when I went months without seeing him because he lived in New York or L.A., more than when he was dating someone else and I thought I had lost him for good each time. It felt especially painful to not have him there because he was mine now. He was mine and I couldn’t have him all the time. And what’s more, I never

would

have him all the time, because this was his life, and this was what made him happiest. It felt bittersweet because, of course, I wanted him to do what he loved, but I selfishly missed him and wanted him home as much as possible as well.

The feeling left me twisted, and I swallowed hard so as not to cry in the middle of the sidewalk in London.

“I just didn’t want to end another day without talkin’ to yeh, tha knows?”

My eyes burned now, and I blinked furiously. He was making it worse by missing me too.

“Don’t be cross, Lils,” he whispered. “I’ll try to call yeh tomorrow too– sober.”

I didn’t want to make him feel worse by hearing me cry, and I didn’t want to

be

the girl that cried– or couldn’t make her relationship work– because her boyfriend was touring.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, my voice sounding choked. “It’s alright. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

But I was asleep when he called the next day, and then he was doing an interview when I tried calling him the day after that, so it was just short texts that didn’t really convey much for days.

By the weekend I was feeling anxious. I had never been in a relationship I was so invested in before, and the doubts and fears of it not working out– of anything being wrong at all– were making me feel unmoored. And what was worse, I felt like I was having a momentary identity crisis, because I didn’t want to be so dependent on another person after the pain of losing Dad. But it was Alex.

My

Alex. And I also didn’t want to be independent from him either.

On Saturday night it was raining, and Alexa invited me to her flat for a dinner party, but I was feeling too fretful to be around anyone. So I got into bed early and put on an Audrey Hepburn film, sinking under the soft covers and letting the sound of the rain soothe me. I had started to actually distract myself when Alex called.

“Hello?”

“Lils,” he said, and his voice sounded clear and sober. “I was worried you’d be out.”

“No,” I replied. “Wasn’t feeling up to it.”

“What’s wrong?”

I didn’t want to tell him I was worried about us, or that I didn’t want to be the girl who couldn’t have him be away from home, so I said, “Just one of those days.”

“I bloody miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I said, feeling relief, but also immense pain again.

“What are you doin’ right now?”

“Watching ‘Roman Holiday’,” I told him. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ soaked.”

“What?” I said, my eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the rain, aren’t I?” he said jauntily.

Seconds later, I heard the key in the front door, and then his bags landing on the ground. It only took a moment before he was standing in the bedroom doorway, grinning like a little boy by the light of the television. I couldn’t find my voice, just sat up and took him into my arms when he climbed onto the bed, getting me wet with his rainy coat and jeans. Instinctively, my hand went to his hair, smoothing it down against the back of his head, and I was shocked to notice how much it had grown since I saw him last. I didn’t get a chance to get a good look at it immediately though, because he held my face in his hands, and started sloppily kissing my cheeks, and nose, and eyes, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer relief I felt, because I suddenly knew we were

okay

.

After accosting me with his clumsy mouth, his lips settled on mine softly, sweetly, and I breathed in the smell and familiarity of him, feeling myself relax.

When he finally pulled away to look at me, I smoothed his hair again. It was slicked back still, borderline greasy actually, and the quiff was gone. He looked slightly disheveled and his eyes were tired from travel.

“Get in, then,” I said, pulling back the covers on the bed.

He shrugged his coat off and let it fall to the floor, and then unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the t-shirt underneath. After struggling out of his boots, he crawled right into bed in his t-shirt and jeans, and I pulled his body to mine.

Wrapped around each other, I finally asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to be at ‘ome with yeh,” he said. “I ‘ave to fly back out tomorrow afternoon.”

“You flew all the way home from the States for one

night

?”

He grinned and kissed me, his tongue and lips slow but hungry. When he pulled away, he said, “It’s like ‘avin’ a toothache– bein’ away from yeh, Lils– I ‘ad to see yeh, even if just for tonight.”

“You’re an idiot,” I said, but I couldn’t help grinning at him, and kissing him again, our bodies pressed together. “You’re gonna be exhausted from the flying.”

“It’s worth it,” he replied. “I didn’t like ‘ow yeh sounded when we spoke on the phone.”

I frowned, pinching the material at the chest of his t-shirt. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it to be like that. I just– I guess not talking or seeing you was weighing me down more than I wanted to admit.”

“I feel the same, love.”

“Do you, though?” I countered, genuinely curious. “I don’t mean that as an accusation, Alex, it’s just– I mean, when you’re on tour it’s like a giant boys’ club. You have Miles, and James and Zach– and you guys drink and smoke so

much

. You’re out nearly every night…”

He frowned, as if I was angry with him.

“I don’t mind it,” I said. “I just– I guess I was sort of feeling like it would stop you from missing me. And it’s hard when I’m at home living a normal life while you’re out there.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, smoothing the hair back from my face, running his fingers gently through my curls. When he responded, he said, “I do live differently when I’m with them, I know. Because I’m tryin’ to live in the moment. But mostly because it stops me from thinkin’ about how much I do miss yeh.”

I nodded, because it made sense.

“Lils, I love bein’ on tour more than anythin’,” he said quietly, almost sadly. “But not more than I love you.”

“I know,” I kissed him again, trying to comfort

him

now. “I want you to be happy. I’m not telling you to stop anything that makes you happy. I just– You have to give me a chance to adjust to it is all.”

He nodded. “It were never easy.”

I knew what he meant. He was talking about when he was with Alexa and Arielle.

“It doesn’t have to be,” I told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A look of relief washed over his face, and I felt it too– the tension of being apart and missing each other melting in the moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I whispered, running my fingers through his new, slicked hair again. “Even if you do need a haircut.”

“Nah then,” he grinned, pulling me closer, pressing his body to the length of mine. “I think I might let it grow.”

He kissed me again, his tongue slipping between my lips, making me sigh in pleasure as I felt every edge of his body against mine.

“Might even grow a beard,” he whispered directly into my ear, before dipping down to suck at the skin of my neck.

After that, we did learn to adjust to being together while he was on tour. It wasn’t always easy, and of course we had our share of fights, but we always found a way back to the perfect comfort of our relationship, and our friendship.

“We’re here.”

The driver pulls me from my thoughts when the taxi stops along the sidewalk. Getting out, I’m unsteady on my feet. It’s late afternoon in New York, but I’d be winding down for the night in London, and the traveling has worn me down. I pay the driver and grab my bags, heading inside the hotel. I give the front desk my information, and since I’ve already given Domino the heads up that I was surprising Alex, they give me a key to his room.

When I let myself in, I smile at the quiet disarray before me. Alex is usually a neat person at home– he gets irritated by clutter and disorder– but on the road he isn’t so careful. His bed is undone, the covers pushed back, and there are several shirts draped haphazardly across the desk chair. I go over to it and pick one up, leaving my suitcases by the door, and I lift it to my face, breathing in his familiar scent. I hug it to myself as I go over to the nightstand and look at the books piled there.

He’s got a Noam Chomsky book on media that makes me smirk, a Nabokov novel under that, and then– my most recent novel. I sit down on the bed and pick it up. It’s the early editor’s copy I gave him months and months ago. Some pages are dog-eared, and it’s pretty worn out. He finished reading it quickly after I gave it to him, and we had lengthy conversations about the plot and some creative points. I wonder if he’s reading it again, or if he just carried it with him on tour by accident.

My stomach growls violently, bringing with it another lingering wave of nausea. I need to eat.

Quickly, I change out of my leggings and t-shirt, and put on a plain pair of jeans and a breezy top. Downstairs, I walk outside and down the sidewalk, feeling nervous at the idea of seeing Alex in person again. I don’t know if it’s because it feels like it’s been so long, or because of the conversation we need to have. I frown and walk into the first place I come across that has food, but isn’t a restaurant– some small cafe– and I order a quick sandwich and a tea. I’m tempted to have a coffee– or a shot of whiskey, to tell the truth– but I refrain.

Sitting in the window, I eat slowly, even though I know the show must have started by now. The sun is low in the sky, and the city is golden though, so I don’t rush. I need to sit by myself before I see him. And as I sit here, I have a sudden vision of him crying at his own show, storming off, shaking me, and I feel nervous all over again.

Picking off pieces of crust and eating them in tiny bits, I think of the autumn after Alex finished the Last Shadow Puppets tour. He came home to London, and our life together felt like it was really beginning. We split our time between London and Sheffield, and it felt so nice to be doing such simple things together. Like when he usually woke up before me and started the coffee, kissed my forehead when I came downstairs, and then made himself scarce when I had to go write. He would go to a museum, or a movie, or take a walk while I worked, and then he would come back for lunch, or dinner, and he would tell me how he spent his time, and I would talk about notes from my editor, or how frustrated I was about some writer’s block of the day.

Alex wasn’t working at all those first few months he was home from tour. He seemed like he needed the time to rest– get out of his stage persona for a bit– before he even started another album. So he worked out, and he read, and he trolled around record shops while I wrote, and I joined him on the weekends.

And then, in November, when London grew grayer, and colder, and dreary, we decided to escape to L.A. for the month. Alex still had his house in Laurel Canyon, but I hadn’t been there since I visited him when he was with Arielle. So it was strange to walk through the front door, feel her presence missing, put my things away in a bedroom she used to share with Alex.

But it felt wonderful to be in California– to sit outside and soak up the sun while I wrote, to drink my coffee with my feet dipped into the pool. And Alex loved being so close to all of his Los Angeles friends again– friends who I got to know when they would randomly appear in our backyard or living room to drink or swim or barbecue. It felt like an escape from real life, like we were university students playing grown ups, and we could play and party to our hearts’ content. But that was also the problem with L.A. It felt unreal– dreamlike and nightmarish at the same time. The culture was so different from anything I was used to in London, the paparazzi relentless, the attention and scrutiny more than I had anticipated.

By the time we returned to London though, I had developed a tougher skin with us being in the spotlight individually and as a couple, and my second book was being published. And as I began promotional appearances and interviews, Alex let his hair get even longer, grew the beard he had threatened me with, and started writing music for the Arctic Monkeys once more.

Sitting in the cafe in New York, I only manage to finish half of my sandwich before I lose my appetite. I toss the rest into the bin and go outside, walk to the end of the sidewalk and hail another cab despite the fact that my nauseous nerves are protesting.

“Where to?”

“Queens, please,” I tell him. “Forest Hills.”

It was the grand piano Alex got as a gift for his thirtieth birthday that decided our move. It physically fit in the open space between our front door and living room, but it dwarfed the whole space– made it feel cramped and airless. We tried to make it work and get used to it for months after it arrived when he returned from tour, but by the spring, we knew it couldn’t work. So we started our search for another place in London, searching for a bigger rented space that we could love just as much, but nothing felt right.

“What about that place on Portobello Road?” Alex asked, as we sat down to dinner after another failed day of real estate hunting.

We had loved the 4 bedroom house in Notting Hill. It had high ceilings and lots of natural light, not to mention an amazing roof terrace and fire places. But at the same time it wasn’t too extravagant or flashy.

“They wanted to sell it,” I replied, putting down my menu and taking a sip of wine.

“All right,” he shrugged, smiling. “Let’s do it.”

“Alex, you’ve already bought me a house–”

“No,” he shook his head, giving me a cheeky look. “I’m not buyin’ you this one. Let’s buy it together.”

I stopped for a moment, feeling the emotions fizzling in the back of my throat, and I swallowed.

“Come on,” he chided, grabbing my hand on the table and pulling it to his lips to kiss. “It’s not like we aren’t goin’ to be married within the next couple years.”

I felt chills all over my body, and I couldn’t help smiling. Alex and I had been together for years at that point, living together for most of it, best friends for ages, but neither one of us had ever brought up marriage.

“Are we?” I quipped, giving his hand a squeeze. “This is news to me.”

“Nah then, Davis,” he smirked. “You ‘ad to know it would be comin’.”

So we bought the Portobello Road house, and we brought the giant piano and Fred the tomcat with us– because he had become more domesticated than not in the recent year, and Alex couldn’t bear to part with him. And as we moved in, our lives expanding together and forward, marriage became a casual and normal topic of conversation. And it was always “when we’re married”, “at our wedding”, etc. There were never any specifics about a ring, or a time or a place, but we weren’t in any rush.

And then, shortly after we moved in, I woke up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. I sat up in the dark and looked around the room, lit only by a sliver of light coming in through the shutters, and found the covers on Alex’s side thrown back. Listening in the quiet of the house, I could faintly hear music coming from downstairs.

I got out of bed and opened the bedroom door to hear the piano playing softly though louder now, so I followed it to the basement lounge, where I watched the back of Alex’s head– his hair having gotten very long and messy. He was playing something I didn’t recognize, and I wondered why he was up, but I listened for as long as I could, before Fred came in and wound himself around Alex’s ankles.

He stopped, and bent down to scratch the tabby, so I walked over to him. He heard my footsteps before I could reach him, and he looked backward to see me, opened his arms as I put one around his shoulders, standing beside the bench.

“Did I wake you?” he asked quietly, as I rubbed my thumb at the corner of his scruffy facial hair.

I shook my head. “Just wondering where’d you gone.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Got this tune stuck in me ‘ead.”

“It’s nice,” I told him, dipping my head toward the piano. “What is it?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Probably nothin’.”

Of course, it was

something

though. In fact, it ended up being the beginning of the boys’ next album,

Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino

.

The time that stretched out after that night is one of the reasons I’m so nervous to see Alex now, to be honest. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been so close to him while he’s written and toured for an Arctic Monkeys album, but it was like he slowly developed into a different person.

In those first weeks of working on

Tranquility Base Hotel

, he was holed up in his studio at home, writing and recording, sinking into this role of a musical hermit. He would forget to shower, go to bed hours after me, wake up once I was at work, drink and smoke in place of eating. The music, so different from anything I had heard from him before, seemed to creep into his very soul and morph him. He grew out his hair, wore yellow-tinted sunglasses and more ‘70’s flared trousers. His mind seemed to float permanently in some kind of lunar fantasy that he could never entirely share with me. At first, it was fascinating to see– the way he became a method-music-man, putting on this new persona like a costume for the album– but then it worried me.

“Alex, you look tired,” I told him, one Sunday where I dragged him out to the farmer’s market with me to buy some things for dinner. His hair was long and greasy, his facial hair growing in messily, and he was dressed in a trenchcoat, looking like he had stepped out of a seventies film. But more than that, he looked wan, and his eyes were ringed in shadows.

He smiled distractedly at me, as if swimming up from the bottom of a daydream, and took my free hand.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, kissing my cheek as we strolled between the vegetable stands. “It looks like these songs are goin’ to turn into summat.”

“Yeah?” I was excited at the prospect that all this work was going to amount to something, that he was waist-deep in writing his next big album and not just some random songs that would never see the light of day. But I was also concerned about what that meant. Each album he wrote seemed to change him a little– from soft haired Sheffield rocker baby, to shaggy, New York City romantic, to 1950’s greaser with an L.A. swagger. This new persona had seemed to stick, but it had also pulled him away from me in increments, turned him into himself more than I’d ever seen before, and I worried about how that would turn out.

“Sent some bits to Cookie,” he told me, glancing at the aubergines as we passed.

“What did he think?”

“Said it were different than what ‘e expected,” he told me, and I wasn’t surprised, because I had felt the same way. “Pretty sure ‘e thought I was takin’ the piss. But ‘e’s comin’ ‘round.”

“So what next?”

“I think I’m goin’ to fly out to the States in a couple more weeks,” he told me, and it made my heart thud. This was the first I was hearing about him leaving. “Stay in L.A. for a bit to work with them.”

I didn’t know why I was feeling so unsure– didn’t know why the idea of physical distance made the emotional distance feel that much worse again– but something made me desperate to come with him to L.A., or for him to stay and record in London. But he didn’t mention my coming along. I knew it was because I had just started writing my third book, because he would be in the studio all day every day working as well, and there would be no point in my coming. The fact that he didn’t even suggest it made me feel like he was retreating even further away from me and more into this new version of himself though.

When he left in the summer for the States, I pushed my unfounded anxieties away, and drove him to the airport cheerfully. He kissed me hard, his newly trimmed facial hair scratching my face, before he disappeared into departures.

Once Alex was gone, I threw myself into my writing, tried my hand at a cooking class, attempted pilates, painted and organized the other three bedrooms of our house. Rosie got engaged to her longtime boyfriend, and I started helping her plan the wedding. And over the course of the month, Alex checked in every day. Sometimes it was only a short text updating me on his day and asking about mine, but then there were the times where he called me in the middle of the night for him, or for me, and we would talk for hours. I would putter around the house while the rest of the city slept, making myself tea, the phone pressed to my ear, and he would tell me about work he had done in the studio that day, help pick apart my book as I gave him updates on my writing, ask after Fred. The sound of his voice, quiet and deep, across all the space between us, always soothed me, but in the harsh light of day, when we were separate and I had to return to the real world, I felt inexplicable anxiety once more.

I tried to chalk it up to the living arrangements– to my readjusting to being alone once more– but then the feeling of tension became inflamed. Scrolling through Instagram one morning before I got out of bed, I came across a post from one of the guys– Cameron, Zachary, I can’t remember, and it didn’t matter besides. It was a picture of them sitting outside of a bar, on a dark, Los Angeles street. They were all smiling and laughing, smoking, plastic cups of beer in hand, and there were three or four beautiful girls littering the shadows. I didn’t know their faces or their names, and none of the guys were even directly interacting with them, but I knew they were a part of the group that night.

I shut my phone off and laid in bed, my heart racing against my will. I tried to not let my thoughts get the better of me. I tried not to be

that girlfriend

. He wasn’t going to live in the studio in L.A. Of course he was going to go out with his friends. But seeing his life being entirely separate from mine twisted my stomach in a strange way. I got out of bed and walked straight into the shower and stayed off social media for the rest of the day.

When my thoughts were still a negative maelstrom by late afternoon, I invited Alexa over for dinner.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, once she was sitting at our island counter with a glass of wine in hand, watching me attempt to put my half dozen cooking classes to use.

“Nothing. What?” I was probably too quick to answer.

“Babe,” she planted a hand on the counter, smiling kindly at me. “When have you ever cooked me a whole chicken for no reason? I would ask if you’re pregnant but you’re drinking.”

I wiped a stray curl out of my face with the back of my hand, saying, “I can’t just invite my friend ‘round for a chat and a chicken?”

“No. When have you ever had to cook to have a chat with me? This chicken is payment. You can’t fool me. This is a serious chat.”

I closed the oven door from where I had just been checking on said chicken, and straightened up, sighing. Silently, I took a long drink of wine.

“Is it Alex?” she asked, and her voice suddenly sounded less playful– actually concerned.

I sat down across from her at the island and shook my head. “I’m being stupid, I know it.”

“And you need an Alex ex to talk you round.”

I shot her a pleading look, knowing I looked as pathetic as I felt.

“Aw, babe,” she cooed with a laugh, reaching over and giving the hand gripping my wine a pat. “You two are meant for each other, it can’t be all that bad.”

I fingered the stem of my wine glass, watching the light play against the crystal, before finally saying, “How did you ever cope with the time apart?”

She pursed her lips sympathetically and replied, “By staying busy myself.”

“Did you ever–” I struggled to find the right words. “Did you ever feel like you were losing him?”

A look of grief passed over her face, and I worried I’d crossed a line– that maybe asking Alexa about the intimate details of her relationship with Alex was just too painful, and none of my business besides.

After another drink of wine, and some thoughtful consideration, Alexa shook her head and said, “No. Not of his own volition, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she paused, “I only felt like I was losing him when I pushed him away.”

My heart suddenly hurt for her, and I did regret bringing up their past– making her relive the bad.

Shaking her head, she went on to say, “I think, at the time, I couldn’t handle being Alex Turner’s girlfriend. After making us move to New York, and that MTV failure, I wanted so badly to be successful in my own right, to be my own person– I put Alex at arm’s length whether we were in the same city or not, just so I could feel like I was standing on my own two feet.”

I had a fleeting memory of Alex calling me from New York and talking about the thunderstorms in the States, about cowboy films, and feeling like he was losing Alexa.

“That boy loves with his whole bloody heart and soul,” Alexa reminded me, with a smile over the rim of her wine glass. “It doesn’t matter what persona he’s got on for his album, or how lost he seems in his music or the lads. Don’t ever think you aren’t the center of his entire world.”

It was reassuring, to hear someone who knew him so well– who had also been romantic with him– say that.

“He can go off on his own quite a lot, I know,” Alexa continued, putting down her wine after a sip. “With the lads, or on tour– in his own ruddy head sometimes,” she said. “But he needs that. That’s what makes him the deep, cheeky, brooding little bastard we love. Always trying to drain life of its every drop.”

I knew what she said was right. It deflated the blow-up monster in my mind: the phantoms in social media, the threat of his new persona, the dark chasm that had opened up between us during his writing. It wasn’t scary, it was

Alex

. This was who he was, why I loved him– his independence, the identity he had that was ever-changing but all his own– and I had just let my anxieties about being apart get the best of me.

“What brought this on?” Alexa asked.

I rolled my eyes, went to tend to the chicken, and said, “I saw a post on Instagram.”

“You’re joking.”

When I faced her again, I was properly chagrined.

“Lily,” she admonished me.

“I didn’t know any of the girls in the background of the picture!” I defended myself. “It felt weird that our lives could be so separate.”

“

He

probably didn’t even know those birds– whoever they were– and I can guarantee you he didn’t give them a second thought!” she yelled, amusement underlining her words. “You knobhead.” Scoffing, she took a drink and then continued, “Did it ever occur to you, that he was secretly in love with you the entire time he was with

me

, and was still never once disloyal to me?”

Her words stopped me in my tracks. She was right. In all the time I’d known Alex, and all the girls he’d seen, he’d never been unfaithful. Even with me, even after all we’d been through.

With a close-lipped smile, like the cat who ate the canary, Alexa nodded at me. “You know I’m right.”

“You are.”

“Don’t be daft about being apart, Lils, really,” she returned, more somberly. “It may feel like it, but he’s not going anywhere just because he’s not

here

, or because he changes his hair.”

I thought back to the last few months, and I knew she was right. Alex only felt more distant because he had been so immersed in the album and almost always physically away working on it. Across the island counter from Alexa, I let out a breath and slouched, nodding in agreement.

“Good, that’s done,” she perked up. “Now is this chicken actually going to be any good, or should I just call in for a takeaway now?”

It wasn’t long after that night with Alexa that Alex started talking about France. He and the boys had begun looking into residential studios in and around Paris, and he was practically frothing at the mouth for a change of scenery. When he called me at the end of August to tell me they had booked one, he sounded like a kid on Christmas.

“It’s brilliant, Lils,” he told me, gushing over the phone. “You’ll love it.”

He had woken me up out of a sound sleep when he called with the news, but this shook me awake a little more, and I sat up, saying, “

I

will?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “You’ll come and stay for a bit while we work, won’t you?”

And so I found myself packing a suitcase and jumping on the Eurostar a couple of weeks into September, not having seen Alex in person since he left for Los Angeles at the height of the summer. Something about it reminded me of the old days, before Alex and I were together, when I was still pining for him. I was nervous and excited at the prospect of seeing him after our time apart, feeling reminiscent of hopping on a train to see him play Glastonbury, or visiting him and Miles while they worked in France, or getting on a plane to visit him for the first time after he moved to California.

But it was so different this time, because when I left the Gare du Nord, suitcase in hand, he was outside waiting for me, hair unkempt, a fluffy goatee growing along his chin, and he kissed me in the middle of the crowded sidewalk like we were the only people in the world.

We took a car to La Frette Studios and he held my hand while he showed me around, saying hello to Matt and Jamie and Nick, introducing me to all the new faces, giving me a tour. The whole property was magical, unreal– like something out of a novel– and I could see why the boys had chosen such a place to work on their out-of-this-world album. There was something gothic about it, ethereal and haunting, but the equipment, the studios, the records and artifacts lining the walls, and the energy itself felt postmodern, retro and futuristic at the same time.

Alex took me to dinner that first night, to a restaurant only a short walk away, and he held my hand on the table like he couldn’t let me go for a second.

“God, I’ve missed you, Lils,” he said, gazing at me in the low light of the candles. “You should ‘ave come to California. It’s been too long.”

“If I had, you might have gotten a haircut before now,” I teased, gesturing at the greasy strands curling up at the nape of his neck.

“Do you ‘ate it, then?”

“No,” I shook my head, squeezing his hand and leaning across the table to kiss his cheek. “I love it,

mon cher

.”

We walked along the Seine and talked about our time apart, about my writing and his music. He told me about the characters that lived and worked at La Frette, and what he had got up to in L.A. He told me about the problems Matt and Breana were having, and we worried over them. We talked about Penny and David, who I had recently visited and he dearly missed. He asked after Rosie and Alexa, and I filled him in on Rosie’s current wedding plans.

When we returned to La Frette, Alex ferreted out some wine, and a couple of blankets, and we sat away in a copse of trees, hidden in the shadows, with the silhouette of the house looming up against the light of the moon from a distance.

“You know,” I said, once we had a blanket draped over us, his arm looped around my waist. “I saw an Instagram post back in August. Saw you with some very pretty girls at a bar,” I teased.

Alex looked confused, his face blank with not remembering.

“I’ll admit, I was quite jealous,” I continued, voice ribbing as I drank my wine. “Alexa had to talk me down.”

He smiled, gave me a squeeze when he realized I wasn’t actually concerned. I wanted to confess my moment of anxiety to him, but it felt so far away that I couldn’t give it any weight, so I teased. Pressing myself to his side, breathing him in and enjoying the heat of his body, it felt as if we had never been apart at all.

“No bird is ‘alf as beautiful as you, me girl,” he murmured into my ear, pressing his cheek to my own, scratching me with the hair of his beard. “They’re all just background noise compared to you.”

“So I don’t need to worry?” I asked, still teasing him. Because I had never been worried about him cheating on me, only having a life entirely separate from mine. But being with him again, talking to him, touching him, made me realize I had never had anything to worry about at all.

“Nah then,” he whispered, lips only a breath away from mine. “Has there ever been anyone but you, Lils?”

He kissed me then, and my whole body went weak, craving him with a power that nearly left me breathless. I clumsily put my glass of wine down in the grass and buried my hand in his long, thick hair. Digging his fingers into my waist, his mouth fell open against mine as he pulled me closer to him, tongue lashing out for my own.

Our kissing grew in heat and intensity for several minutes, until he was pulling me into his lap, the blanket still wrapped around us. I could feel him through his trousers, and I sighed into the cool night air as his lips went to my neck, sucking at my skin, making me vibrate with need.

“I want you, Alex,” I whispered, finding his eyes in the dark.

He smiled cheekily at me, kissing me hard, before he eased me back against the blanket spread across the grass. With the other blanket draped over us, and the trees hiding us from view, he pulled at the neck of my shirt, mouth moving down to my bare breast as it became exposed to the cool air, making me throw my head back into the earth, stifling a moan.

He made love to me under the stars, slow and careful at first– like he wanted to relish the feel of our bodies connected once more– and then hurried and fervent, both of us coming undone, panting and sighing under cover of the shadows of the trees.

That whole week I stayed at La Frette, I fell in love with Alex all over again. What I had worried was him becoming a stranger had actually been a rebirth. His hair and clothes were slightly different, but it was still Alex, energized by his music, by the creative process of his work. As I watched him and the boys write and record, I knew I had been crazy to think I was losing him, to think him going away to work could be anything but good for him. And when I left after a week of French food and wine, music and conversation and sex, I felt rejuvenated in our relationship and more excited for our future than ever.

“Miss?”

I’ve nodded off in the back of the cab, and I peel my eyes open at the sound of the driver’s voice.

I quickly pay, and step onto the sidewalk, feeling a ball of nerves in my stomach come alive. I shut the door of the cab, looking at the massive tennis stadium ahead of me. I can hear ‘505’ playing in the distance, and the roadway leading up to the venue itself is quiet and empty with the concert having started. Hearing Alex’s voice, even from afar, suddenly makes me feel calmer, turns the nerves into anticipation at getting to see him in person.

When I finally get in contact with their manager and I’m inside, standing backstage amongst the equipment and people, I feel the shock resonate in my body when I finally catch sight of Alex on stage.

He shaved his head. When did he shave his head?

My anxiety returns, humming under the surface, though I’m not really sure why.

Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino

came out in May, when their tour also started, and I felt like I was on more sure footing for this one than the Last Shadow Puppets tour. Alex and I had found our tour groove during the

Everything You’ve Come to Expect

tour, and then even more so while he was away recording the new Monkeys album. When he kissed me good-bye for his time away, I felt happy for him, and confident in our time apart.

In between tour stops, he was only able to come home once in the beginning of June, but when I saw him then his hair was still long, though neater. So to see his hair now, short and fuzzy against his scalp, without any warning or even the suggestion he was going to do it, leaves me feeling surprised. But as I watch him perform, it grows on me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his hair this short, and something about it makes him look young and vulnerable. I can’t wait until he’s done performing so I can touch it– touch him– and I watch in the dim light of the backstage with baited breath.

The show is nearly over when Alex speaks to the audience, saying, “Since we couldn’t think of a tennis song we’re gonna try this.”

I wait, looking to Matt, to Nick, to Jamie, and back to Alex when I hear the opening notes, and my heart rockets in my chest like I’m a teenager with the screaming of the crowd.

“Can’t you see I’m trying, I don’t even like you, I just lied to get to your apartment,” he sings. “Now I’m staying here just for a while, I can’t think cause I’m just way too tired.”

I’m mouthing the words without realizing it, thinking of all those years ago when we lost our virginity together– as babies, it feels like– and then when we came back together years later.

“Is this it?”

There are tears streaming down my face before I even realize it, and I’m glad for the dark, because someone would definitely see me and make a big deal out of it otherwise.

I try to calm myself down before their encore plays, but I can’t help it, the tears are fresh when Alex’s manager finally points me out when the show is over, and he’s bounding over to me, sweating and hot, pulling me into his arms.

“You said you weren’t comin’,” he says in disbelief and elation, holding me to him, and he hasn’t seen my face. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re ‘ere, Lils.”

I hold him to me, shaking from nerves, from my tears, and when he pulls away and sees me crying his face drops.

“What is it?” he asks, concerned, quiet. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “You sang the Strokes– our song,” I say, babbling like an idiot, because I can’t tell him the real reason I’m crying, or why I’m here. Not right now. Not backstage, surrounded by people.

He laughs and pulls me to him again, kisses the side of my head. “Come on, let’s go back to the hotel. You can ‘ave a shower with me.”

We do just that, taking a car back to Manhattan, where I stop crying on the way, and Alex fills me in on everything he’s done since we were together last. He’s riding the high of the show, buzzed and manic, and I’m grateful, because all I have to do is listen and sit. Even while we shower, naked bodies pressed together, Alex washing my hair with the hotel shampoo, I don’t have to explain why I’m here.

“You didn’t tell me about your hair,” I whisper, as I reach up to lather soap into his shorn hair, afraid to disturb the peace of our shower.

He looks sheepish, putting his hands on my waist. “Were bit of a whirlwind decision, that. Did you see it on Colbert?”

“Didn’t see it until tonight, did I?”

“Are you cross with me?”

I laugh, feeling guilty with the weight of what I have to tell him tied to my ankle like a weight. “Of course not. I love it, just like I’ve always loved it.”

When we dry off and get into bed, the AC humming quietly, I ask Alex about my book on his nightstand.

“I like to read a bit o’ yeh before I go to sleep,” he says, gently running his fingers against the bare skin of my arm, bringing it out in goosebumps. “Makes me feel closer to yeh– like I’m ‘ome.”

I feel it again– the uncontrollable sharpness of tears, pricking the back of my eyes and throat.

My face must be contorting against it, because Alex looks concerned again. “Lils,” he says. “What is it, love?”

“Alex, I–” my throat closes up. I don’t know how to say this– don’t know how he’ll feel once he knows the truth. “I need to tell you something.”

“Are you all right?”

I nod, but I can’t speak. I’m taking deep breaths through the urge to cry once more.

“You’re scarin’ me a little bit, me girl.”

I sit up then, and he does too, facing me in the center of his king bed, in the middle of a strange hotel in New York City.

“Alex, I’m– I’m pregnant.”

I figured it out slowly, while still on my book tour in Scotland. My manager had started commenting on how tired I seemed. I kept going to bed earlier every night, sleeping through my alarm until she banged on my hotel door, eyes drooping while we drove from bookstore to bookstore. And then there was the fact that I was getting so easily motion sick, where traveling had never bothered me like that before.

I was sure it was just travel fatigue. My book tour had gone on too long. I needed some time to chill at home, get back to a normal schedule.

And then I started waking up nauseous, throwing up at least once before I had to leave the hotel every day, stomach turning at the smell of coffee, chocolate, sausage rolls– some of my favorite things just days before. I started subsisting purely on tea and crackers, and thought nothing of it, despite how odd my manager, Diane, thought it was.

It wasn’t until I was scrolling through my phone one night after a book signing, trying to stay awake before Alex called, that my eyes landed on my period tracking app.

I froze, my mind working backward. Alex had been home once at the beginning of June, and we had had sex then. I had stopped taking the pill nearly a year ago when it started giving me migraines, but I hadn’t gotten a chance to start another one. It’s not like Alex and I were together often enough for it to be a matter of urgency. We were usually careful besides. But in June we hadn’t been– protection had been an afterthought, now that I recalled– and I felt the anxiety curdle in my stomach.

Checking my app, I realized it had now been well over a month since my last period, and my mouth went dry.

My first instinct was to text or call Alex, but I didn’t know if it was true. Maybe it was just from stress– a fluke. So, instead, I got out of my hotel bed and got dressed, found the nearest open pharmacy and bought a test on my own.

It was strange. As I waited for the results, sitting on the lip of the hotel bath, I thought of Dad. I wondered what it had been like for him and Mom when she had thought she was pregnant with me– what she had said or done when she found out. I felt pain across my entire chest when I thought of Dad’s absence in the life of any child I would have, at any time in my life, and I held my breath until the alarm on my phone went off.

Peering at the test, I sucked in another breath. I was pregnant.

For days I had thought about telling Alex. Any time he called I was on the edge of saying it, but it just didn’t feel right. We had talked about marriage– though that had yet to happen– but we had never talked about children. I didn’t know if that was something he wanted, especially right now, without any warning. So I didn’t say anything at all. After a week, I bought a ticket for New York, and decided I’d have to tell him in person– see his face, hear his voice clearly, know how he felt when he learned the truth.

What’s more, I didn’t know how

I

felt at first. Panic hit me like a shock of cold water when I saw the test read positive. There was a slideshow flipping through my brain of all of the reasons why this was bad: we had never talked about it, Alex would be touring for ages and there was a good chance I would have this baby alone, my own mother had done a piss poor job of it, who’s to say I would be any better? My heart pounded as I held my head in my hands while sitting on the bathtub, and I decided to not do anything or think about it until the morning.

In the light of the next day, while we drove to my next book signing, things felt different– less urgent, less immediate. I had time to think.

As I watched the Scottish landscape pass outside of my window, I tried to think rationally. We could afford a baby, and we were reasonable, responsible adults. I was healthy. We had enough room at home. We were committed to one another and would probably be getting married, children were something that would probably be in our future anyway.

It began to rain– large, splattering droplets on the roof of the car– and Diane put on the radio, the Cure filtering through the speakers.

You make me feel like I am home again

I thought of Alex. I thought of how good he was with all of his friends’ kids, how earnestly he would love his own child. In my mind’s eye, I could see the little boy he would teach to play the piano and guitar, who he would chase all around a football field, laughing like a child himself. I imagined the little girl who would have him wrapped around her finger, who he would spend hours writing silly songs with, listening to her babbling stories. I imagined our baby, nestled in between us, grasping little fingers, Alex’s big brown eyes or my blue ones, framed in lashes.

I sucked in a shaking breath in the space of the car, my hand going unconsciously to my still-flat stomach, and I felt myself fall in love with this baby– our baby. This baby that is so clearly a product of how much we love each other, how much we’ve grown and changed together. This baby that would be the best parts of Alex and me– and Dad, and Penny, and David. And Alexa and Rosie by the time it grew up, let’s be honest.

By the time my tour ended and my flight to New York arrived, I hadn’t said anything to Alex, but I had found myself planning for this baby, daydreaming about him or her, about how our lives could change for the better. I just didn’t know what Alex would say or how he would feel.

Now, sitting across from him on the bed, that uncertainty is returning, because he hasn’t said anything. I feel myself growing defensive of our baby, terrified of losing Alex in the bargain.

“Say something,” I plead, feeling those hair-trigger tears rolling into the periphery.

He shakes his head, eyes roving up and down my body like he can’t quite believe it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally says, hands going to either side of my face, locking his gaze with mine.

I’m shaking when I say, “I wasn’t sure– I was so tired on my tour, and then I was sick every morning. I took a test in Edinburgh and I haven’t been to a doctor but... I wanted to tell you in person.”

He smooths the hair back from my face, looking stricken, and he says, “You were sick? Oh, me girl, how do you feel now? What are you thinking?”

The tears are pricking my eyes as I’m overcome with emotion once more, but I breathe through it and say, “I was scared at first but… Alex, I– I already love this baby.”

He stares at me, looking like he can’t find any words. I can’t tell what emotion is working itself apart behind his face, but he looks like he’s finding it hard to breathe, his eyebrows pulled up in a furrow.

“Are you angry?” I whisper.

His face breaks then– an incredulous grin, tears behind his eyes– and he wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me towards him until our foreheads are touching. “Angry? Lils, if you’re happy, I can’t imagine anything better.” He kisses me, and I can’t help but let the tears fall, relief and happiness washing over me in an overwhelming torrent. When he pulls away he laughs out loud, the sound wavering with tears as well, and he says, “Bloody hell, Lils, we made a little bean sprout,” and his hand goes to my stomach.

I laugh at that, at the expression of abject wonder as he stares at my stomach, hand pressing gently against the fabric of my t-shirt.

“Oh, Lils,” he whispers, eyes coming back to meet mine. “You’re goin’ to be such a good mum.”

My hand goes to his face, and he thumbs away my tears, kissing me gently.

When he pulls away, he speaks to my stomach when he says, “I’m not goin’ to lie, sprout, you’ve stolen me thunder a bit.”

My brows furrow now, and I watch as he slides off the bed and goes towards the closet.

“I’ve been carrying this around with me since I was home in June, waiting for the right moment when you joined us on tour,” he says, punching in the code to the safe. “Now seems like as good a moment as we’ll get.”

He’s grinning when he turns around and there’s a box in his hand. My heart starts to race again when he returns to the bed and opens it, revealing a gorgeous, vintage diamond ring.

“Will you marry me, Lils?”

Forgetting the ring entirely, I throw my arms around him, shaking with sobs, saying, “Of course! Yes!”

He laughs when we break apart and he slides the ring onto my trembling finger.

“You hear that, sprout,” he says, leaning towards my stomach again. “We’re goin’ to make an honest babe out of yeh.”

I laugh, distracted by the ring on my finger. When I meet Alex’s eyes again, see him watching me and smiling, I ask, “Happy?”

He shakes his head as if he can’t believe it, kisses me slowly, and says, “From day one, you’ve made me the happiest bloke in the world, Lils. I love you.”

When we lay down to sleep, Alex’s arms wrapped around me, a lazy hand resting on my stomach, I know that what he’s said is true. Despite all the problems and back and forth that brought us here, and all the time it took, it’s all been made worth it for everything we have now.