“Elliot!” I throw the brush at him, which he ducks easily. It hits the back wall and lands on a pile of laundry.
“What? He’s single; you’re single. It’s time for you to get out there, Pen. There’s more to life than just Brooklyn.” He gives me one of his exaggerated winks and I roll my eyes. If there’s anything that makes me feel more agitated than Noah’s silence, it’s the thought of Noah with someone else.
Needing to change the subject, I ask Elliot, “How’s Alex anyway?”
Elliot raises his hands to the sky. “Perfection, as always.”
I grin. “You guys are too cute, if not slightly sickly.”
“Did I tell you he’s moved on from the vintage shop? He’s working in a restaurant now.” Elliot beams with pride. “I can’t wait until I’m finished with sixth form and we can move in together. I mean, I spend most of my life at his place anyway. When I’m not here, of course.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I lean over and grab his hand. “Your parents will come around . . .” For weeks now, it’s been non-stop fighting in the Wentworth household. Sometimes we can hear them shouting through the thin walls of my attic bedroom; those nights are a little awkward.
Now it’s his turn to shrug. “In my opinion, they should just put themselves out of their misery. We’d all be happier if they’d just split up for good.”
“Penny!” My mum’s voice echoes up the stairs to my bedroom.
I turn my phone over and check the time. “Oh nuts. Come on, Elliot—we’re going to be late! I can’t miss my first lesson.” I scramble off the bed and start throwing books into my bag. I quickly check my face in the mirror, and it’s only then that I realize I only brushed one side of my head before throwing the brush at Elliot. I grab a hairband from my desk and gather my hair—tangles and all—up into a rough topknot. It will have to do.
Elliot’s ability to turn a dark cloud into a ray of sunshine always amazes me, and when I turn round he’s back to his bright and bubbly self. He hooks his arm through mine and then grins at me. “Race you for a chocolate croissant?”
“You’re on.”
We take the stairs two by two, laughing and bumping into each other as we go.
“What are you two nutters up to now?” Mum tuts as we jump down the bottom step before nabbing a warm chocolate croissant each out of her outstretched hands. “Don’t forget—home by seven for Tom’s birthday.”
“No problem!” I say, already halfway out of the door, knowing full well I have chocolate in places a well-put-together sixteen-year-old shouldn’t have. I would’ve never forgotten my big brother’s birthday, but I know why Mum’s reminded me. I’ve taken to hanging out with Elliot after school around Brighton, snapping photographs of him for my portfolio. He’s like the perfect model for me: so super self-confident he’s never afraid to stand in the middle of the street in a pose, even if there are people walking by. “Maybe I should start a blog,” he said to me one day. “Then I could show off all these photographs! Even the ones you don’t like are amazing.”
“You should,” I replied. “It would be great for your fashion work too.”
“I’ll think about it” was his response, but he’s never actually gone through with it. I suspect the thought of having a blog is more appealing to Elliot than the thought of all the work that goes into it. He’s always rolling his eyes at me when he sees me on my laptop yet again, but he also knows that’s what it takes to maintain it. And, since my long period of absence from it last year, I’m more determined than ever to make it a success.
Outside, there’s a chill in the air that reminds me autumn is on the way, even though it’s still only September. This time of year is my absolute favourite; the leaves start to turn golden and wither away after their summer of hard work, and the sun seems to shine a lot more clearly as the mist from the summer heat disappears. Everything just seems a little brighter and fresher—a clean slate for the new school year. A clean slate. That’s exactly what I need.
I snuggle closer to Elliot and link my arm through his. “We’ll have to cut our modelling session short tonight,” I say. “The only bad thing about Alex leaving the vintage store is that we can’t borrow anymore fun costumes!”
I think back to my favourite photograph of Elliot: he was wearing his normal clothes (skinny jeans, a burgundy T-shirt with a chunky-knit cardigan on top) along with a pirate hat with a huge feather sticking out, and he was balancing on one leg on an upside-down bucket we’d found on the rocky beach. He looked like a pirate king of Brighton. Albeit one with really good fashion sense.
“Back to your mum’s wardrobe it is!” Elliot says with a dramatic sigh. I laugh. It’s true: Mum does have a ton of weird and wonderful accessories from her drama days.
I leave him at the bus stop and he gives me two extravagant kisses on the cheek—something he picked up from Paris and then honed at his internship at CHIC magazine. “See you later, dahling,” he says, then lowers his voice. “And don’t fret too much about Noah, promise?”
I blush. “I promise.”
It’s only a short walk to school from the bus stop, but I miss Elliot’s company as soon as he’s gone. His absence gives me an ache like I’m missing an arm or a leg. I’m missing an Elliot—and it hurts. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he and Alex end up moving to London next year. The thought makes the chocolate croissant repeat on me, and I swallow to keep it down.