Emma
The lake was my refuge. Its surface shimmered with light, soft ripples carrying away the weight I carried at home. The woods that hugged its edges were alive with change, each season painting the trees differently, reminding me that nothing stayed the same forever. Out here, it felt like I could breathe. Out here, my mother's shouting couldn't reach me.
I had Zoey on my lap, her small hands clapping at the squirrels that darted between roots and branches. She was only two, and too young to understand the chaos that waited back at the cottage. That was why I brought her here whenever I could — if I kept her close, I could at least shield her from some of it.
Teddy, at thirteen, was probably tearing around town with his friends, thinking he was some big man because he could steal a packet of crisps and light a cigarette. The twins, ten and unstoppable, would be down at the park proving that girls were every bit as good as boys at football. They'd return home with grass stains smeared up their legs and hair wild from the wind, grinning like champions.
I sighed, smoothing Zoey's soft hair as sunlight poured through the trees in golden beams. For a moment, everything was still. Safe. Then —
A twig snapped.
My heart jumped.
Nobody ever came to this side of the lake. The holiday homes, all glass and stone and money, were across the water, too far for their owners to wander here. Instinctively, I clutched Zoey and scrambled to my feet.
A boy stepped out from between the trees. He looked about my age, tall and narrow-shouldered, with shiny brown hair that fell neatly around a face far too perfect for the woods.
"Oh — hey," he said, lifting a hand in a quiet wave.
"Hey," I echoed, wary.
"Are you lost?"
He shook his head. "No. I wanted to walk around the whole lake."
So, he was one of them. The summer people. "You're staying in the holiday homes?"
"Yes. My parents own one of those houses. What about you? Are you here on holiday?"
The word stuck in my throat.
Holiday
Right. If only. I couldn't bring myself to admit my dad was the groundsman, that the run-down cottage at the edge of the woods was the closest thing we had to home.
"I should go," I said quickly, shifting Zoey on my hip.
"Wait." His voice caught me off guard — gentle, but insistent. "What's your name?"
No boy ever asked me that. Not in town, not at school. They all knew who my parents were, knew we were the kind of poor that meant no birthday invitations, no nice clothes, no presents to give in return. But this boy… he didn't know. He couldn't. And he'd be gone in a few weeks anyway.
"Emma," I said at last. "And you?"
"Tommy."
Up close, he looked even more polished — skinny but graceful, his hair falling just right. He bent slightly, his gaze softening on Zoey. "What's the little one's name?"
"This is Zoey," I replied, stepping back just enough that his hand, half-raised to touch her hair, fell awkwardly to his side. His cheeks flushed red.
"I haven't seen you around before," I added, trying to sound casual.
"My dad bought the house a few weeks ago," he said. "It's the first time we've been here. Do you come here often?"
Careful, Emma.
"Sometimes. Zoey likes the squirrels," I said, forcing a smile. "But we should head back. She'll be hungry soon."
He nodded, that polished voice of his suddenly warm. "It was nice to meet you, Emma."
I almost laughed at how posh he sounded. Like Mrs. Monrose, the headteacher, except he was fifteen.
"See you around, then," I muttered, pretending I didn't care.
But as I walked away, Zoey's head heavy against my shoulder, I couldn't help thinking about the boy with the shiny brown hair. And knowing my luck, I'd probably never see him again.
I told myself I wouldn't think about him again.
But of course, I did.
That night, after Zoey was tucked into her cot and the twins were finally asleep, I lay awake listening to Teddy sneak in through the kitchen window, reeking of smoke and cheap cider. Mum was already passed out on the sofa, an empty glass on the floor beside her hand. Dad wouldn't be home until dawn— he was fixing pipes for some holidaymaker who didn't know what it meant to live on our side of the lake.
I closed my eyes and thought of Tommy's voice. Calm. Careful. Posh. Like he'd never had to raise it to be heard. Like shouting didn't exist in his house.
The next morning, I found myself walking the same path, Zoey perched on my hip, as though pulled back by something I couldn't explain. The lake shimmered in the sunlight, a million tiny diamonds scattered on its surface. I wasn't expecting to see him again. I wasn't hoping to. Not really.
But when I stepped into the clearing, there he was.
Tommy sat on a fallen log with a book open in his lap. A real book, not a crumpled hand-me-down from the charity shop like the ones we had at home. Hardback, shiny, the kind of thing you'd find stacked in neat rows in one of those fancy stores I'd only ever walked past. He looked up when he heard us, and the way his face lit up —like he was genuinely glad I was there — made my stomach twist in a way I didn't understand.
"You came back," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "So did you."
He smiled, and it changed his whole face. He didn't look quite so polished when he smiled. He looked… normal.
Zoey squirmed in my arms, reaching out toward him this time, and I shifted her before she could touch him. Tommy didn't seem to notice. He closed his book, balancing it carefully on his knee.
"You live around here, don't you?" he asked. It wasn't accusing. Just curious.
My mouth went dry. Nobody ever asked me that without already knowing the answer. And the answer always carried shame with it.
"I do," I said at last, forcing my chin up like I dared him to judge me.
Instead, he nodded. "Lucky."
I blinked. "Lucky?"
"You get to see this every day," he said, waving a hand at the lake, the trees, the shifting light that danced across the water. "I've been here one week and I don't want to leave."
Something in my chest loosened. Just a little.
We talked. Only for a few minutes, about nothing that mattered — books, squirrels, how the lake looked like glass when the wind died down. But it was more than I'd spoken to any boy my age in a long time. Maybe ever.
When Zoey started fussing, I told him I had to go. He didn't press me to stay. He just said, "See you tomorrow, Emma?" Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And the strangest part was —I wanted to say yes.
But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that wanting something doesn't mean you get to keep it.
Because boys like Tommy don't belong in the lives of girls like me.