I couldn’t avoid Mum forever.

                  Though that much was obvious, it didn’t stop me trying. Archie dropped me home just after lunch; I was settled in front of the telly before two, all set to lose myself in pointless reality shows to stop my mind wandering anywhere else. This, it seemed, was another side effect of grief: when Reese was around, I had no interest in TV as infantile as Geordie Shore, rolling my eyes when she sat down religiously each week to tune in. And yet in the month I’d spent at home, faced with hours upon hours of free time, I’d gradually become sucked in too.

                  When I wanted to block everything out, it was always nice to have the option.

                  I had a couple of hours to myself before Mum came in, and then the peace was shattered. Not in a literal way, of course: she was as quiet as ever from the moment her key rattled in the door, and I barely heard her footsteps padding across the hallway carpet. The only thing that had me glancing over my shoulder was the reflection of her silhouette onscreen.

                  I knew how the conversation was going to go. There was no confrontational tone, no frowning; even her words had me wondering whether she was trying to extract information at all. Still, I knew better. It was nothing out of pattern; for the past month, she’d been burying her nose in self-help books like they were the only thing keeping her going. I wondered if she truly believed putting on a falsely bright tone and an unwavering smile would fill the gaping hole left in our family, like if she kept talking long enough we wouldn’t notice Reese’s empty space at the dinner table. I wasn’t even sure which words were her own anymore; it all sounded straight from the pages of Managing Your Mind or Fast Track to Your Future, Volume Two. I knew it was just how she coped – where I turned to the mind-numbing realm of reality TV, she found comfort in the words of people who had their lives together – but it was irritating all the same.

                  She persisted for five minutes, lowering herself onto the seat beside me, inching closer as if broaching the physical distance would affect the mental one too. The questions were calmly relentless; she wanted to know everything about my day. The more insignificant the matter, the more eager she was to ask; I felt battered by questions about lessons I could barely remember, whom I’d said hello to in the hallway, what I’d eaten at break.

                  She didn’t mention the fact I left early, but it was hardly necessary. Even her eerily breezy tone couldn’t mask the look in her eye that said she knew already.

                  Before long, she grew impatient with my half-hearted responses. I couldn’t help it, though. Any time my thoughts ventured near what happened earlier that day, I seemed to snap into panic mode, my brain throwing down the shutters and blocking the rest of it out. There was no use even trying.

                  She gave up eventually, pursing her lips and rising from the sofa. I noticed the irritation even through her question of what I wanted for dinner.

                  Even when Brian got home, things didn’t improve. He barely made it through the hall before being whisked away into the kitchen, door shutting behind the two of them, and no effort was made to conceal the sound of whispering from within.

                  At the dinner table, Mum kept up an excruciating effort to keep the conversation flowing, skimming expertly past anything that might set me off. I knew she was dying for me to jump back into the conversation, or at least offer something other than the occasional murmur, but I just couldn’t bring myself to get there.

                  I scarfed down my food as quickly as possible; though it all felt like cardboard in my mouth, it was the quickest escape route. The moment I had the last mouthful off my fork, I leapt down from the table, stammering something about being excused before Mum had the chance to argue.

                  But I only made it halfway. In the hall, my foot seconds away from landing on the first step, I was jolted by the sound of the doorbell across the room.

                  I went to carry on, but the voice caught me before I could escape.

                  “Callie?” I could hear Mum, her voice muffled through several walls and drifting in from the kitchen. “I’m just in the middle of serving dessert – can you get that?”

                  Muttering a curse under my breath, I glanced over my shoulder. I could see the front door from there; behind frosted glass, I could make out the vague silhouette of the caller. They looked tall, relatively lanky, and didn’t seem to be somebody I knew well enough to distinguish from their outline. Which didn’t exactly narrow it down.

                  I didn’t know what I was expecting when I opened the door. But Mitchell Hunt, bundled up in a coat and an unnervingly garish scarf, was certainly not it.

                  My breath caught in my throat; I didn’t know what to say. So, instead, I stayed quiet, almost squinting at the  bright red-and-yellow checked fabric around his neck, hoping he’d fill the gap.

                  “Hey.”

                  And that was it. Like this kind of encounter needed no other explanation. As if we’d ever had a friendship outside newspaper, along with conversations that didn’t involve editions and deadlines. Taken aback, I found myself swallowing. “Um… hi.”

                  His dark hair, irritatingly overgrown, was wet; I realised then it was pouring with rain, the water dripping from the edge of the porch and onto the decking. Apparently, I hadn’t been able to drag my attention away from the TV long enough to notice the weather. The coat he had on wasn’t waterproof, and I wondered whether there was any point to it at all, or if he was just seeking to tone down the brightness of his scarf.

                  “How’s it going?”

                  There it was again: the casual conversation, like nothing was out of place. I kind of wanted to reach over and shake him, just to snap us out of it. Was it so hard to realise that nothing was ever in place nowadays, and hadn’t been since Reese’s death?

                  “I’m okay.”

                  Again, I wasn’t. But there was no need for the truth. Not here.

                  He seemed to remember then that a proper explanation was in order, shifting on the spot and letting our eyes meet. “This stuff you gave me earlier,” he began, and I realised then he was holding a plastic folder in his outstretched hand. “It wasn’t… well, it wasn’t just articles. I don’t know whether some of it got mixed up, but there were a few bits I thought must’ve gotten in by mistake.”

                  “What kind of things?”

                  Reaching over, he pressed the folder into my hand. “Just take a look. You’ll want them back.”

                  I knew it probably wasn’t wise, but I couldn’t help myself. The curiosity was overpowering, and whatever glint I could see in Mitchell’s eye was throwing me off. “What kind of things?” I repeated.

                  For the first time, he looked uneasy: the only thing that proved this was out of the ordinary. “Reese’s things,” he replied, in a tone more steady than it should’ve been.

                  “You’ve been looking at my sister’s stuff?”

                  It came out sharper than intended, but it was already too late. I winced as Mitchell recoiled on the spot; subconscious or not, he seemed to lean backward, widening the gap between us until it felt more like a gaping abyss. All I could think was Nice going, Callie.

                  “Sorry,” I said, in a weak attempt to correct it. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

                  “No, no…” He reached up to scratch the back of his head, dishevelling some of that untidy mane. “It’s fine. I understand. But I didn’t look. I mean, just long enough to realise they weren’t meant to be in there, but other than that…”

                  Everything about the situation had changed; where it had previously just been strange, I now felt like the bad guy, lashing out for no reason other than a poor hold on my feelings. Seeing Mitchell’s gaze averted towards the ground, lingering a safe distance from my face, hit me with a pang of guilt. He was only trying to do the right thing. And, once again, I was already pushing him away.

                  Slumping somewhat against the doorframe, I let my eyes close for a moment. “I’m sorry. Things are… tough, at the minute. Thank you for bringing Reese’s stuff over. You didn’t have to.”

                  “Callie.” I looked up, and our gazes met again. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay? I get it.”

                  He didn’t get it. Nobody did; I must’ve been the only person in the world going through all this, and possibly the worst for the job. But there was a note in his tone, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that may have actually fooled me for a second.

                  “And, for the record, I’m not a stalker.”

                  I shot him an odd look. “What?”

                  “You know, if you’re wondering how I found your house.” He gestured up at the porch roof and vaguely toward the house in front of which I was standing. “I didn’t follow you home, or anything. Candace told me the address.”

                  “Oh.”

                  Another name I’d barely heard nor thought about in weeks. Candace, another columnist on the paper, was somebody else I’d pushed away despite receiving her concerned e-mails and text messages; I hadn’t replied to any of them. Even before Reese’s death, we hadn’t been particularly close friends; she was actually one of the many girls that clung onto my twin sister, and ended up in my company by default. I felt kind of bad for completely shutting her out, especially when she was likely just as upset as anybody else, but she couldn’t really take it personally. It had become force of habit.

                  “I hope that’s okay. Like, I wouldn’t want this to be too weird.”

                  “No,” I said, even though he’d hit the nail right on the head. “You’re fine. Thank you.”

                  I hoped this was enough of a hint that I wanted to end this, and anytime soon would’ve been preferable. In fact, it did look like he was on the brink of an exit, and maybe that was where we would have left it – had we not been interrupted.

                  “Who is it, Callie?”

                  With some of her worst timing ever, Mum chose that moment to appear in the doorway of the hall, craning her neck for a look at the front door. She had a plate balanced in one hand, brandishing a hearty serving of cheesecake, which I assumed was her attempt at persuading me to eat dessert.

                  Before I could shove the door shut in Mitchell’s face – not that this was socially acceptable, but it was a matter of urgency – she noticed him, and her eyes lit up with surprise. “Oh!” she said, stopping in her tracks. “Is this a friend of yours?”

                  Part of me wanted to say no, to assure her that this encounter went no further than practicality, but there came a point to draw the line, and I was pretty much already there. “Mum, this is Mitchell,” I told her, as she crossed the hallway in a slightly desperate effort to shake his hand. “He’s on newspaper.”

                  “Mitchell,” she said slowly. “Mitchell. Now why does that name sound familiar?”

                  Oh, God. I opened my mouth to interrupt, but she was already going off on one, lost in her own train of thought.

                  “Mitchell…” she repeated. Then, suddenly, it seemed to click. “Mitchell! Mitchell Hunt?”

                  My heart sunk; the recognition in her tone could only be a bad thing. And the sight of him nodding, sharing none of my own compulsion to slip away as fast as possible, made it worse. “That’s the one.”

                  “Of course! Gosh, I can’t believe this is the first time we’re meeting in person.”

                  “Mum,” I began, but she wasn’t listening.

                  “The piece you wrote about Reese was beautiful,” she went on, having somehow wedged herself into the rest of the space in the doorway. “I’ve been wanting to get the chance to thank you properly. The way you wrote about her… well, it was like you were the best of friends. You captured her perfectly.”

                  Every word seemed to sting, and I wasn’t sure why; she was only being nice, paying whatever thanks she owed for Mitchell’s favour, but I felt irritated all the same. He may have been a decent writer, but that didn’t mean he knew Reese. In fact, I’d never even seen the two of them hold a conversation. I wasn’t sure she would’ve known his name. One tiny piece in the school newspaper didn’t qualify them as friends, nor did it deserve any of the same type of recognition.

                  And then it hit me: was I jealous? Was it because I knew that, had I wanted to, I could’ve written a better and more meaningful eulogy than Mitchell Hunt? There was hardly anyone more qualified than her twin sister, who also happened to know her way around a newspaper column, too. I could’ve done it. But, for reasons I wasn’t sure I’d ever work out, I’d pushed the opportunity away and let the grief stay in full force.

                  “Thank you,” Mitchell said, tuning me back into the conversation. “I’m glad you liked it. That’s definitely a weight off my mind.”

                  “It was lovely. Much more meaningful than the one that in the local newspaper, even. Put it this way: I know which one I’ll be getting framed.”

                  He looked taken aback, though the cynic in me couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was genuine. I didn’t know what it was about Mitchell Hunt, but there was something that made me uneasy – and the fact that I couldn’t pinpoint whether it was down to his effortlessly charming smile, his untidy haircut, or that God-awful scarf I kept glancing down at, made it all the more frustrating. There was definitely something. If only I could be content with knowing that much.

                  “You’re a budding journalist, then, I take it?”

                  “Yeah. Well. If I don’t manage to sell a multi-million pound book series, then yes.” He managed a wry smile. “Let’s face it: no writer’s going to give up the dream of being the next J.K. Rowling.”

                  “Now that,” Mum said, with a strange smile of her own, “is a life plan I’m not going to argue with.”

                  Had it been up to me, I would’ve long since put an end to the conversation, but Mitchell continued. “Journalism suits me fine, though. Honestly, as long as I get to write for a living, I’ll be happy. And I don’t seem to be doing an entirely terrible job on the school newspaper. You can vouch for me on that, right, Callie?”

                  It caught me off guard; I’d been following the conversation, yet at the same time, being dragged straight into it came as a slight shock. All of a sudden, I could feel two sets of eyes trained on me, and neither felt particularly comfortable. “Um…” Swallowing, I wondered why the words had become so difficult to find. “Yeah. I guess so.”

                  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said, with a joking smile.

                  He was only kidding, but when Mum started laughing too, I couldn’t help but feel increasingly like a kid getting ganged up on at playtime. I knew pretty much everything was self-inflicted – the isolation, pushing away people who were only trying to be nice, shying away from opportunity – but changing was easier said than done. It was a part of grief they hadn’t told me about; coming to terms with my sister’s death was one thing, but doing the same for my new personality was another.

                  It was only then that the rain seemed to register with Mum; all at once, she jolted to life, looking over at the water spilling from the porch roof. “Oh, God, how rude of me,” she said, already beckoning Mitchell towards us. “Come in, come in. It’s tipping it down out there. I can’t believe I’m letting you stand on my front porch in the pouring rain.”

                  “Oh, it’s okay,” Mitchell said, digging his hands into his coat pockets. “I didn’t come over to intrude. I was just dropping something off.”

                  “Honestly, it’s fine.” Mum didn’t seem to notice the sideways daggers I was shooting her, instead holding up the plate to show off the cheesecake. “We’re just about to have dessert, and there’s plenty left over. Can I tempt you into staying?”

                  “Mum.” Now, I felt the need to step in; this was really going too far. The situation had been strange from the moment I’d pulled open the door, and there was no need to drag it out longer than necessary. Inviting Mitchell Hunt, the guy who’d spent several months chasing me up about articles and deadlines and nothing else, to eat cheesecake at the dinner table I’d just made an escape from was not how I intended things to go. I had to at least make some attempt to intervene. “Mitchell really has to get home. He only stopped by for a minute.”

                  “Actually, I—” The rest of his sentence was cut off, mostly by the lethal look I sent in his direction, which seemed to have the desired effect. He paused, before shrinking backward a little. “Yeah. I think my mum’s expecting me home for dinner, so I should probably head back. Thanks for the invite, though.”

                  “Oh.” I didn’t need to look at Mum to tell she was disappointed. “Okay. Maybe some other time, then?”

                  “Yeah,” he said, with a warm smile. “Definitely. Bye, Ms. Washington.”

                  Before he turned to head back up the front path, he shot me a look that I couldn’t quite work out. “I’ll see you around, then, Callie.”

                  I nodded, torn between a feeling of guilt that I’d sent him away so quickly and relief that I could finally head up to where I’d wanted to be all evening. “See you.”

                  He turned on his heel, passing under the sheet of rain dripping from the porch and heading down the edge of the front garden. I watched as his pace quickened under the force of the downpour, half-expecting him to take out an umbrella at some point, but he never did. Instead, he just started down the street, his hands tucked into the pockets of the coat that was definitely not waterproof, that hideous scarf visible until he’d rounded the corner.

                   And once he’d disappeared from view, and I finally got what I’d been wanting since he showed up, I found myself wondering if I’d been right to do so at all.

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Hi, guys! Long time no see, huh? I did warn you at the end of the last chapter (which, by the way, seems a lifetime ago). Since then, I've moved about a hundred miles away to a new city and I'm currently living on my own (well, if you count a flat with 5 other students as "on my own"). The last month has pretty much been the craziest of my life, but also the best, and I'm having an unbelievable time here in Birmingham. I'm so so so excited for the rest of the term and the year and also the next 3 years haha.

Unfortunately, the craziness does mean my writing time has suffered, BUT it was made worse this month by a bad case of writer's block on this chapter. I'm hoping that the next ones will be easier to get out, but I can't make any promises since my schedule is so unpredictable.

Well, that's all I have to say for now. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thoughts on Mitchell, anyone? I'm curious, so leave me a comment below to let me know. Aaaaand until next time :)