Mum and Max are away when I get the call that Galen is coming home a week earlier than expected.

“You’re really coming home tomorrow?”

It’s impossible for me to keep the excitement from my voice even if Galen seems subdued by the prospect of finally coming back.

“Yeah, the last few dates were cancelled. The lead singer of the headlining band has lost his voice. Well, that’s the official line, but he’s been sent to rehab. This tour was a bit much for an addiction that he hadn’t quite kicked.”

“Wow. That’s crazy and a little sad. So, what time do you get home? I was supposed to be going to a party with Erin, but I can cancel.”

“No,” he hurriedly replies with a little too much force before smoothing his voice out. “Don’t cancel for me. We can catch up soon enough. You should go and have fun with your friends.”

I snort, “It’s a stupid Valentine’s party, Gal. I’m hardly missing out.”

“Honestly, all the travelling will have worn me out. I’ll probably just crash in bed for twenty-four hours. You should go.”

“But Mum and Max are in Devon. There won’t be anyone there to welcome you home.” I know I sound a bit ridiculous and even a touch whiny, but I can’t believe Gal is coming home and doesn’t want me to be there.

“I’m looking forward to the peace, Fflur. This tour has been pretty hectic, and you get very little time to yourself. I swear, I’m just gonna sleep like the dead. Don’t stay home when you already have plans.”

I open my mouth to object once more, and as if senses it, he adds, “We’ll do breakfast the morning after. You can fill me in on everything I missed. I’ll even cook. What do you say?”

And because it’s Galen, there’s only one thing I can say.

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”

The day of the Valentine’s party and, more importantly, the day Galen comes home, I spend the morning with Erin. At lunchtime, I drop the news on her that I’m not going to the party, and I can’t help the pinch of guilt that hits me when her face falls.

“But we’ve planned this for weeks?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just—”

“Galen.”

My mouth opens to deny it, but I snap it shut not wanting to try and lie to my friend.

She sighs heavily and flops down on the futon she uses as a spare bed when I sleep over on occasion.

“I know you’ve missed him, Fflur, but can’t you see him tomorrow? It’s not like he’s going anywhere. He’s back for good now, isn’t he?”

“I know but—”

“But you’ve missed him. I know, I get that, and I’m sorry that I’m making this awkward for you. I was just looking forward to tonight. We never do stuff like this, and I thought it might be fun for a change.”

“You could still go,” I offer weakly, knowing that she won’t go without me.

“Yeah, maybe,” she replies quietly.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I grab all my stuff and cram it into my overnight bag. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

I leave Erin’s house feeling like the worst friend ever, but it doesn’t stop me. The urge to see Galen is overwhelming, and I know I’ll need to apologise again to Erin for my selfishness and abandoning her, but right now, I can’t think about it. There’s no space inside my head for all that. I’ve spent too many months without him, and our infrequent phone chats only served to wedge us further apart.

The daffodils Mum planted in the borders to the front of the house are in full bloom. They beckon me up the path with sure feet. I don’t need to pick one today. I have a far greater need, and I know Galen is home because when I look up, I can see his bedroom curtains are closed, and Mum has kept them open the whole time he’s been away.

I nervously run a hand through my hair, gathering the long, glossy strands to one side and draping them over my shoulder—Galen once told me I look pretty when I did that—and I tug at the hem of my plain white t-shirt, before sliding my key in the lock and letting myself in.

I take a deep breath of the air, hoping it will smell different now he’s home, and I scan the hallway and living room for any signs of him, but I’m met with nothing but silence.

Maybe he’s gone out? Maybe I have time to shower and change before he gets back. I could try out some of that make up Mum helped me pick.

A dull thud comes from the kitchen, barely a sound at all, and I tilt my head, straining my ears for any further noise.

There it is again.

He is home. I knew it when I saw his curtains were shut. Why did I doubt it?

My feet carry me closer before my mind can catch up. I know things have been different between us the last couple of weeks, no, I guess months, but I don’t care. I want, need to see him.

Will he wrap his arms around me in a hug?

Will his eyes find mine while the air around us crackles and urges him to come closer for a kiss?

Will he beg forgiveness for pushing me away?

I pause and take a deep breath outside the kitchen door, it’s cracked open slightly—like always—but I don’t hear any further sounds. My heart is pounding in my chest and almost blocking the air from my lungs, and my hand trembles as I push the door open fully and step inside.

The room is empty.

Maybe he’s upstairs? Should I go up and find him?

He could be sleeping.

Not wanting to disturb him if he is, my eyes land on the hob, and I get the bright idea that he’d appreciate his favourite food when he wakes up. Who can say no to pasta and meat—

I take three steps into the room, and stop.

There it is again.

Thud.

And another.

Thud.

I tilt my head towards the laundry room. The door is closed, but not fully and another muffled sound tells me he’s in there.

I bet he has a heap of stuff that needs washing, and it’s just like Gal not to want to give Mum any extra to do.

A devious smile tips at the corner of my mouth and I creep silently across the kitchen, determined to scare the life out of him. He obviously doesn’t think anyone is home. This can be payback for all the times he’s jumped out at me in the past and made me scream like a banshee.

I still my breathing, brace my hand on the doorframe and peek through the crack.

The first thing I see is the pile of dirty laundry dumped on the floor. I angle my gaze slightly to the right and I can see someone kneeling in front of the open washing machine door.

Thud. The door bangs softly against the side wall.

I blink.

That can’t be right. Two sets of legs, not one.

I shift my feet and lean my head against the door to lengthen my viewpoint through the narrow crack.

The legs kneeling on the floor do not belong to Galen.

I following them up to a waist, then a slim back and shoulders, and finally a head of thick, short auburn hair, that’s bobbing rhythmically.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The second pair of legs belong to someone who is standing, not kneeling. I can see a black biker boot, black jeans, up, up up, my eyes go to a hand gripping tightly on a thigh. I skim over the bobbing head, and keep my gaze up until I reach the top of a white-blond one. His chin is lifted, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as if in pain, his face looking to the ceiling, his lips parted, and his breathing staccato.

Shock doesn’t let me register the scene, and I stare wide-eyed at the face of the boy that I haven’t seen for months.

My lips form his name.

Galen.

Palm flat on the door, I press slightly and widen the crack, making my view of the scene bigger.

The head of short auburn hair rises and bobs at Galen’s groin—thud, thud, thud, goes the washing machine door in much the same rhythm—and the bottom falls out of my world.

Between Galen’s spread thighs is a guy. A guy with a mouthful of Galen.

He sucks, slurps and bobs steadily as Galen arches his body and groans from the back of his throat. Galen reaches out blindly, his eyes still shut, and winds his fingers through the other boy’s hair encouraging him to go faster.

The noises become obscenely loud, and it seems comical that neither of them realises that they have an unwelcome observer. But nothing about this is funny to me. It’s devastation, shock, despair, and betrayal all wrapped up in thick auburn hair and cock-sucking lips.

Galen groans loudly and thrusts into the stranger’s mouth. It’s enough to snap me out of my shock and have me silently backing away, carefully pulling the door closed with trembling hands.

This is the point where I break, I think to myself as I aimlessly drag my feet towards the stairs.

This is the part where I disintegrate and turn to dust.

No. No, I won’t become that girl again—the girl I was when Mum left.

I reach my room, shut the door behind me, and in a daze, sit down on my bed. With fumbling hands, I pull out my phone and call Erin. As I wait for it to connect, I grab the wilted sprig of Baby’s Breath still wrapped in toilet paper and shove it into my pocket.

I inject an exaggerated amount of happiness into my voice when Erin answers, and I say loudly, too loudly, “I was wrong. I need a night out. We deserve some fun. Let’s go to the party.”

Her squeal of excitement doesn’t even make me flinch.

I am empty. Cold.

I close my eyes and refuse to let a single tear fall.

I will become Salix arctica—Arctic Willow.

I will survive this. I will adapt and grow, even though icy tendrils crawl through my veins and encase my heart.

“What do have planned for your seventeenth?” Erin asks as I knock back my third—or is it fourth?—drink.

The music thumps through the floor and vibrates up my legs, and I once more make eye contact with Robbie—a lad a year older than me in the sixth form—who has asked me out a couple of times since school started last September.

“Nothing,” I shout back into her ear. “I don’t want to do anything for my birthday.”

I grab her hand and tug her up from her seat. “But I do want to do something tonight. I want to dance! C’mon, Erin, come and dance with me.”

She giggles and yells, “You’re drunk.” But doesn’t complain when I pull her into the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

The night passes in a haze of shots, grinding hips and sweaty hands. Erin begs off another dance, and as I turn and turn with my hands in the air, my hips finding the beat, my body alive with the zing of cheap vodka and baselines, Robbie’s eyes catch mine, and I smile.

You’ll do.

Then his hands find my behind, then my breasts, and with low inviting whispers that tickle my ear, he asks my permission to take me upstairs.

I close my eyes and allow him to guide me there.

I block out the film reel of Galen, thighs spread, auburn hair tangled in his hands.

As we climb the stairs to the bedrooms, I push my fingers into my pocket and fumble with the ball of tissue there. I hold back my tears as I drop it over the bannister to disappear under the feet dozens of partygoers.

On the top step, Robbie looks over his shoulder at me and above the thrum of the music mouths, “Are you sure?”

I nod because my words can’t be trusted.

I can’t be trusted.

Galen can’t be trusted.

Everything has changed.