He was still laughing, shaking his head, when I pressed my face into my knees. My cheeks burned, and the ground suddenly seemed like the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Sorry," I muttered. "It was stupid."
The laughter cut off, sharp. I felt him shift beside me.
"Wait — you think I'm laughing at you?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. It was written all over me, probably in giant neon letters.
"Emma…" His voice was softer now, careful, like he was stepping across fragile ice. "I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing because —well, it was funny."
I risked a glance at him. His eyes weren't mocking, not even a little. They were warm, steady, almost… pleading.
"You really think I'd laugh at you?" he asked, and for the first time I heard something raw in his voice. Like maybe he knew what that kind of laughter felt like, too.
The knot in my chest loosened, just a fraction. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding.
"Okay," I whispered.
He gave me a crooked smile, one that wasn't perfect or polished, but real. "Besides… that was the best joke I've heard all week."
This time, I laughed too —quiet, a little shaky, but real. And sitting there beside him, with the lake glinting through the trees, it felt like the world had tilted just slightly, in a way I wasn't sure I'd ever forget.
The air between us felt lighter now, like the awkwardness had cracked open into something easier. I glanced sideways, half-daring him to speak, half-hoping he wouldn't.
Then Tommy cleared his throat. "Alright… my turn."
I raised an eyebrow. "Your turn for what?"
"A joke." He grinned, just a little smug. "What do you call a bear with no teeth?"
I rolled my eyes. "I don't know. What?"
"A gummy bear."
He delivered it so straight-faced I couldn't help myself — I snorted. Then clapped a hand over my mouth, horrified. But Tommy's grin widened like I'd just given him the best gift in the world.
"That's awful," I said, shaking my head.
"Yeah, but you laughed," he shot back.
And just like that, we were laughing and talking like old friends. Trading corny jokes, laughing harder than either of us should've.
For a little while, the heaviness that usually sat on my chest lifted, and I forgot about Mum, about Teddy, about the endless list of things waiting for me back at the cottage.
When the sun dipped lower and shadows stretched long across the clearing, Tommy glanced at me, suddenly serious.
"Can I walk you home?" he asked.
My stomach flipped. I sat up straighter, shaking my head so quickly it probably looked ridiculous. "No. Definitely not."
His brows drew together. "Why not?"
"Because," I said firmly, hugging my arms around myself. "I don't need anyone walking me home. I've been doing it on my own for years."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either. The truth was I couldn't risk him seeing where I lived. Couldn't risk the look on his face when he realised the girl he'd been wasting his summer afternoons with wasn't from his world at all.
Tommy hesitated, then nodded slowly, accepting my refusal without pushing. But I caught the flicker of something in his eyes —curiosity, maybe, or something deeper.
"Alright," he said softly. "Then I'll see you here tomorrow."
And for once, tomorrow sounded like a promise I wanted to keep.
Tommy
Dinner at our house wasn't really dinner. It was theatre.
Mother played director, flicking her eyes to Jack's elbows, Alex's slouch, correcting every movement as though we were marionettes on strings. Father presided at the head of the table, carving his steak with military precision, his gaze fixed on me like I was already in the dock.
"Preparing for your O levels?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"You'll pass them all with straight A's?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you've been keeping up with the reading list?"
"Yes, sir."
Always yes, sir. Always law texts, case studies, verdicts — endless words stacked like bricks to build the life he wanted for me: law school, the firm, and eventually, the spotlight he loved so much. I'd never fought it. I'd been the quiet one, the reliable son, the one who didn't make waves. The one who nodded and obeyed.
But lately, every time I opened a book, the pages blurred and Emma's face took over. Emma on the grass, laughing at a joke I had told her. Emma carrying the world like it was stitched into her shoulders. Emma, who made me wonder — for the first time — what I wanted, instead of what Father demanded.
"Tommy."
I blinked, the steak knife in my hand paused mid-cut. Father's eyes drilled into me, sharp and cold. "Are you listening?"
"Yes, sir," I lied, though the tight line of his mouth said he knew better.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Mother sighed dramatically about the trials of raising children, Jack snorted into his napkin, and Alex's wide-eyed stare made it feel like I'd just stepped onto thin ice.
When the plates were cleared, Father vanished into his study. A short while later, the knock came. Two men entered, both in dark suits, shoes shining like mirrors. Mother welcomed them with that polished grace of hers, but I caught the flicker in her eyes — calculating, wary.
The study door shut behind them.
For hours, the low rumble of voices seeped through the oak, too muffled to catch, broken occasionally by sharp words or the scrape of a chair. Jack pressed his ear to the door until Mother yanked him back. Alex whispered questions nobody answered. I sat on the stairs, a book open in my lap, eyes fixed on the page but not reading a word.
When the men finally left, their faces were tight, their handshakes brisk. Father emerged stone-faced, his jaw set like iron, and disappeared upstairs without a glance at us.
Mother smoothed her skirt and turned her practiced smile on me. "Tommy, don't forget — your father is counting on you. You'll make him proud."
But her words slid right past me. All I could think of was the girl on the far side of the lake — and the terrifying, liberating thought that maybe I didn't care about making him proud anymore.