"I'm sorry, Amy, for all the terrible things I said to you that day." I squirm in my seat, wallowing in guilt. Last time, when we met with a one-sided hard feeling, I had been dressed like a spoiled, rotten rich girl, superior to others. But today I'm wearing a simple cotton top, shorts and sandals. The only jewellery I sport is a pair of small diamond studs.

Amy smiles understandingly. "There's nothing to forgive. I would have reacted the same way if I was in your shoes."

"But dear God, Amy, why didn't you tell me that you and Peter are cousins?"

"Well, I couldn't because you kept-"

"No, no," I interrupt, "I meant back in high school."

"Oh." She frowns. "Well, you didn't like Peter back then and if I told you that I was related to him, I was afraid that you'd hate me."
"I could never have hated you, Amy." I reach over and grasp her hand. "You were my best friend."

Tears well up in her green eyes, making them sparkle like gems. "And you were mine."

For a while, neither of us speak, gripping onto each other's hands in the comfortable silence.

"MJ?" Amy looks up at me. "I'm glad we spoke it out."

"Yeah." I agree. "Me too."

***

"Why don't you sit at the head of the table, Peter?" Isabelle suggests, handing me the ketchup.

Peter and I exchange surprised looks. The head of the table had always been John's spot and therefore since his death, the high back seat had been left empty.

"Oh don't look like that, you two." Isabelle laughs, seeing our expressions. "I've decided to make things as normal as possible around here, and normal doesn't mean for the head seat to be left dusty and unused."

"Umm," Peter says, bewildered. "Why don't you sit there, mom?"

Her face clouds over slightly before she lets out another breathless laughter. "Oh, Peter, I couldn't! You, with the blood of Parker, should be there."

This leaves him speechless. I smother a smirk as he stands up slowly, picking up his plate, and moving to the unoccupied chair at the front. I don't think he can help himself as a look of pride spreads across his flushed face.

"How does it feel?" Isabelle asks. "Feel any different?"

Peter grins. "Great. It feels really great."

Isabelle chortles again. And I think she's finally flying again. A hopeless bird, lost and hurt on the ground, spreading its wings and finding its way to life.

***

"Oh god." I whisper, my eyes widening. I shut them and open them, unable to believe what I'm seeing.

It's morning and we've just woken, dressed and scrambled downstairs to find Isabelle gone. Not even in her room. Both of us tried ringing her through our phones, but she didn't answer. No matter how many times we called. We searched for her everywhere in the house. Our last instinct was the backyard.

And there they are. They. Not her. Isabelle and a man who is certainly not John because John is dead! Their backs are to us and their hands are wrapped around each other so tightly that it's hard to tell whose hand is whose, as they stare up at the sky.

"Oh god." I say again, covering my mouth with one hand. I turn to Peter who is unmoving and stony faced as he watches his mother and the man. "Peter, oh god."

"This is so dealt with." He growls, breathing heavily. The tips of his ears turn a light shade of purple as it does when he's angry.

"Peter, what are you doing?" I gasp as he slides open the glass door that gives out a loud, clear bang. "Peter!" I shriek. Isabelle and the man have turned around, their mouths agape.

"Peter." All colour on Isabelle's cheeks fade. "Why, Peter.."

"What the fuck is this?" It's clear that Peter has never spoken to his mother like this before as hurt tears brims up in her eyes. "Who is this?" He gestures rudely at the man who's shrinking back slightly. What a coward, I think.

"This is not what you think it is, Peter." Isabelle cries desperately and unconvincingly.

"That's what they all say." Peter scoffs.

"Peter..." She's at loss for an excuse.

"Dad died less than five months ago and you practically went into depression and then I catch you with this guy?" He trembles with fury, fists donned at his sides.

"Please, Peter," Isabelle begs. "You don't know anything."

"I know plenty enough! You're just a common cheating slut."

I gasp and so does the man.

"You did not just-"

"Call you a slut. I called you a cheating slut."

"Peter," I say nervously, hurrying to his side. "Calm down."

"No I will not." He spits through clenched teeth. He glares lethally at Isabelle. "How long has this been going on?"

She gulps, staring down at the ground. Her face is ashamed and embarrassed. "Seven months."

For a moment, Peter only stares. Then he turns to the guy. "You little shit!" He screams before lunging and grappling the man to the ground.

"Peter!" I yell, trying to pull him off. But he only shakes off my grip, punching the man over and over again. I wince as crimson blood pours out of the stranger's nose.

"I'm sorry!" Isabelle sobs, covering her face. "I'm so sorry!"

I fight the urge of comforting her. She doesn't deserve comfort from what I see. She doesn't feel remorse for having an affair. She feels remorse, she regrets being caught in the act. She glances over at me. I profusely don't meet her eyes, instead staring down at the fight.

"Stop!" She shrieks at the men. "Stop it!"

"How," I say to her quietly. "How could you suspect Peter that time in the New Years when you were actually doing it?"

She doesn't reply.

So shaking my head in a disapproving manner I add, "were you even grieving when John died?"

Let guilt overwhelm me later for saying this, but as in right now, I don't regret it.