“Oh my God,” I muttered under my breath, unable to hide the scowl on my face.

Gracie's lungs may have been small, but how the hell could she generate such noise? I was holding her at an arm’s length from my body, and she was squirming in my hands.

“Shhh,” I hissed, not sure how to make her stop.

I creased my brows and clenched my teeth together. What the hell was Lola thinking by forcing me into this kind of situation? Landon would probably say I was overreacting, but that was only because he was a father. He knew what handling kids was like. I didn’t. And had no intention of learning.

It seemed Gracie didn’t like being held this way, so with a pinched face, I slowly brought her closer to my body until her head was close enough for me to see that she wasn’t bald but had a few fine blonde hairs. I had no choice but to hold her to my body, my hands awkwardly manoeuvring her. She stopped her screaming and whimpered instead. Looking down at her, I stiffened when I saw she was staring back at me. I really hated it when children stared at me. Melody, Landon’s kid, did that too. They all did.

To my horror, Gracie raised a chubby hand towards my face, and I craned my head back to avoid her slobbery touch. She was drooling now, and one drop was about to land on my hand.

“Oh God,” I whispered to myself.

Finally Lola returned, a napkin over her shoulder and holding a brightly coloured bowl of steaming baby food.

“Oh, you’re so good with her,” Lola cooed, watching us with a smile instead of taking her child back.

I made it easier for her and practically pushed Gracie back into her arms, before opening the front door.

“Thank you, Phoenix!” Lola called after me.

I raised a hand back without turning to look at her. Once I was off her driveway and back on the street, I started running. This time, I skipped the warm-up of a gentle jog and broke into my normal running pace. In fact, I was going a little faster than usual, but I couldn’t blame myself. After that horrible ordeal, I needed to run more than ever.

I hadn’t made a familiarised route yet. I normally ran until I was out of the general neighbourhood, then sometimes I went to a nearby park and ran around the grounds. Other times, I jogged through the town centre, but I didn’t like that much. Too many cars, too many people. It had been like that in London too, but since moving to Dover, I realised I liked the quiet more than I thought I would. This time, I found myself running towards the beach. It wasn’t too far from our home. A thirty-minute walk, or a less than ten-minute drive. I didn’t time how fast I ran, but I made it there quicker than I thought.

I ran along the seafront, lines of shops and restaurants across the road to my left, and a sandy beach and blue-grey sea past the barrier to my right. In the distance, I could see the white cliffs that made Dover so ‘picturesque’.

It was busy. The place was also a tourist destination in the summer. Not to mention, Dover was so close to France that it was a common route of travel to and from mainland Europe, for both business and leisure.

I didn’t descend the steps to the beach, but stayed on the wide path by the road, dodging hand-holding couples, dog walkers, and parents pushing their buggies. Groups of teens hung around together, eating chips and throwing some to the flocks of seagulls who were always causing a nuisance.

I did a loop along the seafront and then made my way back home, trying not to get lost. I hadn’t come this way on foot before, after all. By the time I arrived in familiar surroundings, my chest was tight and my legs burned. My t-shirt stuck to my body underneath my hoodie and sweat ran down my temples, dripping off my jaw.

Slowing down to a walk, I avoided looking at the Leightons’ house in case Mrs Leighton – Lola – was out there again. Walking up my own driveway, it was still hard to believe that I lived here now. That this was my new normal. A standard house, on a standard street. Number 22 plastered on the front door.

As soon as I walked inside, I knew we had a visitor. Blinking once, hard, I headed to the kitchen to see who was round.

Maisie was sat at the dining table as if she lived here with us, and the sight made me think back to Coral in the beginning, except Coral had been meek and Maisie was not so shy. She was leaning back in her chair, a baggy patchwork looking t-shirt hung off her frame, probably something she’d stitched herself by the look of it. I could just make out the same style of baggy trousers she was wearing, this time green and tie-dyed. She could have told me she was a street urchin, and I would have believed her.

“Hey, Phoenix,” Coral looked up and saw me standing in the doorway.

I nodded in response, my eyes moving straight back to Maisie.

“Hi,” she smiled and waved, then pointed at me. “Must be maftin’ out there!”

I frowned at her.

“Maftin’?” Coral repeated.

“Oh,” Maisie smiled as she realised we didn’t understand her Northern slang. “Maftin’ means really hot.”

It wasn’t that hot, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain that I’d been running. It was quite obvious.

It seemed to be a full house on first glance. Only a few of the boys weren’t present. Along with Maisie and Coral, were Gomez, Giovanni, Walter and even Eli. I arched a brow at seeing Eli out of his room, but by the scowl on his face, he was only after food and not looking to be roped into the conversation the girls were mostly having.