The phone yanked Josie away from her half-hearted dinner. Cooking for herself was rare—morning coffee sufficed, lunch was snatched at a café near work, evenings were just biscuits with tea or a glass of milk. Weekends meant trips to her parents’. Her mother would pack containers of food, refusing them would’ve ignited a war.
Josie was finishing her milk when the insistent ringtone cut through the flat. She’d been meaning to change that grating tune for months—it drilled into her skull like a migraine. An unknown number. Whoever it was, they’d called three times already. She tapped *answer*.
“Hello.” The voice on the other end sent ice down her spine. Years had passed, yet she recognised it instantly. *Hang up*, her mind screamed.
“Please don’t,” the voice rushed, as if sensing her hesitation. “I need to talk to you.”
Silence.
“There’s no one else I can ask. Meet me. Just tell me your address. Please, Josie, it’s important.”
Something was wrong. Lucy wouldn’t call otherwise. Once, they’d been inseparable—laughing, whispering secrets, thinking nothing could break them.
“Fine. I’ll text you,” Josie said flatly, then hung up.
Her pulse thrummed in her throat. Why now? Her fingers shook as she typed. Lucy replied instantly: *On my way.*
Josie returned to the kitchen, scrubbed the glass clean, sat stiffly at the table.
For years, she’d buried memories of Lucy, convinced she’d moved on. But that call ripped open old wounds, flooding her with scenes she’d locked away.
***
Her mother adored *Summer of ‘76*. The film had survived decades, its story timeless. Josie had been named after the lead character—an irony she resented. Unlike the stunning actress, Josie was plain—mousy blonde hair, small grey eyes, a figure she loathed.
“Still growing,” her mother would say, but time proved her wrong.
Then there was Lucy—tall, effortless, drawing eyes with every step.
Every summer, Josie was shipped off to her gran’s cottage in the countryside. Back then, only four houses remained occupied in winter—Gran, old Mrs. Hargreaves next door, and two elderly couples. Mrs. Hargreaves’ grandson, Daniel, was Josie’s summer companion.
Until one year, everything changed.
She saw him—not as the scrawny boy she’d played with, but as a proper teenager, tall and broad-shouldered. Suddenly, she hesitated to race into his arms like before. Daniel, oblivious, grinned, tugged her toward the river.
They chatted the whole way. But when the time came to swim, Josie froze. Waited until he was waist-deep before yanking her dress off, sprinting into the water—anything to hide the body she despised.
At summer’s end, they parted without exchanging numbers. Somehow, it never occurred to them. As if their lives belonged to separate worlds.
The summer before sixth form, Daniel didn’t come. Mrs. Hargreaves said he’d gone abroad with his mother. Bored and lonely, Josie texted Lucy, inviting her down.
Lucy arrived, wide-eyed at the countryside.
Then, two weeks later, Daniel appeared. Taller, broader, unfairly handsome.
Josie regretted inviting Lucy instantly.
The moment Lucy saw him, she lit up.
Late that night, Lucy whispered, *”Did you ever kiss him?”*
Josie scoffed. *”We grew up together. It’s not like that.”*
A lie she’d soon regret.
Suddenly, Josie was the third wheel. The days dragged until she was relieved to return to the city, to school, to forget.
Daniel faded from her thoughts. Lucy remained her friend, but university pulled them apart—different cities, different lives. Then came the wedding invitation.
*”Married? At nineteen?”*
Lucy just laughed. *”Mum can hardly complain—she’ll be a grandmother soon enough.”*
New Year’s Eve, the wedding. Josie’s lungs seized when she opened her door to Daniel. She wanted to vanish, to wake from this nightmare. But she was the maid of honour. She couldn’t run.
In every photo, Josie looked hollow. She left halfway through.
Lucy never apologised. She’d had a son, calls dwindled, and their friendship dissolved. Josie forbade herself from thinking of either of them.
Yet no man ever measured up to Daniel.
***
How long had it been? Ten years? Her mother mentioned Mrs. Hargreaves’ death, the cottage sold.
And now this call.
Josie opened the door and barely stifled a gasp.
The woman before her bore no resemblance to the dazzling Lucy she’d known. Sunken cheeks, drained eyes, a faded ghost of herself.
“You look the same,” Lucy said, stepping inside. Voice steady, brittle. “I’m dying.”
Josie’s breath caught.
“Cancer,” Lucy continued, matter-of-fact. “I won’t survive the surgery. Look after my son when I’m gone.”
Josie’s protest died in her throat.
“Please. Daniel won’t cope alone.”
“But I—I don’t know how—”
Lucy cut her off. “Don’t pity me. Just promise.”
And then she left, untouched tea cooling on the table.
***
A week passed. No calls.
Then Daniel rang.
Lucy was gone.
The flat reeked of grief when Josie arrived. Daniel sat motionless, hollow-eyed. His son, Alex, curled on the floor, TV blaring.
Josie stayed, cleaned, cooked. Daniel drank. Night after night, she dragged him from stupors.
Six months blurred. Then Alex told her his father had a new girlfriend.
*”She’s awful. I wish it were you.”*
Josie’s chest tightened. *”Your dad and I are just friends, love.”*
Alex started escaping to her place. His father didn’t notice.
Spring came. Josie took Alex to her parents’ countryside home. Their new neighbour, William—a quiet, sturdy man—joined them for a barbecue.
Alex whispered, *”He likes you.”*
She laughed it off.
But when William proposed, she said yes.
A year later, Daniel died—cheap vodka, a bad batch.
Josie buried him beside Lucy.
The anger, the hurt—it faded.
She was even grateful.
Without Lucy, she’d never have met William. Without the heartache, she’d never have opened her door to this life.
Alex stayed with them.
And finally, Josie stopped comparing every man to Daniel.
