“Brandon, hi!” I call as I approach.
His eyes meet mine, dark brown and gentle, and something inside me jolts.
He doesn’t mirror my enthusiasm, though he offers a tentative smile.
“Lily-Anne—welcome,” he greets, my name softened by his calm British lilt.
God. His voice.
I forget how to breathe.
I wait for him to say something more.
When he doesn’t, something in my chest dips. I’m suddenly aware I expected him to carry this moment—and he isn’t.
I fumble for words. “You have a sign.”
He glances down, as if remembering he has it.
“Yes. Your mother insisted,” he explains dryly, tucking it under his arm.
“Oh. Well, I would have recognised you anyway.”
I remember too late that he never sent me any photos of himself. Heat flares in my cheeks as I realise I’ve just admitted to looking him up online.
He blinks, clearly drawing the same conclusion, but he has the grace not to comment.
“How was your flight? Or flights?”
“Great,” I say quickly, relieved to seize the change in topic. “Tiring.” I push my hands into my cardigan pockets, finally remembering my manners. “Thank you so much for coming to get me.” My voice is embarrassingly breathy as I add, “It’s…good to finally meet you.”
“Likewise.”
For a few impossible seconds, we just…stand there, looking at each other, the crowd swelling around us. I’m grateful he’s not rushing, like he knows I need a moment to breathe before being whisked off to some far side of the country.
He gestures to the guitar case by my side. “Is that the Cole Clark?”
I freeze. “How do you know?”
I’m sure he didn’t Googleme. I’m not on social media.
“Your father mentioned you chose it together. Quite a few years back. He said you play it beautifully. He seemed proud.”
Something catches in my throat. That word,proud, burns in my chest. I look down at the case, unable to meet Brandon’s eyes.
“It was a birthday gift—my sixteenth,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “It was my principal instrument at uni.”
“A faithful companion.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more. My chest aches with gratitude. Like Brandon’s just handed me a memory of Dad. Something small but precious.
He glances at the case again, then at me. “Have you been able to play it?Since you wrote your email?”
“I haven’t even tried.” It stings to admit I’ve made no progress since I first reached out to him a couple of weeks ago. “I mean, I’vetried—but every time I think about taking out my guitar, I just…”
“Feel nauseous?” he asks.
“Yes.I know it’s ridiculous. I just feel a bit stuck. Creatively.” I blow out a breath. “I want to write music, the way I used to. But now I can’t even play.”
