Our riverboat ride through Canterbury was my favourite. The water slid beneath King’s Bridge, carrying us past medieval timbered buildings with names that sounded like stories, such as The Old Weavers’ House and The Alchemist’s Tower. Brandon’s low voice carried over the water as he pointed things out, and it almost felt romantic—apart from Ellenor’s quips as she tried to boss everyone around, even calling out directions to the punters to ‘follow the ducks’. Unlike Brandon, who’s always tolerant and unperturbed by her antics, Sean wasn’t having any of it. He and Ellenor bickered the entire way, and I couldn’t tell which of them enjoyed the river tour less.
“It was a mistake to invite him,” Ellenor declared when we got home.
Given he’d brought out the worst of her debating instincts, I silently agreed.
It turns out even Brandon’s patience has its limits. Ellenor’s practically taken over the cottage—commandeering the kitchen for her elaborate meals and rearranging furniture to her liking. Brandon’s borne it all with quiet good humour, including the couch now facing the TV, but he drew the line when she tried to ‘improve’ his espresso machine by sticking a Hogwarts crest on it.House pride,she called it. He muttered something about blasphemy and peeled it off within the hour.
Ellenor was always intense, but theHarry Potterreferences are starting to get a bit much, even for her. I’ve done my best to keep an eye on her as Mum asked, but it’s a lost cause; she slips out most mornings without a word.
When I asked her about it, she shook her head with a mysterious little smile. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Lily. That’s Hogwarts business. Very secret.”
Which told me everything I needed to know: she’s met someone. And I’m dying to know who.
She’s always been private about her love life, even when we were teenagers, from the ‘internet boyfriend’ she had when she was twelve to the secret engagement that lasted three months before my family found out about it.
I’ve quickly grown used to her chaotic presence in the cottage. With her gone and Brandon at work, it’s too quiet. Whenever I’m not practising, the air rings with silence.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time at the café. It’s become a kind ofcreative refuge. Willoughby loves when people drop in to hang out, play, and talk music. The scent of coffee, the low hum of chatter, and the faint buzz of the amp all feel alive in a way I didn’t know I was longing for. Like a dream I’ve stepped into and don’t want to leave.
“Wow. You’re properly talented, Lil.” Willoughby has said this on more than one occasion.
I always laugh it off, but his compliments stay with me. My relationship with Toby starved me of praise, and I find myself soaking it up. Jack believes in my music without hesitation or caution. Maybe that’s what I’ve been needing all along.
And he’s so easy-going. When I asked to push the gig back a couple of weeks to give myself more time, he cheerfully agreed. Toby would have sulked and made sure I knew I was inconveniencing him.
I find myself looking forward to our practice sessions, to the spark in his eyes when I play something new, and the warmth in his voice when he tells me it’s good. It’s flattering, and more than that, it’s addictive.
The excitement fades a little when I’m back at the cottage, and I’m not sure it’s a bad thing. I feel more grounded there. A few days before the gig, Brandon offers to run through a few songs with me. “If you like, I could play rhythm while you practise. It’s been a while since I picked up my guitar.”
I agree, curious.
I’m pleased to finally see him bring out his electric guitar, even if I’m surprised when he returns to the patio with a plain black Stratocaster. I’d built his guitar up in my head as something extreme, like a BC Rich Warlock, the body wicked and weapon-like.
He laughs when I tell him so.
“The Strat does the job. Ready?” he asks simply, sitting across from me on the patio.
I nod, watching him play in fascination. Where Willoughby’s practice sessions buzz with excited energy —a joke to fill every pause, a phone checked between songs—Brandon’s understated playing catches me off-guard. His focus is serious, every movement intentional and precise, yet I feel completely at ease as I sit with him on the patio. And when I finally feel ready to join in, the world around me fades, and I’m lost to our music for a while.
Except when I’m not. Except when—against my better judgement—I catch myself watching him from the corner of my eye. My throat goes dry as I watch his hands glide over the fretboard in smooth, expert slides, and air suddenly becomes scarce. I stop thinking about the guitar altogether and I just sit there, my skin faintly alive with awareness, relying on muscle memory to play as I imagine—just for a moment—how those long fingers might feel against my skin, light and deliberate.
I swallow hard and pull my focus back to the music.
Unlike rehearsing with Willoughby, there’s no anticipation of performing on stage or talk ofmaking itsomeday. Instead, Brandon plays without flourish—just steady, thoughtful chords that seem to breathe with the rhythm of the room.
Still, a small, impatient part of me longs for the pulse of the café, the feeling of movement; of something about to happen. Something’s shifted between Willoughby and me. His chair drags closer when we play, his thigh warming mine as he leans in to show me a chord I already know, his smile a little too knowing to be innocent.
I know he’s flirting, and it feels surprisingly good to be wanted again. Like over lunch one afternoon, when he twirls spaghetti around his fork, his tone uncharacteristically soft as he speaks. “You know, I’ll miss you when you go on thatHarry Pottertrip, Lil. Why don’t you stay and keep playing with us?”
I laugh as he pouts. “Whitstable will get sick of me.”
“Rubbish! You’re the real thing, Lily,” he says earnestly. “People will hear it.”
The words hit hard. I want to believe them. I do.
He stills, fork poised. “It’s a shame I can’t leave the café. I’d love to come on that road trip with you.”
He says it like I’ve invited him. But I haven’t.
