As if reading my thoughts, he reaches across the table, his hand brushing mine. “You could always come back after your road trip.”
I stare at our hands, skin prickling. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if Brandon kicks you out, you can always stay with me.”
I frown and look up. “He won’t kick me out.”
“Maybe not. But you’ll be genuinely welcome at mine.”
Then he goes back to his food, leaving my pulse skittering as I try to process his meaning. Am I overstaying my welcome at Brandon’s? And is Willoughby actually asking me to move in with him? To live in his flatabove the café?
It’s absurd. We haven’t even been on a date. And yet I don’t think he means it as roommates.
His words echo as I walk home.You’re the real thing, Lily.They pull me along like a current I’m not sure I want to escape.
***
The weekend before my gig flies by. I don’t get nearly as much practice in as I promised myself I would; Ellenor has assigned me ‘homework’ to reread theHarry Potterbooks before our road trip.
“At least the first five,” she insisted. “Goblet of Fireat the bare minimum, or I’m not taking you with me.”
She’s even dragged Brandon into reading them. I thought he was immune to her persuasion, but he joins me in the garden on Sunday afternoon, book in hand, and offers to read a chapter.
I agree before thinking it through. His voice is smooth and deep, with a calm authority that shivers my skin. I shift on the grass, feigning comfort, but every syllable rumbles straight through me.
I try to think of Willoughby instead, to remind myself he’s the one who’s actually available. The one who flirts with me. Not that I’m looking to date anyone. But if he asked, I think I’d say yes. I should at least consider it.
He’s so different from Brandon, whose caution to slow down feels like a cold shower.
Willoughby wants me to go for things, andafter three years of paralysis, his energy feels like life itself.
Someone like Jack is exactly what I need.
Still, the longer Brandon reads, the less I think of Willoughby. My focus drifts from the story to the sound of his voice, and to the quiet, maddening warmth it stirs.
***
It’s Monday night and I’m a bundle of nerves as I get ready for the gig. Instead of squeezing in some last-minute practice like I planned, I’msubjected to Ellenor’s fussing. What started as me asking for her opinion has turned into a full-blown fashion tribunal.
“The red dress is perfect,” she decrees from the sofa bed, “but you can’t wear sneakers.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so. And ten points from Ravenclaw for arguing.”
I cross my arms. “Oh, sonowyou accept I’m a Ravenclaw? You wouldn’t deduct points if I were in Slytherin.”
“Just so. But hey, it’s not too late to jump ship.”
I sigh. “These are the only shoes I have.”
“What happened to the ballet flats I packed you?”
“They’re uncomfortable.”
“So?”
I throw my hands up. “Ellenor, I don’t have the brain power to debate shoes with you right now.”
