Desperately…
And quite maddeningly…
26
In Love
Brandon
The first thing I hear is laughter from the kitchen, deep and masculine, the intruder far too comfortable in my home.
My happy fog evaporates.
I shut the door quietly, but it’s too late. Ellenor’s already in the hallway, devoid of her usual bite as she hurries towards me, eyes wide with alarm.
“Brandon,” she breathes, lips moving as though she means to explain. But no more words come.
And none are needed.
Something in her face has already confirmed it. That and the smooth, theatrical cadence carrying from the kitchen.
I brush past her, each step detached as my body drifts, my thoughts lagging a beat behind. The hallway stretches unnaturally long, my vision tunnelling.
The kitchen comes into view, and there she is.
Lily-Anne, her head thrown back in laughter, radiant and unaware. She’s wearing the red dress again—the same one from our first night out in Whitstable—except now she’s wearing it for someone else. The lace hem sways when she moves, the satin wrap she’s wearing over the top slipping down her shoulders. She looks effortless. Happy.
But her smile isn’t for me. Her attention is fixed on Jack Willoughby, who stands close to her, grinning as he pours milk into a cup of coffee with practised ease, multiple hearts blooming in the latte’s foam to create one graceful tulip.
The bastard is in my home, using my espresso machine, and she’s watching him with awe like he’s performing magic.
Worse, the hearts aren’t just white foam on a backdrop of coffee brown.The swirls are a colourful rainbow, just like the one Lily-Anne sent to my phone before she boarded her flight from Sydney. I’d forgotten all about it until now.
Tiny bottles of food dye sit unapologetically on the counter, droplets scattered.
Something twists in me, sharp and small, as I watch Jack present Lily-Anne with the cup. I’ve lost track of how many coffees I’ve made her, some plain, others with the standard fern any barista worth their salt could do on autopilot. I was always too distracted by her presence to consider something more impressive.
So many lost chances to make something special.
“Hold still—you’ve got a bit of foam on your face,” Jack says to Lily-Anne with a crooked smile.
“Really? Where?” she asks, patting her face.
“Hold still.” He leans in, thumb poised as if to wipe it away—then dabs a streak of foam onto her nose instead.
She lets out a startled laugh, swatting at him. “Willoughby, stop it!” she hisses.
He grins wider, clearly pleased with himself.
The sight slices clean through me.
I should retreat. Or make my presence known.
But I wait a little longer, choosing silence over spectacle as I hold my ground, watching the scene from the doorway. Something heavy sinks through me, as slow and cold as the tide.
There’s a light touch on my shoulder. Ellenor. Her expression flickers between pity and discomfort, as though she’s not sure what to say.
The espresso machine whirs loudly beneath Jack’s touch, masking my voice as I ask, “Are they dating?”
