Wow. I thought the whole nephew-of-a-legend thing was just part of the café’s schtick. But here? In his private space?
The living room’s been half-converted into a rehearsal space, cords and speakers crowding the couch.
“Drink?” he offers, glancing at his phone while opening the fridge. “I have water or beer.”
I accept a glass of tap water and settle on the couch. He perches on a speaker with his guitar, a beer sweating onto the floorboards.
We run through the set without amps to avoid disturbing the patrons downstairs. I’m pleasantly surprised by how many of my songs he’s included in the set. The rest are mostly Dustin’s, but I convinced him to add a couple of modern pop ballads to keep things fresh.
He clings to his uncle’s legacy a little too tightly. It’s as if he’s trying to prove he inherited that same magic.
There’s no denying his talent. He’s a gifted singer and guitarist, with an instinct for songwriting too. He helped me rework the song I was stuck on, changing the key to lift it out of its melancholy.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He’s loose, playful, swaying slightly as he sings. His voice is clear and earnest, with a touch of rawness that sounds almost confessional, like a James Blunt song.
I like the way he lets the music take him. Even when he misses a chord, he rolls through it with a smooth chuckle.
Considering how much tomorrow night means to him, especially with the scout coming, I admire his calm.
“Don’t worry—it adds flavour to the sound.” He grins when I stumbleon a new line we just added.
“Thanks,” I say appreciatively. “It’s nice playing like this. Not taking it too seriously.”
He tenses. “Itake it seriously.”
“Oh, of course. So do I. I just meant, I’m glad we’re not perfectionists.”
“Aha.” He nods, but I can tell my comment bothers him.
I regret saying anything. It would have made more sense if he knew about Toby, and how suffocating that was for me. But my life has barely come up in conversation, and I’m glad. I can pretend to be a happier version of myself.
Willoughby dodged my questions about his family. I found out from Daisy that his parents live in London, and that he left home to tour with his uncle the moment he came of age. I wish he’d told me himself, but I guess he tries not to dwell on the past.
It’s one of the things that drew me to him. He’s easy to be around—the life of the party without even trying. Plus, he’s undeniably attractive…which only makes me more confused.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel butterflies. No spark. No thrill.
Shouldn’t I feelsomething?
We haven’t talked about what this is, if it even is anything. And with me leaving Whitstable on Sunday, it feels like a song that will fade out before it’s even begun.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Shall we sneak one more song into the set?”
“Yes!” I say, then I falter.
There’s still that song Brandon suggested I play solo. I’ve been meaning to ask Willoughby, but I’m not sure it’s a reasonable request. After all, we’re supposed to be sharing the stage.
“Hold that thought,” he says when I go to speak. “I’m starving. Fancy a pizza?”
I glance at my phone and startle. “Oh my gosh. It’s nearly eleven!”
We haven’t even had dinner.
He laughs. “We may as well keep this party going.”
“Actually, I’d better go. I have to get up early. Ellenor and I are packing tomorrow.”
“Brandon kicking you out of the cottage already?”
