For all his assurances, I still don’t like anchovies.
We eat in silence, Willoughby scrolling on his phone with greasy fingers.
He’s on his phone a lot, I’m starting to realise.
After several minutes, he looks up. “Just updated socials—hashtag Lilloughby.” He winks.
I can’t tell if he’s joking.
“Shall we run throughHero?” he asks.
I agree, but I leave after only a few run-throughs. It’s late, and I really don’t know why I stayed. Was waiting to feel something, perhaps.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say, fiddling with my bag straps as I head for the door, hoping he won’t try to kiss me again.
How do I tell him this was a flop? That I feel nothing for him?
“It was fun,” he says, joining me on the fire escape. “You know, I have a good feeling about tomorrow night.”
I linger, my hand braced on the railing. I want to tell him right now and get it out of the way:Sorry, but I’m just not interested in you romantically. And I don’t like the name for our ‘duo’. In fact, there is no duo. It’s just oneperformance, so I don’t see the point in having a name at all.
“I’m glad you’re doing this with me,” he says. “Tomorrow night will change our lives.”
Hope shines in his eyes, and I lose my nerve at the last second.
Iwilltell him, but not until after the gig. After all he’s done for me, the least I can do is not make things awkward or rattle his confidence the night before we face the scout.
One more night won’t hurt.
“Well, I should let you go. Catch you at the barbecue.” He flashes that easy smile before the door clicks shut.
I’m left on the dark stairway, the café below eerily still—staff gone, lights off, windows shuttered.
It’s past midnight, far later than I meant to stay out.
A rowdier kind of noise drifts through the streets, laughter and drunken cheers emanating from pubs. It’s not aimed at me, just people still having a night.
When I turn the next corner, however, it all falls away.
A deep silence takes its place, raising all my hairs on end. The streets are dark here, the atmosphere wrong somehow, thick and expectant. The night air closes in, my entire body tense and alert as I pass buildings with blank windows watching me.
My senses prickle. Am I being followed?
I jump when a bottle clatters onto the pavement somewhere behind me. Too late to turn back.
I walk faster, my grip tightening around my phone, palm slick with sweat.
Do I run?
Panic spikes, but I quash it.
No, I’m fine.
A shiver climbs my spine. I cast a quick look over my shoulder, peering frantically past the gig bag slung on my back.
Nothing.
Still, my pace quickens.
