He cuts the engine.
Neither of us moves.
“Thanks again for coming to get me,” I say.
He nods, still looking straight ahead.
As I reach to undo my seatbelt, he speaks.
“Lily-Anne, I know you’re leaving soon, but…”
I freeze. “Yes?” I hate how hopeful I sound.
He turns to me, his eyes dark and impenetrable in the dim light. “No matter where you are, no matter the reason…if you’re ever in trouble, you can call me. Alright?”
I hold my breath, a shiver blooming under my skin. His solemn, unwavering timbre makes me feel safer than I have all night. I nod, barely trusting my own voice as I whisper, “Okay.”
30
Smoke and Mirrors
Brandon
A thin ribbon of smoke curls lazily from the patio grill, stinging my eyes as I peer through it. Lily-Anne’s in the chaos Rupert and Barbara call a garden—statues, fruit trees, and abandoned projects everywhere—laughing at something Jack says. She’s wearing her red dress, and she looks beautiful, though I’d think that no matter what she was wearing.
He’s beside her in a silky, open-necked shirt patterned with florals that should be tacky, but somehow he makes it look expensive.
I prod the sizzling oyster shells with tongs, checking if they’re open yet, but it’s hardly been a minute.
I steal another glance at Lily, then I check the toppings. Mignonette Sauce. Chilli butter with lime. Bacon and Worcestershire.
It’s not Jeremy’s recipe. I’m too distracted, and that particular ritual deserves better than a divided mind. It’s something to be done with care, with attention—reserved for remembering him.
Not watching Jack Willoughby from the corner of my eye.
Another minute passes. They’re over by the new frogspawn pond that’s formed between a gargoyle statue and a rusty car shell Rupert still fancies he’ll fix one day.
I force myself to look away. Condensation slides down my beer bottle. I focus on that too. Anything but her. Or the way Jack’s hand brushes her shoulder as they crouch down to see the tadpoles.
My chest aches every time I remember she’s leaving tomorrow.
Beside me, Rupert chuckles, the hinges of his wheelchair creaking as he leans to fish a beer from the cooler strapped to the side.
“You’re pining, Brandon.”
I prod an oyster that doesn’t need prodding. “I am not.”
“You are too.”
“I assure you, I’m not.”
“As a wise three-year-old once said to me—you are, you are, you are.” The cap hisses as he cracks his beer open.
“It’s impossible to argue when you speak with such eloquence.”
“You can be as eloquent as you like, as long as you don’t forget to open your gob.” He sits a little straighter, not-so-tactfully watching Lily-Anne and Jack explore his garden. After a moment, he sighs heavily. “Oh dear…How’d you let this happen, old boy?”
I silently shake my head. I no longer know.
