She dips a spoon and tastes. Considers.
“It tastes like vinegar.”
As it should.
“A little sweet. It’s good,” she adds, meeting my eyes. “Thanks for rescuing me.”
My heart stumbles.
I nod, because if she ever needed rescuing, I want to be chosen for thatrole.
“Lunch!” Barbara calls from the house. “I hope you aren’t burning those oysters, Brandon!”
Not quite.
Lily-Anne steps back, already turning toward the door. “See you inside.”
As if we’re parting ways. I watch her go, pulse still racing.
Lunch is…fine on the surface.
The oysters are tender, Ellenor and Barbara’s salads are rich with colour, and everyone except me is in excellent spirits.
Rupert makes a show of seating me beside Ellenor, his matchmaking intentions about as subtle as a foghorn. He peppers us with knowing remarks that Ellenor finds hilarious. I’m too weary to bother deflecting any of it.
Jack, of course, is in his element. He laughs, he charms, he fills every silence with stories. He compliments Barbara’s cooking, praises Rupert’s garden, and even asks me about the oyster farm as if we’re the oldest of friends.
I’m tempted to call him out on it, but it would only sour the mood, and I want Lily-Anne’s last evening to be a pleasant one. Whatever Jack’s faults, she invited him as her guest; I can hardly exile him for being irritating.
Fortunately for me, he doesn’t linger long on me before embarking on a glorious retelling of how he came to be a café owner.
Beside him, Lily-Anne is quiet—not out of shyness, but because he leaves no space for her. I miss her voice.
Across the table, our eyes meet. My pulse falters, the current of awareness flaring sharp, as though something unspoken is urging me into motion. I smile politely before looking away.
This game of avoidance is exhausting. It’s agony to sit here trading pleasantries, pretending my chest isn’t threatening to split in two at the knowledge she’s leaving.
This time tomorrow, she’ll be gone, and every breath feels like a thread pulling loose. I can’t reach for her without unravelling everything. Willoughby can give her everything she came to Whitstable for and more. He’s someone she can share the stage with; someone still chasing that dream. What can I offer besides a promise to support her from the sidelines?
“You’re not eating, Brandon?” Barbara asks.
I smile and fork some salad into my mouth, forcing myself to chew. When she gives a satisfied nod and shifts her attention elsewhere, I reach for the wine.
It’s torture knowing every second I have left with Lily-Anne is precious, yet each one is squandered listening to Jack trying to delight us.
I curse myself for getting into this predicament. My dress shirt suddenly feels too tight, sleeves clinging, collar biting at my throat, like I’ve buttoned myself into civility.
Every instinct in me wants to leave, or to reach for her, or to disappear entirely. But that wouldn’t be gentlemanly.
So, I sit. I smile. And I wait for lunch to end.
By dessert, Rupert’s idea of fun has evolved into bullying me for entertainment.
“Come on, Brandon. Give us a song.”
Barbara claps. “Oh yes, you must! Lily can play too.”
“That’s right! We were promised a duet, weren’t we, Barb?”
