My jaw tightens.
No. Not again.
I turn away from the mirror and keep going, determined to leave the red dress—but only for me.
Upstairs in my room, I do something I should have done a long time ago. I pull out the old magazine I’d bought at Sydney Airport with Nova on the cover, tie it up in a plastic bag, and drop it in the garbage bin outside.
It’s notherI’m throwing away, but this version that’s tormented him. I don’t want Brandon to ever have to see it again.
***
By the time we get to the café, my nerves are a restless buzz.
Inside, the place is packed. Fairy lights drape across the beams, a pop rhythm pulses from the speakers, and the air hums with anticipation. On another night, I might be excited. But tonight, everything is too loud, too bright, too much.
As we stand at the edge of the stage, Willoughby leans close to my ear. “There she is. White blazer by the bar.”
I follow his gaze. A tall woman with cropped silver hair is scrolling her phone, posture stiff, expression unreadable. Hilary Green. The talent scout. The woman who could change the course of our lives.
“With any luck, she’s about to notice us,” he adds, eyes glinting
Us.
As if it’s only a matter of time before the scout makes it official.
“We’ve just got to smash it tonight,” he continues. “Show her we’re the real deal.”
“You realise I’m leaving tomorrow, right?” I remind him, disguising my concern with playfulness.
“Yeah, of course—the road trip.” He chuckles. “You’ll be back in a week or two. We don’t want to lose our momentum.”
His confidence rankles. I haven’t agreed on a return date, or that I’ll even return to Whitstable. Ellenor and I plan to take it as it comes—follow theHarry Pottertrail, possibly all the way up to Scotland. I’ve told him as much, yet he talks as if we already have future performances locked in.
I let it go.
“Let’s just focus on tonight,” I tell him for the second time this evening.
I catch a flash of blonde hair by the door. My heart lifts.Ellenor.Is Brandon with her?
But when she turns, I realise it isn’t my sister at all, and there’s no sign of Brandon.
Disappointment tugs at me. I check my phone quickly—no messages.
“Good to go?” Willoughby asks.
I nod, and he steps up to the mic, flashing the crowd with his trademark grin as he leans in.
“Evening, folks! How are we all doing?” People cheer. “Give it up for your favourite dynamic duo—Batman and Robin!”
Laughter. I’m afraid to ask which of us is Robin. Though I still think it beatsLilloughby.
If it weren’t for the way things fell apart at the barbecue, I might entertain the idea of forming a band, just to see where it leads. But the memory still makes me queasy: the crack of Brandon’s fist, the stunned silence that followed. He wasn’t wild or reckless—he was controlled, every line of him carved from grief and rage and something heartbreakingly noble. Seeing him like that chilled me—not out of fear but sorrow; I could feel how deeply it cost him.
And I know he didn’t just do it for Nova.
He did it for me too.
I blink, and the café around me blurs, laughter and clinking glasses feeling miles away, everything and everyone slightly out of sync.
