He strums the opening chords, and I finger-pick a melody, the crowd quieting as music blooms around us. His timing is perfect, and despite thetiff we just had, I have to admit we sound good together.
Then I start to sing.
And so does he.
At first, I think he’s just joining in softly, a bit of harmony as we practised. But a few bars in, something feels off. I can’t really hear myself. The monitor mix is weird—lopsided and unbalanced. I angle closer to the mic, trying to project, but my voice stays faint.
Then it hits me.
I can hearhim. Loud and clear. Every word, every note, dominating the stage.
He’s not backing me up. He’s singing lead.
The bastard turned my mic down.
I glance sideways, pulse kicking. He looks completely at ease, smiling into the mic like this was the plan all along. Meanwhile, my voice is barely audible, washed out beneath his.
Anger surges through me. I’ve been demoted to my own backup singer.
Is this what Brandon was trying to warn me about at the barbecue?
As the bridge swells, a spark flares to life inside me, burning so hot that it sears my skin.
I’m done waiting for someone else to lead me, and I’m not going to stand here and wait for a hero to save me, either.
The person I’ve been waiting for all this time…is me.
And finally, I’m here.
It’s not too late.
The last chord rings out. Applause fills the room. Willoughby beams.
“Thanks, everyone—you’ve been amazing!” Willoughby says, gesturing to the bar. “Stay a while, have a drink, support the venue! Don’t forget to like and share our page—and tag us if you’re posting!”
As he moves to the edge of the stage, grinning and saying something to the front row, I step up to his mic.
“Before we finish, I’d just like to say something.” My voice carries through the speakers, bright and clear.
Yeah. His mic is definitely louder.
“What are you doing?” Willoughby hisses as the chatter dies down, the crowd turning their attention back to me.
“I want to thankJackhere,” I continue, glancing his way. I use his first name—not out of spite, but because I’m trying toget through to the man behind the façade. The one who’s actually a decent person when he’s not trying to be someone else. “He’s been a huge part of this set, and of my time in Whitstable.”
Jack looks like he’s just chewed glass. He smiles for the crowd’s sake, but his eyes are worried.
I take a deep breath, half-dreading someone will cut my mic. “The truth is, I’ve been stuck for a long time, both creatively and personally. I came to this town for a change of scenery, hoping to find inspiration. And I did. The sea air, the people, the kindness—it all helped me find my spark again. So, thank you all for coming tonight to hear us play. But most of all, I want to thank Jack here. I owe him a lot for this opportunity.” I glance his way, offering a genuine smile. “Can we give him a round of applause for everything he’s done with this place? The café, the live nights, the community he’s built…”
Applause ripples through the café, and I wait for it to start fading before reaching deep and saying, “You’ve created something really special here, Jack.”
I hope he takes it to heart. He’s already made it.
Applause ripples through the café. Jack laughs awkwardly, giving a small bow, clearly unsure whether I’m praising him or setting him up. Maybe both.
I point over the crowd to the bar. “And a big thank-you to Daisy as well, the owner of Willoughby’s Café, for hosting us tonight.”
Daisy looks around, stunned, as people turn towards her, clapping.
