I place a hand on his arm. He honoured my wishes and stepped back, even though he was ready to ruin Jack himself. The truth came out all the same.
“Did you really think no one would find out?” Daisy scolds.
Jack ignores her, stepping closer to me. “What do you say, Lily? I’d love to play with you again, even if it’s just a one-off…”
“No,” I say, stepping past him. “Sorry, Jack.”
It’s the only apology I’m going to hear tonight.
And that’s okay.
I don’t need anything from him.
The small crowd gathered near the stage is waiting, the singer I’m paired with tonight offering me an encouraging nod.
I unzip the guitar case and lift Brandon’s guitar into my arms. It’s notmine, but it feels like a friend.
I take my place at the mic.
“Good evening,” I say, voice steadying as the café lights soften around me. “I’m Lily, and this is Sarah”—I gesture to my duet partner—“and we’re so happy to play for you tonight.”
Brandon’s gaze meets mine from the edge of the room. Steady and proud.
And I understand that no matter what I’ve lost, this was never something anyone could give me—or take away.
I’m still here, making music.
And that feels like a miracle.
49
Have Your Cake
Lily-Anne
It’s Friday morning, winter light slanting pale through Barbara’s kitchen windows, and together we’ve turned the place into a baking war zone.
There’s flour on the tiles, on the counter, on Barbara’s cardigan, as well as a smear of chocolate batter on my cheek that I can feel but can’t see as I swipe at it. My sleeves are rolled to my elbows, my hair is tied messily on top of my head, and I’m wielding a mixing spoon like a weapon—because confidence breeds success, and I really need this to go well.
We are making the cake for Ellenor’snot-quite-a-surprisebirthday party this afternoon—earlier than planned, thanks to Mum’s spontaneous London trip this weekend to catch up with an old friend from nursing school.
Attempting to bake a cake is my way of mending the last fence with Ellenor before we leave on our road trip. I know I hit a soft spot when I criticised her love ofHarry Potter. As for her brattiness, she’s more than made up for it these past few weeks by looking after me while I recover—meals, company, and countless small things she’d never admit were acts of love.
So.
Cake.
Even with Barbara’s help, there are complications. I had no idea tablespoon measurements were different in the UK, or that I’d need to weigh everything in grams instead of cups.
“You’ve never weighed flour before?” she asks incredulously when I stare blankly at the kitchen scales.
“Nope,” I admit. “Ellenor always did the cooking.”
It’s another reason I want to bake my sister a cake. She’ll appreciate thegift more if she knows I suffered.
“See? You did it!” Barbara says to me a couple of hours later, patting my back and sending up little clouds of flour. “It’s perfect!”
“Too perfect,” I mutter, pushing down on the assembled layers to make it more lopsided.
