Lily-Anne
Ellenor barks like a drill sergeant through the door. “OKAY, LOVEBIRDS, THAT’S ENOUGH HOKEY-POKEY. FIELD TRIP STARTS NOW. MOVE IT OUT, DOUBLE TIME!”
Brandon groans, letting his head thunk against the shower door one more time before he leans forward to embrace me. He buries his face in my hair and inhales, his hands lingering at my waist.
“We really have to go,” I whisper, though I don’t move either.
“I know.” He exhales slowly, then he releases me, turning to the sink. Cold water splashes over his face and down his neck as he braces himself against the vanity, droplets clinging to his jaw.
“Give me a minute,” he says, voice still rough. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I slip out, my legs still unsteady, my cheeks warm.
I find the others already gathering their things in controlled chaos.
If I hoped for subtlety from Ellenor, I was delusional. She clocks me at once, her lips curling.
“You’re limping.”
“My foot’s half-broken,” I reply hotly.
“Seemed fine earlier. If I didn’t know any better, you two have been at it like rabbits since day one.”
I blow out a breath that lifts the hair from my face, my lower lip jutting out as I mutter, “I wish.”
Brandon joins us outside, neat and orderly, but his composure is betrayed when he remembers his guitar and dashes back inside. I hurry to help him, and then we’re carpooling in Rupert and Barbara’s car with Mum, while Ellenor sits behind Sean on the motorbike yelling, “MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” at us like we’re leaping into a troop carrier.
The pub is busy, but we manage to claim a table near the back. A server brings our drinks—a pint for Rupert, wine for the rest of us. I find myself watching Brandon across the room instead of joining the conversation. He’s on stage with the other musicians, gesturing casually as they huddle around sheet music and instruments.
Admiration stirs. For all his protests about not wanting to perform, he fits seamlessly among them. They lean in when he speaks, nodding with what looks like genuine respect—maybe even a touch of awe.
There’s an ease to him up there, a quiet authority I’ve seen glimpses of but never like this. He belongs on that stage, whether he admits it or not.
I almost laugh when the lead singer announces their first song:The Anthemby Good Charlotte. It’s going to be a night of teenage angst after all.
“Freaking yes.” Ellenor grins, catching my eye. “Bet you ten quid they play Sum 41.”
I lean forward. “Make it twenty, they also do Green Day.”
She takes a sip of her drink, eyes sparking. “You’re on.”
“I hope they playMaster of Puppets,” Barbara murmurs softly, smoothing her pearls.
“Is that the Julie Andrews one?” Rupert asks.
“No, dear.”
Metallica aside, the band plays all our favourites. It’s the nostalgia trip I didn’t know I needed, and it feels just like it used to with Ellenor all those years ago—driving along the coast in her little second-hand car, windows down, belting college rock lyrics at the top of our lungs on a milkshake sugar high.
Thinking it would always feel like that.
Tonight, it does.
There’s something intoxicating about seeing Brandon onstage, his hands sure on the fretboard, his body leaning into the rhythm, eyes half-closed like the music consumes him.
He isn’t performing for us. He’s lost in it. And I’m lost watching him, my skin buzzing and pulse tripping. I feel like a live wire, and one touch from him might short-circuit my sanity.
Someone tousled his hair because it’s standing every which way on end, and he changed his shirt for a black one before leaving the house.
