Dear Hilary,
Thank you so much for reaching out. I’m genuinely honoured that you’re interested in my music.
I’m still writing songs that I’m deeply invested in, but I don’t feel ready to take the next step, yet.
I want to give myself the space to grow and make sure what I create feels true to who I am.
Thank you for your patience and encouragement. I hope to reach out again soon if and when I’m ready to take things further.
Kind regards,
Lily-Anne
I hover for half a breath. I’m about to hit Send when Brandon yells from the bathroom.
“Fucking hell!”
I chuckle to myself.
He appears in the doorway, towel slung low on his hips, droplets tracking over his chest and along defined lines of muscle.
“What is this?” he demands, brandishing the garden gnome.
“Benjamin,” I say, simply and unperturbed as I pretend to type on my laptop.
“It nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“You know, it’s adorable how he seems to scare you more than me,” I say, repeating the words he said to me.
He laughs shakily. “Yes, well…I wasn’t expecting to find him inside my shaving cabinet, was I? Smiling at me like an aspiring axe-murderer.”
“He just wants to be friends.”
“Not bloody likely.”
I’m struggling to hide my smile now.
He sets the gnome down and raises a finger sternly at me, mock chastising. “This is not to be repeated. You hear?”
“No,” I agree as he disappears back into the bathroom. “I’ll hide him someplace else next time.”
I reread my draft email to Hilary twice. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I hit Send.
I let out a long breath. It feels strange, stepping back. Not chasing. I always thought I would pursue music within an inch of my life. But not having that pressure is strangely liberating, and I have the constant urge to get out my guitar and write songs.
My guitar,I remember with a pang. Despite my hopes, it’s never to be repaired.
Somehow, I have to stop thinking about it.
When Brandon emerges again, I show him my email.
“I’m impressed,” he says after reading it. “But are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes,” I say, pleased at the conviction in my voice. “It is.”
He smiles, shutting the laptop as he leans over it to kiss me, soft and brief. “You do realise she isn’t going to give up? She’s like a bloodhound. She won’t stop emailing you until you say yes.”
I laugh. “That’s flattering. Although I didn’t know bloodhounds could type.”
