7
A Shot of Red
Lily-Anne
I pad downstairs in my flannel pyjamas at 5:30 a.m., hoping to catch Brandon, but he’s already left, his keys gone from their hook.
He’s left instructions for using the espresso machine.
How sweet.
Unfortunately, the gleaming thing hisses and spits at me like an offended cat. No matter how many buttons I press, all I get is something bitter that tastes faintly of seaweed.
After a few failed attempts to coax caffeine from its shiny depths, I surrender.
I fear we’ll be mortal enemies.
I mop up the evidence, change into jeans and a shirt, tug on my cardigan and white sneakers, and head into town, locking the door behind me.
I’m not ready to face my guitar, and I desperately need a good coffee.
And so, my quest begins.
I consult my phone only once, just long enough to see that the heart of town is a few streets over, a fifteen-minute walk if I don’t get distracted. Then I tuck my phone away, deciding to leave the rest to chance.
There’s something nice about not knowing exactly where I’m going as I follow the esplanade. The shingle beach stretches alongside me, waves whispering over smooth stones. Near the harbour, I pass beneath colourful bunting strung between buildings, the pennants fluttering as if to welcome me.
Whitstable is already waking by the time I reach the town centre, the low hum of early-morning chatter rising around me. Delivery vans edge along the narrow road, a cyclist coasting past while a man in a flat cap pauses to greet someone outside the greengrocers.
I hear the hollowtap-tap-tapof coffee grounds being knocked out from a nearby café, and the rich scent of roasted beans draws me closer.
Before long, I’m settled with a mug of cappuccino and a plate loaded with a full English breakfast. I send Mum and Ellenor a photo of my fried eggs, sausages, bacon, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, and toast.
It’s not something I’d normally do; Ellenor’s the one who always photographs her meals. But it feels nice, somehow, to share a small piece of my morning with them. Everything still feels dreamlike, and sending proof helps me believe I’m really here.
Or maybe it’s just the satisfaction of seeing Ellenor’s jealous emoji—the huffy one blowing steam out of its nose.
By the time I’ve finish brekkie, the sun’s higher, and the street is bustling with shoppers.
I lose an hour within a tiny bookshop crammed with curling paperbacks, then I talk myself out of buying a sea-glass tiara in the next shop over.
As I admire a florist’s stall, I find myself wondering how Brandon’s morning is going. Is he out on a boat, sleeves rolled up, the wind biting at his face? Or trudging through waist-deep water? I noticed the waterproof overalls he set out by the door last night. I hope the water isn’t too cold.
I press my lips together. I really shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Giving the flowers a wistful look, I continue down the lane.
That’s when I spot it: a window display of summer dresses, the morning light catching on a flash of red lace.
I stop cold. It’s a skater dress, the style almost identical to the daisy one I saw in the airport, with short sleeves, a modest V-neck, and a lacy hem stopping just above the knee.
There’s one key difference, however: the colour is a bright, unapologetic chilli red.
“Wow,” I breathe, unable to tear my eyes away. My fingers twitch, as if I could reach through the glass and touch the fabric.
Toby’s voice slithers through my memory.
“A dress like that leaves nothing to the imagination,” he explained after our first date, when I’d borrowed one of Ellenor’s body-cons.“Don’t you want to be classy?”
Yes, I did. Just like I wanted to please him. He seemed so impressive to me back then, with his sleek black hair, sharp glasses, and air of quiet authority.
