“I’ll drink it,” Brandon promises.
“See that you do.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, wallet already in hand.
“Nonsense,” Brandon says. “You’re my guest.”
“But I’d like to.” I drop my voice, conscious of the noise around us. “I don’t want to feel like I’m relying on you for everything.”
His expression softens, losing its guarded edge, but his resolve holds. “I understand. But for tonight…let me.”
I’m about to protest, but Sean aims his scowl at my wallet. “Oi. Put that away, or I’ll start charging everyone’s drinks to Brandon’s tab. Go on, now—you’re blocking the bar.”
I laugh under my breath.
“Come, let’s find a table,” Brandon says.
A couple of tables have freed up, and I point to the one near the stage. “Over there?”
“I had a feeling you’d choose the musicians’ seats.” He smiles. “Planning to watch for mistakes, are you?”
“Of course not! But I do want to see their techniques.”
He chuckles. “It’s alright. I like the front row too. Fair warning, though—these lads get a bit enthusiastic. Try not toboo them off the stage.”
“I would never do that!” I protest, even though I can tell he’s teasing.
We take our seats. I sip my drink, relishing the flavour as he recounts his and Sean’s triumphs and mishaps renovating the flat. When I ask about the clawfoot tub, he only gives a vague answer, but I imagine it was no small feat to get it upstairs.
I go to take another sip, only to realise I’ve drained my glass.
“Another?” Brandon offers.
“Yes, please,” I say shyly, and a few minutes later, he returns with a fresh raspberry vodka just as our food arrives.
As I lift my fork to cut a piece of cottage pie, the band on stage launches into their first song. Or tries to.
The guitarist jumps in a beat too early, derailing the rhythm as the others scramble to catch up. The lead singer is mostly on key, but the two backup vocalists are wandering in and out of harmony. My fingers twitch against the table on instinct, itching to nudge the beat back to where it belongs.
Oblivious, the band members in their mirrored wraparound sunglasses barrel on, loving every second.
I glance around to see what everyone else is making of it. To my surprise, the crowd cheers and claps along like this train wreck is exactly what they came for.
When I look back at Brandon, he’s paused mid-bite, fingers tapping along to the rhythm—if it can be called that.
“Am I missing something?” I ask, baffled.
“They’re popular,” Brandon replies simply. “They’re not perfect, but they always draw a good crowd. People appreciate that.”
I frown. If I’d played this loosely, Toby would have had an aneurysm.
Yet the band’s sheer joy has me captivated. They’re having the time of their lives, and I find myself craving a piece of whatever they’re feeling up there.
“They look happy,” I note.
“Yes…” Brandon follows my gaze. “There’s something liberating about embracing your mistakes.”
“Oh?” I mull that over, my heart lurching in time with whatever it is the band thinks it’s playing. My fingers curl against my thigh, forming the ghost of an old chord shape before I can stop myself.
