I still know how to play. My hands remember everything. It’s the fear of getting it wrong that paralyses me.
“I might need a pair of sports sunglasses,” I say jokingly to Brandon, trying to mask how exposed I suddenly feel.
“That could be arranged,” he says, his smile fading slightly as he studies me properly. “But you don’t need them.”
I lick my lips nervously and drop my gaze to my food.
Sean comes by to check on us.
“You going to get up there and impress your girl?” he asks, nodding to the stage.
I tuck my chin, suddenly very interested in my drink, but the heat climbs anyway.
Brandon, mercifully, deflects. “Certainly. As soon as I’ve had my shamrock cake.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sean mutters, storming off.
A few minutes later, someone turns the volume up, the speakers near us bursting with noise, but we still manage a few half-shouted exchanges between bites of food.
Brandon tells me Sean’s forty-five, though he insists the man’s been in a permanent argument with life since the day they met.
“Sean and my father worked in construction,” he explains. “My father’s retired, and Sean quit due to a bad knee. So he runs the pub instead.”
I glance dubiously towards the bar, where Sean is glowering as he takes someone’s order. “Because he’s such a people person?”
Brandon chuckles. “As you can see.”
Between jokes and music, I learn he was born in London but grew up in Whitstable, and that after a flashy career, he came back to the sea—and the people—he missed. He has no siblings, and his parents are off caravanning somewhere in Scotland.
I’m not one for shouting over music, but Brandon asks about Mum and Ellenor—questions that are easy to answer.
A little flushed, I unbutton my jacket, but the room still feels too hot. I’m conscious of my red dress, but I’m soon forced to drape my jacket over my chair. I feel Brandon’s gaze linger—then it’s gone.
Without warning, the speakers crank up, loud enough to make me flinch. Apparently, someone’s decided louder is better. Conversation becomes impossible, even shouting across the table. Poor Brandon has the worst of it sitting directly in front of the blaring speaker, grimacing with a hand covering his ear.
Brandon says something, but I can’t make out his words. He stands, rounds the table, and leans close to my ear. “Either the band are nitwits, or Sean’s turned the sound up to spite me.”
I nod distractedly, hyperaware of his closeness, the warmth of his breath near my ear.
“Shall we go?” he asks, straightening.
I polish off my drink and stand, a rush of giddiness washing over me. I probably didn’t need that extra vodka in my system. I’m far from drunk, but the warmth in my veins is enough to muddle things a little.
“Hardly classy,” Toby whispers.
I shove him out.
My ears ring as we leave the pub. Outside, the night air is cool. Through a gap in the buildings, I catch a faint glimpse of the sea—a blanket of silver in the dark.
I throw caution to the wind and ask, “Would you like to walk down?”
“Of course. I was just about to suggest it,” Brandon says easily.
We follow a narrow lane to the empty beach. The crescent moon slips through wisps of cloud as we near the shingle. I pull my jacket back on, my shoes sliding on the uneven stones.
We walk in companionable silence, the dark sea calm beside us, the town casting just enough of a golden glow to see by.
Ahead, the path gives way to a weathered boat ramp made of old stone—a ‘slipway,’ Brandon calls it. Two narrow tracks flank the slope, each etched with deep rectangular grooves big enough to swallow a foot.
