I lean back on my hands, eyes on the stars. My chest still aches, but it’s the good kind. The kind that says I tried.
Even if I failed.
“Your turn,” Brandon says suddenly, silencing the strings and passing the guitar back to me.
“Myturn?”
“Yes. I think so.”
I want to protest, but there’s a gentle gleam in his eyes that gives me pause. Apparently, he believes I can.
Maybe I should start believing too.
“Alright,” I sigh. “But I warn you, this next song might put yours to shame.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
I adjust the tuning to suit me, doing the best I can by ear. Two chords. I’m only going to need two chords for this song, and it will be passable even with the missing string. And oh-so-stupid.
I form the first chord, already smiling as I strum the song that every high-schooler who’s ever picked up a guitar knows:A Horse with No Name.
I surprise myself when I start to sing. Tentative but clear.
Brandon chortles beside me, which only spurs me on, and I manage to spiral through the chorus a few times before winding down. Still playing, but slowly, not quite ready to let the song go yet.
Unexpectedly, he clears his throat and begins to sing.
I jolt, blinking at him in disbelief. His voice is deep and deliberate, as always, but now it’s threaded with the melody, flowing into my ears like warm honey, rich and mesmerising.
My hand slips on a chord. This feels different. The low timbre of his voice presses in around me, and I suddenly feel exposed and vulnerable as every cell in my body hums. Even the breeze feels too much on my skin.
Somehow, I manage to keep playing. The song feels heavier than it should, and I pour every ounce of feeling into it, as if we’re singing a sacred hymn.
When it ends, I sit in a strange quiet, unsure what to do with the rush still moving through me.
“Well,” he says lightly, offering me a small smile, “that’s got to count for something.” He rises, brushing grit from his clothes. “And I do think it’s worth opening a bottle of champagne for.”
I frown, silently willing my heart rate to slow. “Champagne?”
He pulls a tiny bottle from his jacket pocket—a miniature one, hardly bigger than his palm—and cracks the seal before giving it a shake. “What do you think?”
“Err, sure…”
A fine mist of bubbles sprays out above us, catching in the moonlight.
He passes me the bottle and jokes, “Don’t drink it all at once.”
I take a sip. It’s sweeter than I expect. Even better than the glass I had on the plane.
We start walking back towards the cottage, our jackets rustling in thebreeze. Brandon finishes the bottle with a casual tilt of his hand, and I can’t help but notice, with a low tug in my stomach, that his lips touch where mine did.
It’s an odd thought—one I quickly dismiss.
It’s just champagne.
Although…
As we cross the street to the quiet row of cottages, it dawns on me that he’d had the foresight to bring the champagne to the beach. As if he believed I would succeed.
