That thought lifts me up even more than the bubbly does.
11
The Mourning After
Brandon
Grind. Tamp. Pour.
I wake with the sort of tiredness that makes me faintly surprised to realise I’ve somehow made it to the kitchen, struggling to focus on the espresso machine with bleary eyes.
It was past midnight when Lily-Anne and I returned to the cottage. Now it’s 5 a.m., and the windows are a wash of faint light. I should have risen earlier to meet the summer low tide, but the headache flickering at my temple kept me in bed longer.
Still, it’s a small price to pay for staying up to see Lily-Anne play her guitar. It cut me to see her so disheartened, her voice quiet as she spoke of her ex. She’s carrying a greater pain than I realised.
There’s a particular cruelty in men like her ex who make sport of dismantling someone’s confidence.
Anger flickers, but it’s soon swallowed by fatigue.
I lean back against the counter, sipping my coffee. She let me play her guitar. That alone feels like a quiet honour.
I can hear movement from upstairs. The house is quiet, though not empty. I’m aware of her presence, light as a held breath.
A minute later, I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“Good morning,” she greets.
Though I heard her coming, I feel caught off guard as I remember my absurd getup: yellow overalls over a long-sleeved work shirt, thick socks and—the icing on the cake—my old sandals. Not much better than my wellies in the car. As for my hair, who on earth knows? Probably uncooperative.
I clear my throat as I face her. “Good morning.You’re up early.”
“Yeah. I think the jetlag finally hit me.” She stifles a small yawn. “But at least I’ll get to see the sunrise.”
She looks me over curiously, and I instinctively do the same, taking in her bed hair and pyjamas. The flannel is muted compared to the dress she wore to dinner last night. The vivid shade of red had caught me off guard, threatening to unleash memories I’d have rather forgotten. Mercifully, Nova didn’t appear again, and I soon realised that on Lily-Anne, the colour didn’t bother me. Instead, it meant something new.
I wrench my gaze away. “Coffee?”
“Ooh, yes.” She perches on a bar stool at the kitchen island. “Are you going to work?”
“Soon. The tide won’t wait.” I set a second mug beneath the stainless-steel spouts. Steam wafts into the air like a ghost. “Cappuccino?”
“Always. By the way, I’m still trying to picture this oyster farm. You know, with its rolling hills and dairy cows.”
I chuckle, and I am formulating a response when a low, smoky voice curls around my ear.
“This feels rather domestic,” Nova purrs, appearing perched on the bench, legs crossed, her eye makeup as dark as her long, silky hair, the eternal red beads gleaming on her wrists.
I tense, the espresso machine blurring out of focus. Last night, I dismissed Nova’s appearances as nothing more than fatigue. Or so I hoped.
“Dismissed? Darling, you can’t get rid of your Lady Disdain so easily. Not when your guilt hath such meet food to feed it—and such a lovely thing you’ve invited under your roof.”
The barb sinks deep. It surprised me, once, to discover Natalie’s fondness for Shakespeare. That she could quote him with ease, and with wit. It shaped her lyrics, though most interviewers only cared about what she wore or who she might be dating.
I’d speak tothatNova—Natalie—and notthisone.
“You’re speaking to no one but yourself,” she quips.
Indeed, there’s no one here except me and Lily-Anne, both of us ruffled from sleep. Lily-Anne plays with her shirt collar as she looks out towards the sea, and my gaze drifts to the sliver of neckline where her top shirt button is undone. There’s an unguarded softness in her face as she gazes out the window at the sea. It stirs something protective in me, though I can’t explain why.
