“Yep. My guitar can wait. I want food.”
I’m not sure why I say that.Isit just the hunger talking, or am I stalling?
As if fixing a string will make a difference. You’ve always had the talent, Lily—just not the taste.Toby’s voice slinks in, seemingly well-meant, but sharp underneath.If you’d listened to me, we’d be playing the Sydney OperaHouse by now.
The Opera House was one of Toby’s dreams, not mine. He really thought we could get there.
Maybe he still will.
My dream was harder to pin down. I just wanted to write songs. I didn’t know where it would lead, only that it made me feel alive. That lack of vision disappointed Toby.
Brandon steps off the curb first. His hand hovers near my back, not quite touching, but close enough to feel protective as we cross to the esplanade. We follow the wide concrete path, the sea on our right and rows of sleepy cottages and shops to our left.
The sun dips lower, gilding the water in soft amber light.
I can’t help but wonder if last night’s breakthrough was a fluke. That old dread is creeping back in, tightening around me.
As we wait in line at a beachfront shack for fish and chips, the truth hits me: Iamstalling. And that broken string? It’s a reprieve from proving whether last night’s small triumph was real or simply a moment’s bravery.
I can’t put it off forever. The longer I leave it, the harder it will be to pick my guitar back up.
“You seem far away,” Brandon observes as we carry our drinks and paper bundles of food down to the beach.
“Sorry. Just coming down from the sugar rush.”
“Nothing a nutritious drink won’t fix,” he quips lightly, lifting a can of soft drink.
I smile faintly as we sit on the thin strip of grass bordering the beach, the pebbles at our feet scattering as we stretch our legs out. Toby would have said I’m moping, and that it’s unbecoming. The thought flickers and fades before I can even dwell on it. With Brandon, I don’t feel judged for falling quiet. Even flat like this, I feel…comfortable.
It’s odd how quickly Toby has begun to feel insignificant.
The first bite of battered cod makes me moan. “Oh, wow.”
Brandon looks at me. “Does it meet expectations?”
“Mm-hmm.” My eyes drift shut. Greasy, hot, and salty—it’s everything I wanted.
I hear his chuckle, and it’s a nice sound.
The combination of ocean breeze, salty flavours, and his company lifts me up into the clouds. I wish I could capture this moment forever.
Once I’m full, I sigh happily, licking vinegar from my fingers. “I haven’t had a meal this good in months.”
He lifts a brow. “Are they not feeding you back in Sydney?”
His question is playful, but my mind immediately snaps to Toby. Even food had lost its colour in those last months with him. I shove the thought away and focus on what’s real: the salt and vinegar in the air, the warm pile of chips, and the calm trace of humour in Brandon’s expression.
I indicate the paper parcel. “I just haven’t had fish and chips like this before. With cod and malt vinegar and…” I seize a chip and prod a lump of green. “This green mushy stuff. Smashed avocado?”
“Peas,” he supplies. “You should try it—it’s good.”
I do, and it is.
“It’s a shame Ellenor isn’t here. She would have loved this.”
“Even the mushy peas?” Brandon asks, straight-faced.
I snort. “It’s actually called that?”
