He makes a noncommittal sound. Ellenor eyes us suspiciously.
She knows I’m bullshitting, but she wants it to be true.
“Better go,” I say sweetly. “Talk soon, okay?”
“Fine. I’ll tell Mum you said hi. Enjoy your fish and chipsdate, traitor.”
“It’s not a date,” Brandon and I say together, but she’s already ended the call with a villainous cackle.
An awkward silence stretches. I brush salt from my fingers, pretending to study the crumpled paper before us.
I know we both said it wasn’t a date. And it’s not.
Brandon knows. I know. But…
Would it be such a bad thing if it were?
The moment drifts, empty.
The sun slips behind a cloud, the breeze off the water suddenly cool as it lifts goose bumps along my calves. I scroll absently through the group chat, pretending to read the texts I’ve sent Mum and Ellenor since leaving Australia. With a guilty start, I realise there are more messages than the past three years combined.
Brandon’s voice draws me back. “I see Ellenor still has her sense of humour.”
“Yep.”
Abrasive AF, but I love it.
“She seemed tired.”
I frown, pocketing my phone. “Well, it’s quite late there.”
“I meant tired in a different way. Weary.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe it’s nothing. I don’t know her that well.” He gathers the empty wrappers and carries them to a nearby bin.
I watch him go, his comment lingering. Brandon hasn’t seen my sister in years. Has he picked up on something I’ve missed?
Ellenor’s always been driven, so exhaustion doesn’t surprise me. But she wasn’t always a workaholic. Ambitious, yes, but the way she’s buried herself in her career this past decade only started after everything fell apart. After she lost something she never thought she wanted until it was too late.It makes my struggles pale in comparison.
I shake the gloom off. If only for tonight, I want to enjoy myself without any feelings of regret.
Brandon returns to sit beside me on the rug. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a small gift.”
“From the bin?” I tease.
“No. I got it for you last week from the music shop.”
I cross my legs and sit straighter, watching curiously as he pulls a small paper bag from his pocket.
It’s printed with the words ‘Whitstable Music Shop.’
He continues. “It’s something I used to do for my artists when they were struggling with their music. And after hearing you sing last night…”
I open the bag to find a hollow green tube made of plastic. Lightweight and bizarre, with a circular window on the side containing a thin membrane.
I stare in puzzlement at what has to be the world’s silliest instrument.
