“Not until November. But surely it’s someone’s birthday today. So, what do you say? Up for a duet? Or did Rupert oversell my abilities?”
With a nervous smile, I nod. “Sure. Why not?”
“Here we go—watch me for the changes,” he teases.
And so, we do a second round ofHappy Birthdayon the beach. It shouldn’t work, but somehow, it does. Once I get past my giggles, I actually get into it.
It’s like singing, but without words, only a happy, bizarre sound filling the air.
I’m soon grinning like an idiot as we buzz our way throughMary Had a Little Lamb,Piano Man,Concerning Hobbits,Blue Da Ba Dee,Bad Romanceand—God help me—a train-wreck attempt atBohemianRhapsody.
It’s silly, terrible, and wildly, spectacularly fun, filling me with more joy than any concert or eisteddfod prize.
I like this side of Brandon—the one who can make a joke to help me lower my guard. Not that there’s been much to dislike about the rest of him. It’s just that, apart from the time he playedHe’s a Pirateon the beach, he’s felt reserved, untouchable, like some distant professional I’m lucky to have in my corner. In this moment, however…it almost feels like we’re friends.
“Okay, guess this one,” I say, leaning into the kazoo with the seriousness of a concert flautist, and draw out a stream of eerie, wistful, and—courtesy of the instrument—unintentionally comical notes.
Brandon listens politely, then he gives his head a small shake.
“Hedwig’s Theme!” I cry. “By John Williams. FromHarry Potter?”
“Ah.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“I’ve seen John Williams.”
“That’s not what I…Wait. You have?”
“At a concert in London.”
“Oh, wow. Ellenor would die of envy if she knew.” Me too, now that I think about it. I ask, “But you haven’t seen theHarry Potterfilms?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I press my lips together, trying to hide my smile. No wonder he and Ellenor never hit it off—she’d have written him off on the spot.
Time slips by. We eventually set the kazoos aside for easy conversation. Neither of us is in a hurry. The sunset paints the sea molten gold as the horizon melts into evening.
Brandon picks something up from among the pebbles and hands it to me. “Here—another one for your collection. Something to remind you of Whitstable—and of mushy peas.”
My lips tug upward as I behold the mint-coloured sea glass, an almost perfect shade match for the peas. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it,” I say, sliding it into my pocket. “I might have to collect enough to actually make something while I’m here. A wind chime? Or maybe jewellery?”
“Could be the start of a bracelet,” Brandon suggests.
A light drizzle mists the air, but we still don’t budge, our legs stretched out side by side, a safe distance between us as we watch the dyinglight. Finally, I give in and take out my phone.
“I’m looking the song up,” I announce. Then, purely to be difficult, I add, “I’msureit’s about a horse in a desert. What else could it possibly be?”
“Let’s find out,” Brandon says, feigning an air of curiosity even though he clearly already knows the answer.
I wipe my screen of the tiny droplets speckling it and silently scan the article:
The desert is a place of clarity, far from society’s noise, whilst the nameless horse is a metaphor for freedom and identity…
“Well?” Brandon prompts.
I lower my phone, offering him a saccharine smile. “I’m afraid the internet agrees with me. It really is just about a horse.”
