I tamp the feeling down. This isn’t about me. It’s about Lily-Anne.
“Do you think you’ll get up on stage?” I ask, careful to keep my tone light.
“Maybe,” she says, uncertainty tugging at the edges of her voice.
An ache of worry stirs. She might be leaping too soon, chasing an old rhythm before she’s ready. Experienced though she is, open wounds like hers don’t vanish with a stage light.
But that choice belongs to her.
“Take it at your own pace,” I suggest. “You’ve nothing to prove.”
She nods. “Are you sure it’s okay if I go back to the café? Given that things are…strained between you two?”
Her consideration gives me pause. She shouldn’t be tiptoeing around my history. How can I ask her to avoid something as ordinary as a coffee shop?
“Don’t stay away on my account,” I say, though it feels like chewing glass. “Just be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
I hesitate. What am I warning her against, exactly? Jack’s aloofness? His self-centredness? Or…
“His charm, perhaps?”Nova’s smoky breath brushes my ear before fading.
Lily-Anne clears the table slowly, waiting for me to answer.
I cast for the right words. The last thing she needs is Jack Willoughby’s mercurial charm unsettling her confidence. But I haven’t spoken to the man in years. Who’s to say he hasn’t changed?
So, I keep to neutral ground and say, “After everything you’ve been through, I think you should slow down.”
She stills. “Slow down? But I thought…you told me to live in the moment. Have experiences.”
She isn’t wrong.
When we walked along the beach last night, she was so terrified of failure, of not being enough, that it was smothering her ability to play a single note.
But now…it feels different. I can’t explain why. Perhaps I know her better. Fear for her more.
She’s patient in all things except herself, desperate for something concrete.
I only know I don’t want her blindsided again. Not by him. Not by anyone.
“Lily-Anne…” I take a breath. “I’m not sure forcing yourself back into music so quickly is what you need right now. There’s nothing wrong with stepping away for a breather.”
As soon as the words are out, I wince. They sound like doubt, not care.
Her smile dims. “You don’t think I can handle it.”
“I didn’t say that,” I say gently. “I just think you deserve some breathing room. Wait until you feel the desire to play again.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, standing and brushing the last crumbs from the table. There’s a tightness around her eyes now as she whispers, “What if I never feel it?”
I get to my feet as well. “Then maybe you don’t have to chase it.”
Her eyes flick up, confused and hurt. “Music is my dream.”
“Yes, but your dream doesn’t have to stay the same forever. It can evolve. And you’re allowed to want something different. That isn’t failure—it’s growth.”
Her eyes snap to mine, wounded. “I don’t want to evolve away from it.”
