A silence falls as I replay my words, hearing them the way she must have. I must sound so disillusioned.
“Forgive me,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I doubt you.”
“I know. You’re just looking out for me.” She gives me a small, tired smile. “I just wish I didn’t doubt myself.”
“For what it’s worth, I believe you’ll play again. I hope you do.”
“Yeah, but I thought I’d have made more progress by now—besides the kazoo exercise.”
I stare. “Lily…you’ve been here three days.”
She frowns, and the picture becomes clearer.
“You were expecting more mentorship.”
She gives a reluctant nod. “I just wish I felt up for the open mic. I’d love to play in a small venue like that…even if it’s just one song.”
Her voice trembles on the last words, and the sight of her shrinking calls something in me.
Well, if it’s a mentor she wants…
I rise to my feet. “Right. Grab your guitar and notebook. We’ll move to the lawn.”
Her eyelashes fly up. “What?”
“Your guitar,” I repeat. “It’s time for another lesson.”
She still looks stunned—maybe my tone came out too firm—but she disappears inside and returns a couple of minutes later, guitar and spiral notebook in hand.
We settle on the lawn in sun chairs, keeping space between us. The sun is warm and far kinder than the chill that found me in the shady patio.
I drink my soup, trying to work my way through it. Lily’s already finished hers.
I nod to her notebook. “Right. Open that.”
She gives me a sceptical look but flips to one of the few pages not already filled with lyrics. “Okay, teacher. What’s the assignment?”
“You have fifteen minutes.” I glance at my watch. “Write a verse about that pigeon on the fence.”
Her head snaps towards the fat wood pigeon staring blankly at us. “The pigeon?”
“Yes. His hopes. His great ambitions. His opinion on the weather. And the most important rule—” I tap the page. “It has to be terrible.”
“Sorry?”
“I want clichés. Metaphors. Awful rhymes. It must be the worst song ever written.Go.”
“Brandon, I can’t—I haven’t even got an E string—”
“Fourteen minutes, fifty seconds.”
She gapes at me, then she snorts and starts scribbling, muttering under her breath as she glances between the pigeon and the page. Her pencil moves faster than her inner critic can keep up.
When she pauses to think, the sight of her chewing her pencil pulls my focus from my watch to her mouth.
Until the timer goes off, startling me.
“Time,” I say, clearing my throat. “Pencils down, please.”
