“No. This is all just very unexpected.”
“I prefer ‘spontaneous’.Anyway. Good luck with your thing!” She hangs up before I can reply.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen as if it might explain what just happened. My pulse is still jagged, part pre-show nerves, part disbelief.
When I step back inside, the café is dimmer, the light concentrated on the small stage while the rest of the room sinks into shadow.
The open mic hasn’t started yet, and the room is still alive with chatter. On stage, Willoughby holds court, captivating the front tables with a funny story about a boating trip with his uncle gone wrong.
His gaze snags on me mid-punchline. “There you are! Excuse me,everyone. I promised to help Lily.” He hops off the stage and joins me.
“Hi,” I greet. “Sorry, I had to take a call.”
“All good.” He gestures to my case. “That yours?”
I nod.
“Great! Let’s get that string swapped over. May I? Show’s starting soon.”
“Actually, I can—” I begin, but he’s already crouched down and clicking open the latches.
In one smooth motion, he sets my guitar on a bench and pulls a thin square of cardboard from his jeans pocket—the new string.
I hover, the protest catching in my throat. To stop him now would be to make a scene.
He flashes a wink at the nearest table, as if this too is part of the act. “Evening! How are we all doing?”
The patrons smile, but I’m struggling to hold mine in place, every part of me tensing as white noise floods my ears.
He’s touching my guitar, deft fingers removing the broken string.
For a breath, a memory of Dad flashes sharp, his large hands guiding mine, his voice steady as he teaches a much younger me how to replace a guitar string. I blink, and I see Willoughby’s hands instead, fingers adorned with wood and metal bands, a woven bracelet encircling his wrist—and it jars.
Every instinct urges me to snatch it back, but I don’t. I already did that when Brandon offered to carry my case at the airport, and I regretted it immediately. I don’t want to overreact again.
After all, Willoughby invited me here. He’s helping me on a night when he’s clearly juggling a hundred other demands. Even now, people call out to him, staff and regulars alike vying for his attention, yet he never looks flustered, just joking, chatting, and answering questions with casual grace—all while restringing my guitar. I can’t help but admire that.
It doesn’t change the fact I’m standing by uselessly like a dummy, watching the string tighten with each precise turn of the peg.
I feel wound just as tight. My heart was already racing from pre-show nerves, but now this? It’s too much. If I can’t even protect the one piece of home I carried across the world, what does that say about me?
Willoughby glances up. I hitch a smile, but something in my face must give me away, because his swagger softens. “Relax. I’ve done this thousands of times. It’s not brain surgery.”
I know. I’ve done it thousands of times too, I almost reply. All I manage is a stiff nod, which probably confirms his presumption that I’m a clueless beginner. But what’s the alternative?Actually, Icanchange a string, but I just happen to be a complete mess inside.
“Trust me,” he adds, “I can sort this faster than most people tie their shoelaces.”
My lips quirk. “All while doing brain surgery?”
He chuckles. “I like you.”
My shoulders loosen, though I still watch him like a hawk.
“There. All done,” he says, trimming the excess wire with cutters. “Mind if I borrow this to test the amp? I think someone’s fiddled with the dials.”
Borrow my guitar? I do mind.
“I’ll be quick,” he says when he sees me hesitate. “Saves me running upstairs to get mine.”
