“Aren’t you playing tonight?” I ask with a small frown.
“Yeah, but not until later. And I’m a bit precious about my instrument—prefer to keep it out of harm’s way until I need it.”
“Me too,” I say, but I don’t want to be rude, and gently pass my Cole Clark to him.
“Cheers,” he says simply as he takes it away.
He strides on stage, catches the loose amp lead, and plugs it into my guitar.
I watch, gnawing the inside of my cheek as he launches into a rousing anthem by his uncle that soon has people singing along. At least he’s stretching the new string. It will help keep it in tune, on the slim chance that I actually get up and play.
The spotlight skims across the blackwood body, washing out the warm, honeyed sheen, while the amp spills out loud notes. It’s bizarre, seeing and hearing my guitar respond to a stranger’s touch. My unease heightens with each pass of the chorus.
Willoughby stops playing halfway through. “Right. That sounds fine.”
The crowd groans its disappointment, and Daisy jokingly calls, “Boo! Get off the stage!” Willoughby answers with one last cheerful strum before unplugging and hopping down.
He returns the guitar to my eager hands with a grin. “There you go. She’s all yours. Safe and sound.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, equal parts relieved and embarrassed that henoticed my discomfort.
“Anytime.” He studies the guitar with something like admiration. “That’s a stunner. I remember saving up for my first guitar.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders to ease them. “Actually, my dad bought this one for me on my sixteenth birthday.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds like a brilliant dad.”
“He was,” I start, but he sails on.
“My dad never backed my dreams. Cut me off when I went into music. But my uncle, on the other hand—Dustin Willoughby—he was my real role model.”
The urge to clarify that my dad is gone rises on my tongue, but then someone calls his name from across the room.
Willoughby flashes me a white smile. “Well, looks like the ship needs its captain. Hope I get to hear you play tonight.”
He strides off towards the growing bustle.
I brush the strings one by one, each note ringing soft and clear. If I do play tonight—and that’s a big ‘if’—what song should I choose? I have a couple of indie folk ones in mind, though I wish I’d had more time to practise.
I roll my guitar pick between thumb and forefinger, unable to relax. Could I do it? Play a whole song for an audience? And sing at the same time?
My throat seizes at the thought. No. I doubt I’d get a single word out before croaking.
Unexpectedly, my brain tosses me a ridiculous, comforting image: I’m sitting on the beach with Brandon, laughing, kazoo in hand like evidence I can still make noise when words fail. It makes me smile for half a breath, and it makes me long to be back there, just Brandon and me.
The crowd settles as Willoughby climbs onto the stage, his voice booming over the microphone as he welcomes everyone to the event.
I quietly return my guitar to its case. It’s too soon. I’m out of practice, and Brandon’s right: I’ve been putting too much pressure on myself. Music is supposed to be fun, yet the idea of playing tonight terrifies me more than playing in the grand halls of the Sydney Conservatorium ever did.
And that’s okay,I realise. There’s nothing wrong with not performing tonight.
The café hums around me—terrarium-lined shelves, the smell of food and coffee in the air, modern music threading softly through the room. It’s warm and a little chaotic, alive in a way that makes it easy to breathe. If there were ever a place to take the pressure off, it’s here.
I draw a long breath, and something loosens in my chest. Sayingnofeels strangely like sayingyesto myself.
Daisy plonks into the chair beside me, all grin and energy. “So, decided what you’re playing?”
I glance at my feet, where my guitar gleams in its open case. I reach down and push the lid shut. “Actually, I think I’ll sit this one out.”
