His hand falls away. “Yes. That’s true.”
I sigh as we head for the booth. “Ellenor doesn’t talk about it. I think that’s why she’s always joking around.”
“She’s deflecting,” he observes.
“Exactly.” I sigh heavily, sinking into my seat. “She’s my big sister—you’d think I’d know her well. But deep down, she must still be sad.”
“The same could be said for most people hiding their grief.”
Including me.
Including him.
I glance around the noisy pub. Despite the merrymaking, there’s probably not a person here who isn’t carrying some kind of loss. Masking it, trying to live with it.
Naively, I thought that Ellenor’s pain would fade. I hadn’t expect it to resurface.
“I think the anniversary might have something to do with Ellenor quitting her job and coming to England,” I murmur.
“Perhaps. Seems England’s good for lost souls.”
“Lost souls? Brandon, you can’t house all of Australia’s broken hearts in your cottage, you know.”
He lifts his chin stoically. “I can try.”
I’m stifling a chuckle when the door bursts open.
“I’m here!” Ellenor announces to the room, turning heads as she strides in with straight bleached-blonde hair and a Slytherin-green tote swinging from her arm. She whips off half-moon sunglasses like a movie star, spots us, and makes a beeline for our booth.
“Ellenor!” I’m up in an instant, rushing to hug her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I know. Glad to see you too.”
“How are you?”
“Jet-lagged as fuck.”
We pull apart, and I take in her outfit—a far cry from her Sydney power suits. Metallic leggings shimmering in the warm light, a glittery pink jacket with fur trim, combat boots with silvery laces, and a striped bottle-green scarf bearing a familiar serpent crest.
“Whatareyou wearing?” I exclaim, wrinkling my nose. “It’s like Barbie meets Voldemort.”
“Do you like?” She twirls proudly, tugging at her scarf with flair. “Slytherin represent!”
“Blah. I hope you haven’t come to convert me.”
“Oh, but I have. You don’t want to hang out with the wrong sort, Lily.Ican help you there.”
She offers to shake my hand, but I bat it away. “Never. I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself.”
“My poor little Ravenclaw sister—deluded as ever.”
“What are they on about?” Sean asks Brandon as he reappears with drinks.
“Harry Potter,” Brandon says dryly.
Ellenor clocks Sean immediately. “You must be Sean. Nice pub. Looks like the Quidditch World Cup in here.”
“Quid-what now?” he asks.
