For once, with the people I care about here to support me, including Daisy hollering ‘Go, Lily!’ from the bar, and Ellenor badgering Sean to lift the phone higher as they livestream for Mum, the music might actually be louder than my fear.
22
Warming Up
Brandon
Jack’s café hums with low chatter, his uncle staring down at the diners from every photo-frame wall like a benevolent dictator. The reverent shrine is truly something. Nothing says humble family business quite like an entire wall of hero worship.
Dustin will have to forgive me—I forgot to genuflect upon entering.
The true miracle is that I’m here at all. I never thought I’d set foot in this place, which I’ve avoided like the plague. Yet here I am, sitting front row, forcing a neutral expression while it feels like I’m sitting on a bed of nails.
Lily-Anne stands by the stage, waiting to go on and play her set. It will only last twenty minutes—just the warm-up act to keep patrons entertained while they finish their meals before the main band.
I’m only here for her.
She keeps wiping her palms on her distressed jeans, a nervous smile on her face. The simple movement draws my gaze, roving where it has no right to linger—the way the denim hugs her hips, traces the line of her legs, the soft curve of her waist, the brief flash of sun-warmed skin as her shirt lifts while she gathers her hair into a loose ponytail. I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t tear my eyes away. She’s stunning.
“Didn’t think anything could drag you into this place,” Sean says beside me.
I don’t turn, offering only a quiet sound of acknowledgement as Lily-Anne leans closer to Ellenor, the two of them exchanging a few murmured words near the stage.
I want to go over and say something to Lily-Anne, but I already wished her good luck. It’s her moment now.
Sean clears his throat.
I throw him a distracted glance.
He tips his pint toward the stage, where Willoughby is holding the mic, working the crowd. “She must be something, if you’re tolerating his ego parade. Look at him prancing about. Christ.” Without looking at me, he adds, “You’ll have to face him eventually.”
He has a point, but I change the subject. “How’s your pint?”
“Hands down the shittiest beer I’ve ever had. Pure muck.”
“Must be dirty lines,” I murmur, appreciating the moral support.
“Aye.”
Finally, Jack wraps up his monologue, and Lily-Anne takes her place at the microphone, guitar strap slung over her shoulder.
I hold my breath, waiting.
“You look more nervous than she does,” Sean murmurs. “You sure you did this for a living?”
I ignore him.
A minute into her set, I start to relax. She plays beautifully. I knew she would, but it’s something else entirely toseeit—to watch her come alive beneath the lights.
She plays a dreamy blend of folk and indie pop, including a personal favourite of mine:Just a Boyby Angus and Julia Stone. I sit spellbound as she sings. It makes me want to take her by the hand and steal away to the beach with her, the sudden impulse checked only by my desire to stay and listen.
She has a presence that doesn’t demand attention yet commands it anyway. Graceful and self-assured, her personality spills through every note, every lyric, every smile. When I glance at the crowd, I see they’re as captivated as I am. Even Jack’s paying attention instead of looking at his phone.
I turn back to Lily-Anne, letting her hope-filled music wash over me. She doesn’t perform so much as invite you to listen. There’s no persona—it’s just her. Genuine. Pure. Vulnerable. A treasure for the audience, but dangerous for her. The world doesn’t know what to do with sincerity.
She’s more than the guest who moved into my cottage, or the young woman trying to find her footing again. I see an artist who is confident, radiant, and entirely herself: Lily-Anne, the young woman I’ve come to admire.
It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time.
