And I can’t look away.
When her set ends and the band starts tuning up, chatter swells again. Lily-Anne returns to us, cheeks flushed from the applause she received. She hugs Ellenor first, and then, to my surprise, she hugs me as well.
I get a hint of her floral perfume as I fold her into my arms. She feels warm, light, impossibly close. The heat of her body seeps through the thin fabric of her shirt, and I’m suddenly aware of every point of contact—the press of her chest against mine, her hair brushing my jaw, her hands resting lightly at my back. I hope she can’t feel my heart hammering, betraying everything I’m trying to keep locked down.
“Thank you for coming. It means a lot,” she says.
“You were brilliant,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended.
I want to tell her how extraordinary she was. How she made the whole room disappear. How I’d gladly stand here all night just to hear her sing one more song. But to my dismay, she’s already pulling away, and I have to resist the urge to tighten my arms, to keep her there just a moment longer. My hands linger at her waist for half a second too long before I force myself to let go. The absence of her warmth is immediate, almost physical.
Then Jack arrives, and the meeting I’ve avoided for years finally comes to pass. I brace myself for the inevitable awkwardness. For him to offer a stilted nod or a brief, meaningful glance to acknowledge our history. Not for my sake, but simply out of respect for Nova’s memory.
Instead, he saunters over, flashing a grin so bright it could have its own spotlight, hand extended in grand greeting as he exclaims, “Brandon! Good to see you. It’s been ages. How have you been?”
I stare at his offered hand, making no move to take it.
Is it good to see me?
The last time we were face-to-face, Nova was being lowered into the ground.
Before that, it was the hotel lobby, her hand slipping out of mine in a final farewell as she stepped into the lift. And the man who followed her into it washim.
When I confronted him at the wake, my fists curled, only for him to cry on my shoulder as he recounted how ‘Natalie’ had been exhausted and struggling to cope. How he’d begged her to slow down, cancel her tours. How he’d shouldered her burden, even attending a press conference in her stead.
His tears were performative—his grief was not.
He described in vivid detail how he’d returned to the hotel after the press conference to find Natalie, sleeping tablets scattered around her.
I’d never heard him call her anything but Nova until she was gone.
He should never have left her alone—not for a press conference. He’s not a publicist. Someone else could have stood on the podium, though few people were as well-qualified to enjoy the attention. And I didn’t believe for one second that he encouraged Natalie to cancel any tours.
But he didn’t give her those pills. And hitting him wouldn’t have brought her back.
The café’s noise crashes back in.
Jack’s hand is still there, waiting. His dazzling smile is in place. It’s as though none of it happened at all. No acknowledgment of the past; no recognition of the cost. Everything Nova had meant to us swept under the rug.
I force myself to shake his hand. My grip is firm, the gesture brief. It feels like swallowing gravel.
“Some bonds never die, do they, Brandon?” Jack chirps.
I’m saved from answering when Sean takes my shoulder and murmurs, “I’ve got to get back—beer line burst at the pub. Guinness everywhere. Can’t leave ’em alone for one bloody hour, can I?” He squeezes my shoulder firmly. “Hang in there, mate.”
He makes his escape, part of me wondering if I should go with him.
Meanwhile, Jack’s turned his trademark Willoughby grin on Lily-Anne, every inch the showman he fancies himself to be. “Well, I’m afraid we won’t want you for any more warm-up gigs, Lily—you’re just too good! You’re making the band look bad.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to—”
“Joking. But seriously, I’d love to have you back. How do you feel about performing here regularly? I need someone to do Monday nights. They’re quiet, but I’m sure you’ll draw a crowd.”
“As in…tomorrow night?” she asks. “I’d need more time to prepare.”
Jack shrugs. “Start the Monday after, then. Or Monday after that. We’ve just got a DJ running tracks, but I’m trying to shift the café towards more live music.”
That catches me off-guard. A shift in direction I didn’t expect from him.
