Chapter 4 Eyes Wide Open
Eyes Wide Open
Brandon
Lily-Anne chats softly beside me as I load her luggage into the back seat—little details about her flights, the extended stopover in Dubai, the live music scene she’s heard about in Whitstable.
Her cheeks are still flushed, whether from excitement or the cold, I’m not sure, but the colour suits her.
She’s easy to listen to. Light. Melodic.
I’m happy for her to fill the silence so I don’t have to.
When I drove to the airport this morning, I expected awkwardness. A stranger in my passenger seat. Instead, she slips into the Audi like she belongs there.
“Nice car,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, even though I know it’s not the luxury ride it once was. It’s little more than a relic of my former life, back when transporting clients in style still mattered to me.
These days, the boot smells faintly of salt and oyster baskets, so I’m relieved her luggage fits neatly on the back seat. Lily-Anne doesn’t strike me as someone who’d judge, but it hardly seems the ideal first impression—especially when she travelled here expecting Brandon, the music manager.
In my emails, I told her I’d stepped away from the music industry, but I didn’t say how far. Nor did I admit I’ve lost interest in the music scene.
She fastens her seat belt and gives me a bashful smile. “Sorry. I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.”
“I don’t mind,” I say truthfully, starting the engine.
The car warms up around us as we pull onto the motorway. She scrolls through her phone, frowning.
“Everything alright?” I ask.
“Mmh—my phone’s nearly dead. I forgot to charge it on the plane.”
“There’s a USB port. Is your charger in your bag?”
“Oh—yes! In my backpack…” She twists to reach it, but it’s wedged low between the seats, her suitcase blocking it completely.
She faces the front. “It’s fine. I don’t need my phone anyway.”
I should let it go. But given she’s in a foreign country, I’m sure she’d feel better with a working phone. My hands shift on the wheel.
“I don’t mind stopping. It’ll only take a second.”
“Really? Thank you.”
I pull over and get out before she can unbuckle. “Allow me,” I insist.
The chilled air rushes over my skin as I wait for cars to pass, their lights muted in the early-morning fog.
I open the rear door and crouch by the backpack, but hesitate before sliding the zip open. It feels odd to be going through her things.
“Should just be on top?” Lily-Anne calls, voice rising anxiously as more cars roar past.
It’s not.
There’s a magazine wedged inside, Nova’s haunting image making my blood turn cold. Her eyes stare up from the cover like she’s been waiting for me.
“Boo,” she whispers, cruel and amused.
I jerk back so hard I hit my head on the edge of the suitcase. A dull thud, followed by a flash of pain.
“Are you okay?” Lily-Anne calls worriedly.
I draw a shaky breath, pulse hammering as I search the empty air for Nova’s ghost. She’s vanished.
“Yep—I’m fine,” I manage.
“It’s the one with the fluffy keychain…?” she prompts.
Wrong pocket, I realise.
I find the charger in a smaller compartment. “Got it.”
Sour smoke clogs my nostrils as I rezip the bag, heat prickling my skin.
As I straighten, I see Nova, her memory slouched in the backseat like a phantom.
She’s wearing her leather jacket, red lace dripping at her wrists, glimmering eyes peering at me through thick eyeliner and sheets of black hair.
She stubs a cigarette against the leather, then she nods in Lily-Anne’s direction, voice husky as she croons, “She blushes so prettily, doesn’t she? ”
Slamming the door, I press my back to the Audi as I wait for a string of cars to pass, my chest painfully tight. I exhale, trying to clear the smoke from my lungs.
It’s just a magazine. Just paper and ink.
But it’s one thing to stumble upon a photo online or in a store, and another thing entirely to find it coiled up in my car like a viper.
I draw a long breath, trying to rein myself in. Then I climb back behind the wheel, my tone smooth once more.
“Here you go.”
“Champion! Thank you.” Lily-Anne shoots me a grateful smile as she plugs her phone in.
Once I’m back on the road, she starts humming English Summer Rain under her breath. It’s fitting, in that slightly ironic way.
Then I remember the thermos.
“What’s this?” she asks as I hand it to her.
“Coffee, as promised—sans latte art. I didn’t trust the foam to survive the trip. It should still be hot.”
She takes a sip, then her eyes drift shut. “Mmm, this is delicious. Were you a barista in your former life or something?”
“More or less. Back in university, I worked mornings at a café.”
Her eyes light up. “Lucky me, living with a barista.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“And then you became a music manager?” she asks, watching me curiously between sips.
I nod. It’s a period of my life I rarely speak about—the glamorous, chaotic career of my twenties, tangled up in the tragedy that ended it.
“What do you do now?”
I knew this question was coming. Even so, I’m not sure how to answer. If she’s expecting a recording studio, a wall of gold records, or brunch with a washed-up rock star or two—I’ll be sad to dash her hopes.
I shift in my seat. “I work on the coast.”
“Like a pirate?”
She’s teasing me, and I relax slightly.
“Yes. But pirating aside—I work on an oyster farm.”
She lets out a laugh. “An oyster farm?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That sounds really interesting.”
I glance at her. “Does it?”
“Yes! But I’m guessing it doesn’t involve pirate ships…?”
“Usually not.”
A slow smile forms on her face. “How disappointing.”
She doesn’t seem bothered by my occupation, humming thoughtfully as she says, “I bet it’s nicer working outdoors.”
“I certainly think so.”
“Although I have no idea what an oyster farm looks like.”
“Well…” I sit straighter, staring carefully ahead. “If you close your eyes and imagine rolling hills, grassy paddocks, wooden fences, cows…”
Her brow creases. “Yes?”
“It looks nothing like that.”
She gapes at me, a smile teasing her mouth. “That’s very unhelpful, you know that?”
A chuckle escapes me. “So, besides music, is there anything else you’re hoping to get out of your time here?”
“Besides music? I’m not sure. That’s the reason I came.”
“No sightseeing?”
“I haven’t really thought about that.” She scoffs softly. “Truthfully, I was kind of hoping you could Mr Miyagi my creative block away. You know, wax on, wax off type stuff.”
“Ah, but you already know how to play guitar,” I say wryly. “And I’m afraid I don’t know karate.”
She grins at that, and something warm stirs in my chest. It doesn’t placate my concerns, however. She’s hoping I can guide her, but what she’s asking for won’t be easy—not if she’s chasing it too hard.
She chews her lip. “Seriously, though. I have to figure this out. Without music, I don’t know how to be.”
The frustration in her voice takes me back to Sydney—to a rooftop bar at the end of a long week, Jeremy at my side with his sleeves rolled up and a rum and coke in hand.
“Slow down, mate,” he’d told me. “Music’s meant to be a passion. Don’t let the job eat you alive.”
Would he give his daughter the same advice now?
She hums softly beside me, and for a moment, I hear him too.
Jeremy was always humming. She has his posture, his willowy frame. Even her cadence echoes him—that thoughtful pause before she speaks, the gentle humour.
But the rest is her mother: the warm brown eyes, the round face, the wild sweep of golden hair.
It’s a poignant thought, still difficult to comprehend: the man who mentored me, befriended me—and saved me—is gone. And now his daughter is here, trusting me with this fragile part of her life.
Not mine to look after, exactly, but close enough that I feel the weight of it.
“One step at a time,” I murmur. “You’ll get there.”
She nods. “Like you said in your email—maybe a change in scenery is what I need.”
“Indeed. I think you’ll like Whitstable.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“And if not, we can always learn karate.”
She chokes out a laugh.
Our gazes meet, and for the briefest second, a glimmer of recognition sparks, like a distant memory of joy.
I’m the first to look away, staring at the road, and we fall into silence.
As if conjured by the quiet, Nova leans close, her voice a silken whisper in my ear. “Careful, Mister Sexy Mentor. She’s looking at you like you hung the stars.”
Not true. Not possible.
“Isn’t it? Well, I really hope you don’t let her down.”
I shoot Nova a disapproving glare in the rear-view mirror. Her voice was always sharpest when she wanted to dig under my skin.
“Are you alright?” Lily-Anne asks.
“Yes, I—”
I’m saved from answering when her phone buzzes.
“It’s Mum asking me about my flight. Do you mind if I call her?”
“Not at all.”
She lifts the phone to her ear, and after a few rings, Catherine’s voice carries faintly in the car.
They speak briefly, Lily-Anne assuring her she’s fine, that her luggage arrived, and “Yes, we’re already on the road.”
I keep my eyes ahead, letting their conversation wash past like the rain on the windscreen.
When I overhear Catherine ask for our ETA to Whitstable, I speak up. “A little over two hours to go.”
Lily-Anne relays the information, then she lets out a quiet exhale as another stream of questions comes through. “I’ll text you when I arrive, Mum. Yes, I’ll tell him.” She glances my way, mouths, “she says hi.”
I’m guessing that’s the abbreviated version, and I ask Lily-Anne to pass on my regards, too.
After a long volley of drawn-out goodbyes that would satisfy any Brit, the call ends.
Lily-Anne slumps back in her seat with a sigh.
“Sorry. Mum worries a lot. Ever since the helicopter crash—” Her voice cracks, and when she finally regains her smile, it’s too quick, too bright.
A mask, I realise. “She never flies anymore, not even locally.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say in a low voice. “It would have been a shock.”
“I saw the footage,” she whispers.
I tense, recalling it too. As if losing someone isn’t enough, to have it replayed for strangers is a cruelty I’m familiar with.
Jeremy was on a helicopter tour over Sydney Harbour with clients when mechanical failure brought the chopper down. A tourist climbing the Harbour Bridge caught the terrifying moment it plummeted from the sky.
My voice comes out low. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been—for you and your whole family.”
She nods. “It was on the news for a while. Especially the local news. Online was worse—the algorithms seemed to think I wanted to see news stories and ads for tour charters. That was when I quit social media.”
“Understandable.”
She grows quiet, shoulders folding inward, her thoughts clearly somewhere faraway.
“I’m not on social media either anymore,” I eventually volunteer to dispel the tension. “Nor do I travel. I used to live out of a suitcase. Now I barely leave Kent.”
“Do you miss it? Travelling?”
“No,” I say immediately. “Whitstable suits me.”
I hope you like it there too, I nearly add.
“Was it the sunny days that drew you?” She smirks.
“Actually, it doesn’t normally rain much this time of year. Bit of a stereotype.”
She indicates the rain pelting the windscreen, her eyebrow arched.
“Statistical anomaly, actually,” I say. “I’ll have you know that June is one of the driest months for us.”
She indicates the windscreen again, and I laugh.
Nova’s ghost gives a long, pointed yawn before finally fading, the tension in my chest going with her.
The silence that follows is gentler, Lily-Anne humming again. She seems more tired now, her eyes unfocused as motorway signs blur past.
“There’s a service station up ahead if you’d like breakfast,” I offer.
“I’m fine for now,” she says, stifling a yawn.
“Alright. Why don’t you try to sleep?”
“That’s okay. I thought I’d be jet-lagged, but I’m wide awake. Besides, I don’t want to miss anything.”
I don’t reply, just give that small, useless smile I seem to give when I’ve run out of words.
She cracks the window and breathes in. I do the same, the cool air clearing my head.
A floral scent reaches me, with a hint of citrus, and I realise it’s Lily-Anne’s perfume. I inhale softly.
Eventually, the city falls away behind us, the fog thinning to reveal hedgerows and gently rolling hills.
“These seat warmers are so toasty,” she sighs contentedly, sinking deeper into her seat.
“Don’t fall asleep—you might miss something,” I tease, repeating her words back to her.
A soft laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
But her eyes drift shut, and a minute later, her head tips onto her shoulder, her breath slowing in sleep.
I reach over and carefully return the thermos to its cupholder. Blonde waves spill over her shoulder, falling across her eyes. I resist the urge to smooth them away.
Instead, I steal another glance at her. Then another.
And then I keep my eyes wide open and fixed on the road.