Chapter 5 Baggage #2
“I owe your father more than I could ever repay,” he says quietly.
A hush falls at the mention of my father. What began as a casual conversation is now a doorway to something deeper.
After a pause, I ask, “What happened?”
“I lost someone once, and it nearly broke me. Her name was Natalie. He got me through it.”
“When you say you lost her…”
“She died.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” I take a tiny step closer, then draw back. “Was she your partner?”
He nods. “At one stage, yes. We dated for a time, until it became clear we weren’t right for each other. She died a year after we split up.”
We fall silent. He watches the rain, sleeves rolled, profile sharp in the muted light. Serious and self-contained.
With his gaze turned away, I let myself study him—the thoughtful brows, the strong line of his jaw and prominent nose, the way his shirt pulls when he shifts. There’s an intensity in his stillness that draws me in.
“I’m not here because of some debt,” I finally stammer. “Am I?”
When he turns, I don’t look away fast enough. His dark eyes catch mine, and my pulse skips hard.
“I’m afraid,” he says after a moment, “at least for my part, you are.”
I fold my arms, trying to steady myself. He’s simply stating what we already know. I used my father’s name to get here, after all. But hearing it spoken so plainly—that I am a tally mark on a ledger rather than a guest—stings more than I expect.
Because I thought, once I got here, I could just be known for who I am.
“My dad wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to repay him for anything,” I say.
He exhales slowly. “I’m not trying to repay him. I’m trying to explain why I’m here at all.”
I freeze.
Does he mean…?
His gaze drops, jaw tightening.
“You must have loved Natalie very much,” I say softly.
“Well…It’s more complicated than that. As I said, we were already over when she died, but I still cared about her. I tried to stay in touch. To offer support. But…” He trails off.
“How did she d—?” I begin, then wince. “Sorry, it’s none of my business—”
“That’s alright.” His gaze becomes distant. “She took her own life.”
The words hit like a cold wave.
“Oh, Brandon…”
He rubs his face. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to stray into such a heavy topic.”
“You don’t have to apologise. Sometimes it’s good to talk about things.”
“I never do,” he admits, squaring his shoulders. “I only wanted to make the point that if it wasn’t for your father, I honestly don’t know how I would have managed. So helping you feels like the right thing to do.”
I nod silently, his words settling unevenly.
Would he have helped me if I weren’t my father’s daughter?
Or is this a transaction, pure and simple?
He turns to stare out the window again, his hands in his pockets.
Rain taps against the glass, louder now.
I want to ask more: about my dad; about who the woman in his past is; about the man standing in front of me, whose grief is so carefully contained. He’s holding himself unnaturally still, like any movement might let something slip.
And even though I’ve just met him, my heart aches. I’ve stepped into something raw, something that doesn’t quite belong to me. He’s shared a sliver of his pain, and it creeps under my skin, bleeding into mine.
I don’t want to be the reason he has to feel this way now.
“Brandon…” I hesitate, urging myself to stay quiet even as I search for the right words.
“Hm?” He doesn’t turn. Maybe he doesn’t trust himself to.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but all I can think of is the fact we both lost someone. We’re both hurting.
And we both knew my dad.
Words crystallise, uninvited.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” I mumble to his back. “My dad, he’s—” I cut myself off, sucking in a breath as tears spring to my eyes. Damn it. Don’t cry.
How bloody disappointing, to realise I’ve dragged all my emotional baggage to England.
New country.
Same problems.
Same Lily.
To make matters worse, Brandon’s noticed. He turns back, concern etched deep across his brow, his dark eyes glassy in the glow. There’s something haunted in his expression. “Lily-Anne…”
“You don’t owe him anything. Okay?”
My voice cracks on the last word.
He looks stricken. “I’ve upset you.”
“No! You haven’t. I’m just…tired.”
He nods, but his jaw flexes. “I should let you rest. The heating’s there if you want to turn it up. And…we can sort out dinner later if you’d like to sleep. Unless you want to push through to beat the jet lag, of course.”
I shake my head, already thinking of bed. I’m exhausted, and too emotional for my own good. “Sleep sounds good. And dinner. I’ll come downstairs at…seven?”
“Seven works. I was thinking of a pub—there’s a good one nearby, owned by a friend of mine.”
“Not the same friend who made the bookshelves?”
“The one and the same. He took over an Irish pub a few years ago. The food is excellent.”
My stomach gives a faint rumble, one I’m glad Brandon doesn’t hear. “Sounds perfect. I’m glad I don’t have to cook tonight. Cheese toasties require a lot of concentration, you know.”
“Of course.”
He thinks I’m joking, but Ellenor was always the foodie. Next to her overachieving in the kitchen, I didn’t see the point in learning to cook.
Still, Brandon’s smiling, and the tension eases a fraction more.
“I’ll leave you to settle in,” he says, closing the door behind him. Faintly, I hear his footsteps on the spiral stairs.
I unpack my things, take a hot shower, and pull on leggings and an oversized pink T-shirt. In the mini fridge, I find fruit and yoghurt.
How thoughtful.
After eating, I make myself a strong instant coffee, thinking maybe I’ll skip the nap after all. I sit on the cream couch, trying not to doze off as I wait for the caffeine to kick in. By the time I’ve drained the mug, however, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.
Just a small nap, I tell myself as I drift towards the bedroom. I collapse onto the soft mattress and drag the covers over me, trying to picture what sharing a meal with Brandon will be like.
He’s not what I expected. There’s no swagger, no showiness, just a quiet confidence that has a charm of its own. He intrigues me, and I’m anticipating dinner a little too much.
Stop it, I scold myself, shifting restlessly. I’m here because he feels he owes my dad, not because he actually wants my company.
Just like I only came for his help.
It makes me feel bad, though. Cheap.
So I make a mental note to pay for dinner.