Chapter 9 After the Bitter End
After the Bitter End
Lily-Anne
By seven o’clock, my dress is nearly dry. The skirt is still damper than I’d like, but it’s either this or jeans, and I want to make an effort for dinner.
I smooth the fabric where it’s wrinkled and glance in my bedroom mirror.
This isn’t a date. I know that. Brandon’s just being polite and playing host, making sure his lodger upstairs doesn’t starve.
Still, I’m oddly nervous at the prospect of going out. It’s been a while.
I used to have lots of friends in high school—the kind who’d drag me out for late-night pancakes or turn study breaks into karaoke marathons. Then came university and Toby, and I lost touch, my own circle slowly replaced by his. When things ended recently, so did those friendships.
It left me adrift.
I reconnected with Ellenor and Mum easily enough, but I was horrified to realise how much I’d pushed them away—how they’d waited quietly in the wings of my relationship with Toby, hoping I’d snap out of it, that the old Lily would come back.
Rekindling old friendships was harder. Everyone had moved on. My best friend from high school had a baby, and I didn’t even know. The guilt of it still stings. I was the one who disappeared.
Now here I am, going out for dinner with a man I barely know. A man who used to manage actual musicians. It’s not a date. Brandon’s just being a polite host. I’ve tried to tone down my shocking red dress with white sneakers and a denim jacket.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and tell myself to stop overthinking.
“This is fine,” I promise myself.
I find Brandon in the hall downstairs, the light catching in his combed, side-swept hair, shadows deepening the thoughtful lines of his face.
He looks nice. Black jeans that draw out the long lines of his legs and a navy shirt.
The boat shoes make me smile. They suit him, but Ellenor would have teased and asked where his yacht is.
When Brandon sees me, he freezes, eyes catching on my dress like he wasn’t prepared for it. He takes me in slowly, almost dazed, and heat shimmers across my skin in answer.
I pull my jacket closer, and the small movement seems to snap him out of his trance. He drags his gaze back up, clearing his throat.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
I nod and follow him outside.
As we pass the pink cottage next door, the smoky smell of a barbecue drifts past, making my mouth water.
Suddenly, Brandon takes my elbow and angles me around a pool of lamplight.
“Stay out of the light,” he murmurs.
“What? Why?” I ask. His touch is fleeting, but it fires a faint charge beneath my skin.
“Best if Rupert and Barbara don’t see us. They’ll invite us to dinner.”
“Oh.” I glance at the lace-framed windows, silhouettes shifting beyond them. It could be my imagination, but I think I see the curtains sway. “And that’s…bad?”
“Not bad, per se,” he says carefully. “But they’re a little on the intense side of…intense.”
“I’m sure I can handle it,” I say, half-challenging.
“I don’t doubt it. But theirs is the sort of acquaintance that, once made, cannot easily be lost.”
I frown as we walk on, curious what makes him so wary of the neighbours.
It’s a peaceful night, but the sleepy hush lifts as we near the heart of town. The streets grow brighter, the low hum of conversation drifting from restaurants bars.
The Irish pub comes into view, golden light spilling from its arched, dark wood-framed windows. The thump of music and the chatter of voices make my heartbeat quicken. Cream letters above the green-painted door spell out the pub’s name.
“The Bitter End?” I read.
“Sean, the owner, is an optimist,” Brandon says simply, pushing open the door. “After you.”
Hot air rushes out to meet us, thick with sound and the mingling scents of food and beer.
Low amber lights cast soft shadows across walls decorated with tiles and wood panelling.
The round, rustic tables are full of diners, and there’s barely space to move between them with patrons packed shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing mid-conversation.
In the far corner, a raised stage glows under blue lights, where a folk trio stamp their feet and holler into the mic to a lively tune.
I try to take it all in—the noise, the crowd, the stuffiness.
Brandon glances at me. “Would you rather go somewhere quieter?”
I hesitate. It is a little overwhelming, but the fact that he’s asking settles something in me. Besides, there’s an energy in the air, with music pushing against the walls and laughter spilling out in bursts, that makes me want to be a part of it even if I feel like an outsider right now.
“No,” I decide. “This is great. Really.”
“Come this way, then. I’ll introduce you to Sean.”
I follow Brandon as he moves through the crowd. There’s something magnetic about the way he carries himself, like he’s used to moving through a room without needing to demand attention.
At the bar, a solidly built man with auburn hair and a thick, silver-streaked beard looks up—and scowls, straightening to his full height. His gruff voice has a distinct Irish lilt. “Brandon. What do you want?”
Brandon leans against the bar, fingers drumming the surface playfully. “Let’s see, now…I think I’ll have…” He takes a moment to consider. “A Guinness.”
“Fuck off with you.”
I look between them, taken aback.
Brandon shrugs. “Well, that’s what I want.”
“You don’t even like Guinness.”
“When in Rome…”
Sean’s scowl deepens, then his gaze slides to me. “This the Aussie?”
“Lily-Anne,” Brandon says smoothly. “From Sydney.”
Sean considers me, then he huffs softly. “Sydney, huh? I’ve always wanted to visit. Tell me, have you ever had to box a kangaroo?”
I blink. “Box a…kangaroo?”
“Or a shark.” He flexes his arm, the sleeve pulling tight over solid muscle as his fist closes. “I’ve heard if one swims up to you, the trick is to punch them. Give ‘em the old one-two to scare them off.”
“Well, no, not exactly…”
“Speaking of stereotypes,” Brandon interjects coolly, flipping open the laminated menu. “I think I fancy that shamrock cake tonight.”
Sean’s face darkens as he snatches the menu from him. “Piss off. That’s only for tourists.” His expression softens as his eyes dart to me. “And what are you having, love?”
I order my drink and glance at the stage, but the band has just finished up. Claps resound around us as the trio is replaced by a band composed of lanky middle-aged men in faded leather jackets and sports sunglasses.
“On the house,” Sean says to me, sliding a fizzling vodka raspberry across the bar before slamming Brandon’s tulip glass down so hard the foam spills onto the counter. “And that’s double, since you made me pour a bloody Guinness you don’t intend to drink when it’s busy.”
“I’ll drink it,” Brandon promises.
“See that you do.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, wallet already in hand.
“Nonsense,” Brandon says. “You’re my guest.”
“But I’d like to.” I drop my voice, conscious of the noise around us. “I don’t want to feel like I’m relying on you for everything.”
His expression softens, losing its guarded edge, but his resolve holds. “I understand. But for tonight…let me.”
I’m about to protest, but Sean aims his scowl at my wallet. “Oi. Put that away, or I’ll start charging everyone’s drinks to Brandon’s tab. Go on, now—you’re blocking the bar.”
I laugh under my breath.
“Come, let’s find a table,” Brandon says.
A couple of tables have freed up, and I point to the one near the stage. “Over there?”
“I had a feeling you’d choose the musicians’ seats.” He smiles. “Planning to watch for mistakes, are you?”
“Of course not! But I do want to see their techniques.”
He chuckles. “It’s alright. I like the front row too. Fair warning, though—these lads get a bit enthusiastic. Try not to boo them off the stage.”
“I would never do that!” I protest, even though I can tell he’s teasing.
We take our seats. I sip my drink, relishing the flavour as he recounts his and Sean’s triumphs and mishaps renovating the flat. When I ask about the clawfoot tub, he only gives a vague answer, but I imagine it was no small feat to get it upstairs.
I go to take another sip, only to realise I’ve drained my glass.
“Another?” Brandon offers.
“Yes, please,” I say shyly, and a few minutes later, he returns with a fresh raspberry vodka just as our food arrives.
As I lift my fork to cut a piece of cottage pie, the band on stage launches into their first song. Or tries to.
The guitarist jumps in a beat too early, derailing the rhythm as the others scramble to catch up. The lead singer is mostly on key, but the two backup vocalists are wandering in and out of harmony. My fingers twitch against the table on instinct, itching to nudge the beat back to where it belongs.
Oblivious, the band members in their mirrored wraparound sunglasses barrel on, loving every second.
I glance around to see what everyone else is making of it. To my surprise, the crowd cheers and claps along like this train wreck is exactly what they came for.
When I look back at Brandon, he’s paused mid-bite, fingers tapping along to the rhythm—if it can be called that.
“Am I missing something?” I ask, baffled.
“They’re popular,” Brandon replies simply. “They’re not perfect, but they always draw a good crowd. People appreciate that.”
I frown. If I’d played this loosely, Toby would have had an aneurysm.
Yet the band’s sheer joy has me captivated. They’re having the time of their lives, and I find myself craving a piece of whatever they’re feeling up there.
“They look happy,” I note.
“Yes…” Brandon follows my gaze. “There’s something liberating about embracing your mistakes.”
“Oh?” I mull that over, my heart lurching in time with whatever it is the band thinks it’s playing. My fingers curl against my thigh, forming the ghost of an old chord shape before I can stop myself.
I still know how to play. My hands remember everything. It’s the fear of getting it wrong that paralyses me.