Chapter 9 After the Bitter End #3
“Impossible,” he mutters, the word tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
The wind slackens, the sea whispering in the lull.
Then he asks, “Are you okay?”
The honesty catches in my throat. “No,” I admit. “Not really.”
His expression tightens, his tone sympathetic. “Anyone would struggle with music after what you’ve been through.”
“That’s what scares me the most—losing my passion for music. I made a New Year’s resolution to finally work on my songs again, but now it’s June, and they’re just as unfinished as they were in high school.”
“You can still finish them,” Brandon says.
“That’s if they’re any good,” I mutter.
He doesn’t rush in with an ‘I’m sure they’re amazing! ’ like everyone else does.
And I wish he would. Just a little.
His quiet lands too sharply, and for a second, I take it as agreement—that my songs are useless.
Which isn’t fair to him. He hasn’t heard a single note. But even so, the fear digs in.
Then he adds, “When you’re ready…I’d love to hear one.”
A small thing. But it steadies me.
It isn’t praise. It isn’t pressure. Just a quiet space he’s leaving open for me. And something in that—something I don’t fully understand—feels like mercy.
“Anyway. I ended it six weeks ago…” I pause, remembering the echo of that day. My voice thins. “We were at a rehearsal when Toby told me to sell my guitar in front of everyone.”
“The one your father bought you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His cold tone catches me off-guard.
My words are barely audible. “He said I’d been struggling with it for months.”
Brandon’s nostrils flare, but he says nothing.
I remember being painfully aware of the other musicians watching as I hugged my guitar closer, as if I could shield it from him.
“That was the final straw,” I say in a low voice. “When I left him, I thought playing music would get easier, but instead…it just stopped.” A dull heaviness settles in my chest. “Now, I can’t play at all. I can’t even sing, let alone write any lyrics.”
“Six weeks is still very recent. You can’t expect to feel whole again straight away.”
“I suppose not. But I feel so stuck. It’s like I left the music with him, and now I don’t know how to get it back.”
“He didn’t take it from you, if that’s any reassurance.”
Strangely, it is. But it’s not enough.
I attempt a light joke. “So, what are we going to do to fix me?”
He frowns. “Fix you?”
“You know, get me playing music again.”
“Nothing.”
My breath stutters. “Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
The certainty in his tone startles me. I stare as he stoops for another stone, winds back to throw it—then hesitates. He turns it over, then offers it to me.
Not a stone, I realise. It’s smooth, cloudy white, and almost translucent in the moonlight.
“Sea glass—weathered to sublime imperfection.” He places it in my palm, his voice dropping. “Music is not about being perfect. It’s about living in the moment. As for your creative block, try to be patient. The music will return when you’re ready.”
He climbs down to the shoreline, and after a moment of hesitation, I follow.
“But…what should I actually do?” I ask, before mumbling, “aside from being patient.”
He gives me a sideways look, half-amused, half-serious. “You want homework?”
“Yes.”
Scales. Exercises. Worksheets.
A bloody podcast.
Something.
He falls quiet, contemplating his reply. “You said you want to write songs. Well, you can gather material in other ways—no guitar, no singing. Perhaps not even pen and paper.”
“I don’t…quite understand.” By which I mean I don’t understand at all.
“I’ve found the best musicians are the ones who’ve lived—seen things, felt things.
The music comes from that. Theatre, art, travel, heartbreak…
love.” The last word lands too softly, as if he’s unsure of it.
“Even politics. You form your own opinions. Then, when you’re ready to play again—and I’ve no doubt you will—the music will have something to draw from. ”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t see the confusion his words have stirred in me. I wasn’t sure what I expected. A pep talk? Another taskmaster like Toby? Or someone maddeningly zen, dog-whispering my struggles away with a quiet word?
Whatever I imagined, Brandon isn’t that. I’ve come an awfully long way to hear that maybe the only way forward is to stop playing music altogether.
Our footsteps crunch in rhythm on the pebbled beach as I consider his words. I never had a real plan—only Toby’s dream, borrowed and mistaken for my own. All I know is that I don’t want to be famous. I just want to create music to share with others and earn enough to get by.
I chew my lip, mind working. Brandon said to live in the moment. To not worry about making mistakes.
But I also don’t want to sit around waiting for the music to come to me. I want to make it happen, or at least meet it halfway.
The idea hits me so suddenly I inhale sharply and grab his shirtsleeve, tugging him back towards the cottage.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I want to try playing something,” I blurt. “On my guitar.”
“Wait. Now?”
“Yes. Right now. I mean—” I glance down and release his sleeve, blinking rapidly. I hadn’t meant to do that. “I don’t know if it’ll come out right, but I want to try. There’s no time like the present, right?”
He considers me for a moment, eyes thoughtful. “Well, then. Let’s go get your guitar.”
I start marching down the beach, but this time he’s the one who catches my sleeve, gently tugging me back.
Confused, I stare up at him in the darkness, but he simply points to a row of cottages nearby.
“We’re just over there.”
“Oh. Right. I didn’t realise we walked this far.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and beneath his steady gaze, my skin heats.
“What?” I demand.
“You looked ready to march all the way to Botany Bay,” he says, laughter low in his voice.
“I was not!”
“No?”
“Wait—do you mean Botany Bay in Sydney? Or is there one here too?”
His smile widens, eyes crinkling. “There is. But it’s a long walk up the coast. The other one,” he adds dryly, “would require a very committed swim.”
I swat his arm. “You’re impossible.”
He chuckles. “So, where shall we go? The Australian coastline? Or your cottage?”
“The cottage will do,” I mutter.
“Very well.”
Flustered, I let him take the lead.
But only for a moment. A thrill runs through me, heady and alive, as I fall into step beside him. Soon, I’m ahead of him, practically skipping, elated to finally be moving in the direction that I want to go.