Chapter 10 Strung Too Tight
Strung Too Tight
Lily-Anne
We decide to return to the beach, bundled up in windcheaters against the chill. Mine’s borrowed from Brandon, the sleeves too long and smelling faintly of him and the sea. He’s carrying a picnic rug and a thermos of coffee. I’ve got my guitar case in hand, swinging it with purpose.
The rug doesn’t do much to soften the pebbles, but we settle onto it anyway, knees brushing as we face the moonlit sea.
I unlatch the case and remove the Cole Clark, the blackwood cold to the touch.
Brandon doesn’t say anything, not even to ask what I plan to play. He just waits, long legs stretched in front of him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets as he stares out at the water.
I brush my fingers over the strings, relishing the familiar ring as it shivers through the wood and into my hands. I position my fingers on the fretboard.
And play.
It’s not one of Toby’s clever arrangements, nor a formal classical piece. Just something simple. Something of mine. It’s a song I started writing years ago but never quite finished.
Midway through the intro, I stop. My hands are stiff, and I’m all too aware of Brandon listening, even if his gaze is fixed on the sea. He’s the only person to hear this song since I showed it to Toby, who called it ‘too sentimental, too emotional, too Taylor Swift’.
“I’m a little rusty,” I apologise. “I haven’t played since I quit the ensemble six weeks ago.”
Brandon glances at me, recognition in his eyes. “That’s when you left Toby.”
I nod.
“That’s a significant upheaval.”
I shrug. “I think it was a good change.”
“I agree,” he says. “But even good changes can come with stress.”
I hesitate. “I don’t feel stressed. Just…blocked.”
His mouth curves, like he knows something I don’t.
“I’m not stressed,” I say, then snort softly. Maybe I am.
“Six weeks won’t erase years of training,” he says.
“It feels like it has.”
“Well,” he says lightly, “it sounds good so far. Something you wrote?”
“Yes. But I haven’t played it for anyone in ages.”
He shifts beside me, his tone amused. “Perhaps we should come back when the beach is less crowded.”
I glance at the deserted shoreline and laugh.
“It’s only me,” he says reassuringly.
Sure.
‘Only’ someone who used to manage some of the world’s best artists in Australia and the UK.
Only someone who worked with my dad.
Only someone who, I’m still hoping, might have the answers.
Someone whose proximity is causing ridiculous flutters to run through me.
“You’ll probably think it’s sentimental,” I warn.
“They’re the best kind.”
My posture relaxes. “Alright.”
After a moment, I start again. The melody trembles in places, but it’s real.
I’m not just playing—I’m good. A heady calm sweeps through me, and though I’ve barely begun, I know it’s going to go well.
Brandon turns his head towards me slightly, head cocked as he listens.
I breathe in, reposition my fingers, and transition to the next chord. Yes. Perfect.
I draw breath, poised to sing the first word of my lyrics.
Snap.
The sound cracks through the air like a firework, and I flinch back, staring in shock at the coiled, broken string, its frayed end mere inches from my face.
No, no, no…
Not here. Not now. Not when I’m on the verge of a breakthrough.
I remain frozen, unable to continue, my heart sinking fast as the silence roars in my ears.
“Ah, the high E—usual culprit,” Brandon says breezily, shifting closer to survey me. “Didn’t get you, did it?”
I touch my face, shaking my head. “No. I’m fine. I…” My voice catches. “I didn’t even press that hard. It just…broke.”
Like me. Misery claws up through my chest, hot and helpless, catching somewhere behind my ribs.
It’s just a broken string, like so many others I’ve had over the years, but this one triggers a tidal wave I’m not ready for.
A thousand I-told-you-sos flood my mind, Toby’s voice raking up old shame.
“May I?” Brandon asks, holding out his hand.
I hesitate, then pass him the guitar, trying not to show how much the snapped string bothers me. He inspects the damage with quiet focus, his thumbs brushing the fretboard.
Then, without a word, he tucks the broken ends of the string out of the way and shifts the guitar into his lap, his hands moving with unexpected ease as he retunes the ones that remain.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
A wry smile tugs at his lips. “Adjusting for damage.”
When I continue to stare at him, puzzled, he adds, “We’re not aiming for perfection, remember?”
He begins to play, coaxing out a bossa nova tune, mellow and earthy without the high E. I sit back, astonished, as his fingers move with a fluid, lazy elegance, gentle and unhurried like the waves lapping at the shore.
I shake my head. “Wow. This is what you meant by ‘sort of’ when I asked you if you play?”
“Well. I dabble in a few instruments.”
“This is dabbling?”
“Nowhere near your calibre.”
His words snag. Assured, as if he’s heard me play before. “How do you know what my calibre is?”
“Your father once showed me a video of you playing at a high school concert.”
My eyes widen. “No. He didn’t.”
“He did. You played Recuerdos de la Alhambra.”
“Oh no.”
He chuckles. “Why ‘oh no’? You were brilliant, as I recall.”
“I should have chosen something easier. I made so many mistakes.”
“That doesn’t matter. It was beautiful to hear—even on your father’s flip phone.”
That draws a smile from me as I remember the old flip phone. The videos were of poor quality, and Ellenor begged him to get a new one.
“Let’s try another.” Brandon starts a new song, his energy catching me off-guard. The opening bars are off-kilter, jaunty, slightly ridiculous—the melody unmistakable.
I gape. “Is that—?”
“He’s a Pirate,” he confirms solemnly, fingers dancing over the strings.
From Pirates of the Caribbean.
The absurdity cracks something open within me, and before I can stop it, a laugh bursts from my throat, high and shaky and full of feeling. “I thought you were going to play something serious!”
“Serious?”
“Something…profound. Like, classical.”
“Oh no,” he says, still plucking at strings. “No, no, no. Profound is overrated.”
He grins easily—so different to the tiny, restrained smiles. Heat unfurls under my skin and I look away, hoping he hasn’t noticed how easily he disarms me.
Eventually, the melody transitions to something more peaceful and calming.
I lean back on my hands, eyes on the stars. My chest still aches, but it’s the good kind. The kind that says I tried.
Even if I failed.
“Your turn,” Brandon says suddenly, silencing the strings and passing the guitar back to me.
“My turn?”
“Yes. I think so.”
I want to protest, but there’s a gentle gleam in his eyes that gives me pause. Apparently, he believes I can.
Maybe I should start believing too.
“Alright,” I sigh. “But I warn you, this next song might put yours to shame.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
I adjust the tuning to suit me, doing the best I can by ear. Two chords. I’m only going to need two chords for this song, and it will be passable even with the missing string. And oh-so-stupid.
I form the first chord, already smiling as I strum the song that every high-schooler who’s ever picked up a guitar knows: A Horse with No Name.
I surprise myself when I start to sing. Tentative but clear.
Brandon chortles beside me, which only spurs me on, and I manage to spiral through the chorus a few times before winding down. Still playing, but slowly, not quite ready to let the song go yet.
Unexpectedly, he clears his throat and begins to sing.
I jolt, blinking at him in disbelief. His voice is deep and deliberate, as always, but now it’s threaded with the melody, flowing into my ears like warm honey, rich and mesmerising.
My hand slips on a chord. This feels different. The low timbre of his voice presses in around me, and I suddenly feel exposed and vulnerable as every cell in my body hums. Even the breeze feels too much on my skin.
Somehow, I manage to keep playing. The song feels heavier than it should, and I pour every ounce of feeling into it, as if we’re singing a sacred hymn.
When it ends, I sit in a strange quiet, unsure what to do with the rush still moving through me.
“Well,” he says lightly, offering me a small smile, “that’s got to count for something.” He rises, brushing grit from his clothes. “And I do think it’s worth opening a bottle of champagne for.”
I frown, silently willing my heart rate to slow. “Champagne?”
He pulls a tiny bottle from his jacket pocket—a miniature one, hardly bigger than his palm—and cracks the seal before giving it a shake. “What do you think?”
“Err, sure…”
A fine mist of bubbles sprays out above us, catching in the moonlight.
He passes me the bottle and jokes, “Don’t drink it all at once.”
I take a sip. It’s sweeter than I expect. Even better than the glass I had on the plane.
We start walking back towards the cottage, our jackets rustling in the breeze. Brandon finishes the bottle with a casual tilt of his hand, and I can’t help but notice, with a low tug in my stomach, that his lips touch where mine did.
It’s an odd thought—one I quickly dismiss.
It’s just champagne.
Although…
As we cross the street to the quiet row of cottages, it dawns on me that he’d had the foresight to bring the champagne to the beach. As if he believed I would succeed.
That thought lifts me up even more than the bubbly does.