Chapter 15 Permission
Permission
Lily-Anne
I peel off my wet clothes and step into the shower, letting hot water wash away the chill.
Brandon’s face won’t leave me. Not just the way his gaze held mine in the rain, but the tortured look that followed when Nova’s voice cut through the storm. He carries so much sorrow beneath that calm exterior. I wish I could offer him some comfort.
I close my eyes and relax beneath the shower’s heat, letting dreamy clouds of steam wrap around me.
My mind drifts back to the alleyway—that luminous moment beneath the awning, the tearoom’s glow catching every raindrop, every detail of him. For a dizzying second, I thought he was leaning in. And I leaned in too.
“You’re imagining things,” Toby’s voice slithers through the steam. “Why would he want to kiss you?”
I shut off the tap, pressing my forehead against the cool tiles until the voice fades.
So what if I fancy Brandon? It’s a silly little crush. I’ll get over it. He’s still bound to Natalie’s memory, and the last thing I want is to complicate things. Besides, I came to England to find myself again—not to fall in love.
As I think of Nova, and how much of herself she gave away trying to be what others wanted, something in me finally lets go. I don’t want to disappear like that.
Tomorrow, I’ll make a fresh start. Like Brandon said, I didn’t lose my music. I was waiting for permission.
I forgot it was mine before anyone else’s.
There’s nothing standing in my way anymore.
Not even me.
***
Sunlight warms my face when I wake late the next morning. I forgot to close the curtains last night, yet I somehow still slept through to eleven.
I lie in bed, breathing evenly as lyrics drift into my mind like a gentle breeze.
The song title comes to me first: Goodbye Shadow. I picture sunny hills covered in wildflowers, and the lyrics find me.
Goodbye shadow
You just cling to the doorway
Watch me, follow me—if you can
But my suitcase is light
And my heart’s still beating
With hope-driven steps
To a place I can breathe
I snap awake.
Quick, before I forget!
I grab a pencil and the spiral notebook I use for songwriting. It was a birthday gift from Ellenor, covered in tiny snowy owls, and it’s crammed with years of half-finished lyrics and messy guitar tabs. Somehow, I always manage to find a bit of space to squeeze in more.
Settling onto the couch, I spend the next hour scribbling lines and humming to myself, chasing the melody I dreamt of before it fades away.
I pause only to fix myself an instant coffee and a toasted jam croissant, then move to sit on the sun-drenched balcony with my guitar.
There aren’t many pedestrians about, and most are across the road, walking dogs or pushing prams, too lost in their own world to notice me. I quietly pluck strings, but I soon set my guitar aside for another reason: this song really needs a high E.
And I need a proper coffee.
Trading pyjamas for stretchy jeggings and a T-shirt, I pull on a knitted hoodie. With my sneakers still damp, I opt for Ellenor’s glittery ballet flats.
I do my hair and makeup and head downstairs.
The house is quiet. Brandon must be at work.
A small pang hits to know he’s not here, but I quickly dismiss it. I should be moving on, not listening out for his footsteps, hoping to bump into him like some lovesick teenager.
I need to get on with my day.
First step: negotiating a truce with the espresso machine.
Unfortunately, we cannot agree on terms, and the gleaming hunk of steel glares back at me with the red blinking LEDs of a sworn adversary. Either that, or it’s signalling an error.
I mash a button with a coffee cup icon in vain, but the machine beeps in protest.
“Fine. Be like that,” I grumble.
“Good morning. Need a hand?”
Brandon’s voice startles me. I spin around so fast it’s a good thing my cup is empty. He’s standing in the doorway, hair dishevelled, rugged up in charcoal pyjamas and a maroon-and-tan striped dressing gown.
“Hi! I thought you were at work.” Panic skitters through me at the memory of last night, of almost kissing him, and I immediately busy myself at the sink, washing my hands for no reason whatsoever.
His cough draws my attention, and I really look at him this time. Pale, with shadows under his eyes.
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve—”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he confirms, voice hoarse. “I’ve called in sick with the flu.”
My heart sinks. “I guess getting caught in the rain didn’t help.”
“No. Nor did getting dunked at the oyster farm.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault. It was an accident.”
I arch an eyebrow mischievously. “Or…was it?”
A hint of a smirk forms. “I knew it.” He clears his throat, the sound rough. “I could make you a coffee, but I don’t want to risk you catching this. I’m hoping it’s just a cold, but…”
“Oh, don’t worry about me! I can fend for myself. I’ll just grab one in town later. It’s you we should be worried about.”
The words are barely out before my brain is already racing ahead.
Mum would make soup whenever Ellenor or I were sick.
“You need soup,” I say decisively.
He blinks. “Soup?”
“Yes. Proper soup. That’s what you do when someone’s sick.”
“A bit odd in summer.”
“Flu is a bit odd in summer,” I point out.
“Fair point.”
“I’ll have to grab some from town, though,” I add. “Safer than me cooking—unless you want slimy pumpkin seeds all over your ceiling.”
“You don’t have to do anything for me,” he says at once.
“I know, but—” I hesitate, then shrug. “I’ve got time. And it feels wrong to just…leave you.”
Something shifts in his expression, softening. “Well,” he says carefully, “I wouldn’t say no to some soup.”
Relief sparks through me, warm and immediate.
“Great. Then it’s settled.” I head for the door, but he calls after me.
“But I doubt you’ll find any soup this time of year—especially pumpkin. It’s really not a thing here.”
I linger in the doorway, trying to hide a smile. “Wanna bet?”
He studies me, understanding flickering across his face. “You found some already, didn’t you?”
I give him a knowing grin. “Get some rest. I’ll be back.”
It’s only once I’m outside, walking down the street away from the cottage, that doubt finally catches up with me. I was so busy trying to act normal—to smooth over the awkwardness of last night, of making a complete fool of myself—that I didn’t think it through.
Returning to Willoughby’s is probably not the best idea I’ve ever had.