Chapter 17 A Glimmer of Something #2
An ache of worry stirs. She might be leaping too soon, chasing an old rhythm before she’s ready. Experienced though she is, open wounds like hers don’t vanish with a stage light.
But that choice belongs to her.
“Take it at your own pace,” I suggest. “You’ve nothing to prove.”
She nods. “Are you sure it’s okay if I go back to the café? Given that things are…strained between you two?”
Her consideration gives me pause. She shouldn’t be tiptoeing around my history. How can I ask her to avoid something as ordinary as a coffee shop?
“Don’t stay away on my account,” I say, though it feels like chewing glass. “Just be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
I hesitate. What am I warning her against, exactly? Jack’s aloofness? His self-centredness? Or…
“His charm, perhaps?” Nova’s smoky breath brushes my ear before fading.
Lily-Anne clears the table slowly, waiting for me to answer.
I cast for the right words. The last thing she needs is Jack Willoughby’s mercurial charm unsettling her confidence. But I haven’t spoken to the man in years. Who’s to say he hasn’t changed?
So, I keep to neutral ground and say, “After everything you’ve been through, I think you should slow down.”
She stills. “Slow down? But I thought…you told me to live in the moment. Have experiences.”
She isn’t wrong.
When we walked along the beach last night, she was so terrified of failure, of not being enough, that it was smothering her ability to play a single note.
But now…it feels different. I can’t explain why. Perhaps I know her better. Fear for her more.
She’s patient in all things except herself, desperate for something concrete.
I only know I don’t want her blindsided again. Not by him. Not by anyone.
“Lily-Anne…” I take a breath. “I’m not sure forcing yourself back into music so quickly is what you need right now. There’s nothing wrong with stepping away for a breather.”
As soon as the words are out, I wince. They sound like doubt, not care.
Her smile dims. “You don’t think I can handle it.”
“I didn’t say that,” I say gently. “I just think you deserve some breathing room. Wait until you feel the desire to play again.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, standing and brushing the last crumbs from the table. There’s a tightness around her eyes now as she whispers, “What if I never feel it?”
I get to my feet as well. “Then maybe you don’t have to chase it.”
Her eyes flick up, confused and hurt. “Music is my dream.”
“Yes, but your dream doesn’t have to stay the same forever. It can evolve. And you’re allowed to want something different. That isn’t failure—it’s growth.”
Her eyes snap to mine, wounded. “I don’t want to evolve away from it.”
A silence falls as I replay my words, hearing them the way she must have. I must sound so disillusioned.
“Forgive me,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I doubt you.”
“I know. You’re just looking out for me.” She gives me a small, tired smile. “I just wish I didn’t doubt myself.”
“For what it’s worth, I believe you’ll play again. I hope you do.”
“Yeah, but I thought I’d have made more progress by now—besides the kazoo exercise.”
I stare. “Lily…you’ve been here three days.”
She frowns, and the picture becomes clearer.
“You were expecting more mentorship.”
She gives a reluctant nod. “I just wish I felt up for the open mic. I’d love to play in a small venue like that…even if it’s just one song.”
Her voice trembles on the last words, and the sight of her shrinking calls something in me.
Well, if it’s a mentor she wants…
I rise to my feet. “Right. Grab your guitar and notebook. We’ll move to the lawn.”
Her eyelashes fly up. “What?”
“Your guitar,” I repeat. “It’s time for another lesson.”
She still looks stunned—maybe my tone came out too firm—but she disappears inside and returns a couple of minutes later, guitar and spiral notebook in hand.
We settle on the lawn in sun chairs, keeping space between us. The sun is warm and far kinder than the chill that found me in the shady patio.
I drink my soup, trying to work my way through it. Lily’s already finished hers.
I nod to her notebook. “Right. Open that.”
She gives me a sceptical look but flips to one of the few pages not already filled with lyrics. “Okay, teacher. What’s the assignment?”
“You have fifteen minutes.” I glance at my watch. “Write a verse about that pigeon on the fence.”
Her head snaps towards the fat wood pigeon staring blankly at us. “The pigeon?”
“Yes. His hopes. His great ambitions. His opinion on the weather. And the most important rule—” I tap the page. “It has to be terrible.”
“Sorry?”
“I want clichés. Metaphors. Awful rhymes. It must be the worst song ever written. Go.”
“Brandon, I can’t—I haven’t even got an E string—”
“Fourteen minutes, fifty seconds.”
She gapes at me, then she snorts and starts scribbling, muttering under her breath as she glances between the pigeon and the page. Her pencil moves faster than her inner critic can keep up.
When she pauses to think, the sight of her chewing her pencil pulls my focus from my watch to her mouth.
Until the timer goes off, startling me.
“Time,” I say, clearing my throat. “Pencils down, please.”
She drops it dramatically with a grimace, then she hides her face in her hand and groans. “That was stressful.”
“Was it really?”
She lowers her hands. “No. I suppose not. But this song is awful. Really awful.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, perform it.”
“No way. It’s humiliating. You’ll laugh.”
“I hope so. I could use a laugh.”
She throws me another betrayed look, positions her fingers on the strings, and begins to sing, slowly and solemnly.
Oh, Mr Pigeon, round and grey
Why do you look at me that way?
Is it crumbs you seek to find?
Are you plotting against mankind?
Oh, Mr Pigeon, brave and bold,
A knight with feathers, grey and coal
Guarding crumbs with noble pride
While treasures drop from your backside
I chortle. She laughs too—a lovely sound.
“See?” I say when we finally settle. “You wrote something. And the world didn’t end.”
“It was rubbish,” she insists, pressing a hand to her forehead.
“But you seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“I did,” she admits.
My voice grows gentler. “Sometimes you have to clear the tension away like rubbish to find the treasure underneath.”
“Or pigeon poop,” she jokes.
“As it were.”
Her expression softens. “Thanks. This was…helpful, I think.” She stands. “I should probably go get ready. I promised I’d be at the café tonight, so…”
I rise as well. “Of course.”
She heads for the stairwell, but I call out, “Lily-Anne—wait.”
She turns back. “Yes?”
“If you do decide to play tonight…just play for joy, not perfection.”
“Thanks, Brandon.” She gives me another smile, warmer this time, but it’s still just a shadow of what it was before. I wish I knew the right thing to say to bring back its brightness.
I stare after her as she leaves, footsteps fading up the stairwell.
I’m not sure if caution is what she needed to hear tonight.
Still on my feet, I scan the patio warily, searching for Nova, straining to hear her laughter, but there’s no sign of her.
I lower into my chair, my gaze returning to the empty bowl. The golden seams glimmer in the sunlight, just as Lily-Anne’s hair did before.
I hope Rupert is wrong. It’s far simpler to think of his matchmaking attempts as ludicrous and misguided. Yet each time I’m with Lily-Anne, it becomes increasingly hard to deny that—despite my reservations—something might be stirring beneath it all.
Should I let myself want this?
Is it wise?
My more pressing concern is Jack. He has a knack for drawing people in, and the thought of her stepping into his orbit rattles me more than I care to admit.
I hope he is as invested as I am in not repeating the past.