Chapter 19 Don’t Stop Dancing
Don’t Stop Dancing
Lily-Anne
I plug the lead in, exhaling a shaky breath as I survey the room.
I’m amazed the café hasn’t emptied, but people seem content to stick around for my performance. I think Willoughby has something to do with it.
He keeps the crowd entertained with light chat and a late happy-hour deal.
“We’ve saved the best for last,” he tells the crowd.
“Newcomer Lily hails from the land of kangaroos, Vegemite, and poisonous wildlife. Just kidding. I’m told it’s mostly the venomous ones you have to watch for—snakes, jellyfish, the odd creepy-crawly.
And stingrays—don’t forget those. No wonder she fled to Kent.
” Laughter ripples. He dips the mic and murmurs to me, “You okay?”
“I think so,” I respond. “Nervous, but okay.”
“Don’t worry—you’ve got this.” He adjusts the mic stand to my height, giving me an encouraging smile that would probably make my heart skip if it wasn’t currently clattering around my chest like a trapped bird.
“Just have fun with it. You’ll smash it.
” To the audience: “I’m afraid that’s all the stereotypes I can think of.
I’d better go Google some more. In the meantime, please give it up for Lily! ”
He strides away, leaving me standing alone, consumed by stage lights.
The room grows quiet, as if holding its breath.
My mouth’s gone dry, and I wet my lips as I lean into the mic.
“Hi, everyone.” My voice rings back from the speakers. “Thanks for staying back. This is a song my dad and I used to play.”
I didn’t plan to share that private detail.
I’ll just have to trust myself and hope muscle memory is enough to see me through.
And I’m not completely out of practice. I’ve still performed this year, but it’s mostly been classical pieces for the orchestra, safe behind sheet music.
Throwing myself in without preparation like this isn’t me. I never wing it.
I take a steadying breath.
My fingers don’t feel like mine, so numb I can barely sense the strings pressing into my skin. I begin anyway, fingerpicking a tender intro to buy myself a few extra seconds.
It’s a good thing I do. As I shift to chords and strum, the sound from the speakers startles me, too loud and bold in the room’s hush.
My fingers fumble once, but then I settle into the rhythm of it. It’s not a perfect beginning but not a disaster either. When I sing, I expect my voice to tremble, but it’s smooth and clear, and the rest of the words follow easily.
I’m only two lines into the verse when someone in the audience laughs.
I force myself to tune it out. It could be unrelated to my playing, though I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s scoffing at my song choice: Don’t Stop Dancing, a reflective rock ballad by Creed.
Dad used to say that some bands get so big they become punchlines—'Nickelback syndrome,’ he called it—but neither of us cared about that.
This song was always ours. I was meant to sing it at his funeral, but then I fainted and lost that chance. I don’t know what possessed me to play it here, but as my voice resonates through the room, my vision blurs.
A flash of sun through eucalyptus leaves pulls me back in time: Dad leading us along the Manly track, bush thick around us and the harbour glittering far below; Mum squinting at the tiny buildings, trying to guess which ones are restaurants we’ve been to; Ellenor fussing over dust on her new white Nikes.
Me, distractedly scrawling lyrics in my notebook whenever we stop, the words spilling faster than I can catch them.
Our laughter carries on the wind, fading into my music.
My chest tightens, thick with emotion. Maybe it was a mistake to share this song, to lay bare something so private. I never thought I’d play it again, let alone for a roomful of strangers. It should feel wrong, and yet it doesn’t.
I feel Dad in every note, every word, his steady voice lending me strength. I thought I’d lost. Campfires, car rides, and playing video games on his old office computer. The memories skim past like sparks, so vivid I can’t stop tears spilling down my cheeks.
My heart swells. It’s almost like he’s here, singing with me, urging me on. Proud, the way Brandon said he was.
My voice trembles as I sing the last line. For the first time since his death, the fear and loneliness of living without Dad’s support fades back.
Suddenly, applause fills the small space.
I blink, hardly aware I’ve reached the end of the song, the final chord drowned out by cheers.
“Absolutely brilliant! And that’s why we do open mic!
” Willoughby announces, rejoining me on stage as I hastily wipe my cheeks.
Aside, he says, “An oldie but a goodie—I’ve always had a soft spot for Creed.
I see it got to you as well. But hey, why didn’t you tell me you could play like that?
” Back into the mic: “What a voice, huh? How about another round of applause for Lily, a rising star all the way from Australia!”
I slip the guitar strap over my head, my body numb once more as I step off the stage. It feels like another out-of-body experience, only this time it’s the pleasant kind, like I’ve had one too many drinks. Stunned but buzzing with happiness, I drift back to my seat.
I did it. I actually did it.
My heart is still drumming, but it’s not the painful kind. A week ago, I could barely open the case. Tonight, I played and, in some messy, breathless way, I connected to the song, to Dad, and to myself.
Daisy gives me an approving grin. “Wow. You were on fire, babes. You should play professionally.”
“I do. I used to play in an ensemble.”
“That sounds posh.”
I laugh. “It was a bit. But I’d much rather play in a place like this.”
“What, this dumpster fire?” She pulls a mock-shocked face, then she grins. “Joking. But you’re clearly too good for us.”
“I don’t think that. I like it here. It’s…more my vibe.”
“Is it now?” Her gaze sharpens, catlike. “Where can I find you online?”
She’s shocked when she learns I’m not on social media.
“But that’s how you get fans! How else are people supposed to find you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’d be happy to set up an account for you.”
“Oh. No, that’s okay. I might start one eventually…”
“Well, when you do, I’ll be your first follower.” She gives me a playful elbow, then she grows serious. “By the way, I’m sorry my dickhead of a cousin put you on the spot like that. He means well, but he gets a bit carried away.”
“That’s okay. If he hadn’t been so encouraging, I wouldn’t have gotten on stage.”
“Yeah, he’s good like that—he likes to push people outside their comfort zones.”
From what I’ve seen, I can’t help but agree.
I say goodbye to Daisy and a few others before grabbing my guitar.
I linger, hoping to thank Willoughby, but he’s swallowed by the crowd, so I slip outside instead.
The night air is pleasant, voices spilling through the open door, the welcoming atmosphere making me feel part of something.
Dazed and not quite ready to leave, I lean against the wall beneath the café’s festoon lights.
I can’t believe it. That was me up there. I actually pulled it off. And now this feat I built up in my mind seems strangely small—a mountain that turned out to be a hill once I’d climbed it.
Excitement fizzes through me, and before I even realise it, I’ve pulled out my phone, wanting to tell Brandon first.
To my surprise, there’s a message waiting for me, sent hours earlier.
Brandon: Sorry, I can’t be there tonight. Just in case you play, I wanted to wish you good luck. Let me know how it goes either way
I text back.
Lily-Anne: You’ll never guess. I played tonight!
I follow this with a string of partying emojis.
I only have to wait a few seconds for his response.
Brandon: Really? On stage?
Lily-Anne: Yep. Right at the end
Brandon: Well done, that’s a huge step! It went well?
Lily-Anne: Very well
I mean to keep it short, but before I know it, my thumbs are working madly to describe the song I chose, how it reminded me of Dad, and the fact that I got through it without falling apart.
A week ago, it would have felt like oversharing, but not after the past few days.
I know Brandon will understand how monumental this is for me.
Brandon: I wish I’d been there to see it
I reread his message several times. I wish he’d been here too. Before I can think of a response, another message arrives.
Brandon: Your dad would be proud. He always was
I swallow hard, staring at the screen. I appreciate how he can say so much with so few words.
Another message appears.
Brandon: Would you like me to send a taxi to get you? Or if you wait, I can come meet you and walk you home
Lily-Anne: I’d rather walk, it’s a nice night. But I don’t want you getting sicker, I’d feel bad
Brandon: I won’t. And I fancy some fresh air
It would be nice to have his company—especially as I’d rather not walk back to the cottage alone in the dark.
But after how he reacted to Nova’s song last night, I don’t know how he’d feel about meeting me here.
He said it was fine, but the guarded way he spoke about Willoughby and Nova still makes me hesitate.
Lily-Anne: How about we meet halfway? I’ll start walking.
Brandon: Of course. Meet you at the chip shop by the harbour?
Lily-Anne: Chip shop?
Brandon: The fish and chips place
Lily-Anne: Oh right
I reply ‘okay’, even though the shop isn’t really halfway.
It’s only down the road, far closer to me than to him—plus a slight detour for us both—but I don’t protest. As I head that way, the ocean appears in the distance, and it dawns on me that this route is busier and better lit than the quiet backstreets I would’ve taken. I don’t think that’s an accident.
I wait beneath a streetlamp watching people order food, the air faintly scented with fried fish.