Chapter 19 Don’t Stop Dancing #2
I soon spot Brandon in the distance, my heart lifting as I recognise his long strides. I move to meet him, a small bounce in my step I don’t quite manage to suppress as I take in his tall silhouette.
He’s rugged up more than the weather requires, with an overcoat and a scarf, like some detective from an old novel, though the beanie tugged low over his ears undercuts it completely, his brown hair poking out at the sides like a snowboarder fresh off the slopes.
The combination is so at odds it makes my face split into a smile before I remember to smooth it into something more neutral.
“Hey. Thanks for meeting me.” My voice comes out more affectionate than I intended. “How are you feeling?”
“Most decidedly sick,” he says with a congested sniff, but there’s the faintest glint in his eyes as he sweeps his hand in an ‘after you’ motion. “Shall we?”
His hand brushes the small of my back. There’s a fleeting second where I think he’ll put his arm around me, but of course, he doesn’t. It was silly for my mind to go there. Still, my skin prickles warm as we fall into step.
He indicates my guitar case. “That must be getting heavy. Want me to take it?”
He’s not wrong. The handle digs into my palm, already clammy from the rubbing. But I don’t mind the weight. It feels good to carry it. And I want to hold onto tonight’s triumph just a little longer.
“Thanks, but I’ve got it,” I answer, adjusting my grip.
“If you’re sure. So, tell me about tonight.”
I recount my evening, from Daisy’s overzealous drumming to a scrappy band to Willoughby’s performances.
“Was it one of his famous uncle’s numbers?” Brandon asks mildly. His features give nothing away, but I get the feeling he might be poking fun at Willoughby.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
Yep. It was definitely a jab.
Waves lap the shore, as calm and steady as his presence beside me as we walk the esplanade, the neon signs illuminating the dark.
“So, I take it you were able to change your string without too much bother?” he enquires.
“Oh, yes. Sort of. Willoughby ended up changing it for me.”
A pause. “That was nice of him.”
“I thought so.” I watch Brandon carefully as I say this. I get the sense there’s something he isn’t saying, but if there is, he keeps it to himself.
“So, you closed the night,” he prompts. “Bravo.”
“Actually, it was Willoughby’s idea.”
He raises a brow. “How did that come about?”
I shrug, choosing my words. “He thought it might be fun if I wrapped things up. Didn’t want me to miss my chance, I guess.”
Brandon nods but says nothing, his gaze turned inward.
I try to bring him back, brightening my voice. “Thankfully, I got through it alright. And the audience seemed to enjoy it.”
He blinks and gives me a sincere smile. “I’m sure they did. It was a good song choice.”
“Actually, I think I got some flak from the audience for playing Creed.”
“Nonsense. Everyone likes Creed.”
“I know, right? Even if they won’t admit it.”
“Exactly.” He shoots me a wry smile. “It’s classic Nickelback syndrome.”
The phrase hits me like a strike to the ribs. I halt, gaping at him. “I was thinking the exact same thing earlier—it’s what Dad used to say!”
“I know. We both used to wind each other up. I can’t recall which of us started it, though.”
We’re standing near a lookout, Brandon facing the wind as he removes his beanie to comb his hair out of his eyes. I watch, transfixed, as the breeze catches the strands, ruffling them.
I bite my lip. “I never asked—how did you two meet, exactly? Was it through work?”
“Yes. We were backstage at a Pearl Jam concert together.”
“His favourite band,” I murmur.
“Yes. We used to joke that we were surrounded by all this musical talent yet we were secretly die-hard Nickelback fans. Your father was a sucker for How You Remind Me.”
The corner of my mouth twitches at the fond memory, even as the significance hits me with a pang—Dad and Brandon, laughing together.
For a heartbeat, it feels like I’m part of that circle, folded into a joke that belonged to them.
As if Brandon and I are inextricably connected.
It’s comforting, yet confusing, because he isn’t just a link to Dad. He’s…Brandon.
My throat tightens, and I drop my gaze, staring at Brandon’s neatly knotted scarf, the sharp line of his upturned collar against his jaw, the shadow of stubble there.
Then I feel it—an invisible force wrapped around my ribs, tugging me closer.
Suddenly, all the reasons I told myself he was off-limits spray apart like surf bursting into mist.
I step closer, heart hammering. My hand twitches as I reach for him, though I’m not even sure what I mean to do—touch his sleeve? His hand? His shoulder? Just something to lessen the distance.
In the dark, his gaze looks inky-black, pupils blown wide with surprise, or want, or…
Confusion.
The moment unravels, and I chicken out, grabbing his beanie instead, not quite tugging it from his fingers. He doesn’t move.
My cheeks flame. Now I’m standing here clutching his hat like an idiot. “I, uh, sorry—I was just...”
I forgot he was sick—forgot everything but how close he is. Our eyes meet, and I can’t look away. I must look like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Lily-Anne,” he murmurs, giving a rough swallow. His thumb brushes my knuckles, fleeting and electric. Then his gaze drops. “We shouldn’t.”
My heart lurches. “What?”
“Believe me, I want nothing more than to…” His chest rises with a tense breath, his eyes penetrating mine.
I release the beanie like it’s scalded me and stumble back, humiliation washing through me.
“Right. Of course. I wasn’t… I didn’t mean—” The words tangle, useless, so I clamp my mouth shut.
Twice now. Twice I’ve tried to kiss the man who’s essentially my mentor. I want the pavement to crack open and swallow me whole.
“I just…I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I mumble.
“Nothing.” His voice is low, rough. “You’ve been through too much, too fast.”
I stare at the sea, cheeks burning, unable to meet his eyes. “You think I’m a mess, don’t you?”
“No. I have my own ghosts to contend with.”
I frown. “Nova?”
“And other reasons.”
“The age difference?”
“There’s that,” he agrees quietly.
More questions rise, but I bite them back.
He moves closer, our shoulders not quite touching.
“I do care about you,” he murmurs. “But you deserve someone who can give you all of himself. Someone wonderful. And when you meet that person…” His voice dips, almost faltering. “Well. I hope you’ll let that person make you happy.”
Silence stretches, his words settling deep. He doesn’t want me.
“And why would he?”
I can’t stay. But I can’t seem to leave, either.
I don’t know what to say.
I’m confused by what I feel.
By what he feels.
And by the way simply being near him is enough to unravel me.
Mercifully, Brandon continues walking, quiet and pensive, as if nothing happened.
I follow in silence, but my heartbeat drums in my ears, each step agony until the cottage finally comes into view.
At the gate, I stammer goodnight and break away, making for the side entrance instead of the front door.
My feet climb the metal fire escape in measured steps, though all I want is to run, to slam the door and bury myself under a pillow.
Once I’m finally inside, I shut the door softly, lean against it, and then slide down until I’m on the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
What a day. What a night. What a fucking night.
My phone buzzes, and I nearly drop it, heart leaping stupidly. For a wild second, I think it’s Brandon.
It isn’t.
Unknown Number: Hey Lily-Anne, it’s Willoughby. I got your number from the sign-up sheet. I hope that’s okay. You still up? I wanted to ask you something.
I consider waiting until tomorrow to reply, but my curiosity gets the better of me. What could he possibly want to ask me?
I slowly text back.