Chapter 20 Matters of the Head
Matters of the Head
Brandon
One Week Later
“You. Fucking. Idiot.”
I halt mid-sip of my beer, foam clinging to my lips as I stare at Sean. “What?”
“You heard me.” He scowls at me from across the counter, where he’s troubleshooting the Guinness tap. “Eejit.”
“For trying to do right by her?”
“For being too noble for your own fucking good.”
It’s not the validation I’d hoped for, walking into the pub today. I roll a piece of sea glass between my fingers before returning it to my pocket. I collected several on the beach this morning, each one chosen carefully, as if for some purpose.
After another long week of staying indoors, the fresh air was long overdue. It did little to clear my head, however, my thoughts constantly circling back to Lily-Anne, replaying that moment by the harbour.
Her mouth, so close to mine. The faint hitch of her breath. The way she clutched my hat, a confusing, wonderful thing that served as a promise of more, and a warning that my willpower was beginning to fray.
I’d frozen, wanting to close the distance—but she froze too, and the doubt in her eyes helped me come to my senses.
We haven’t talked about it. I’ve hardly seen her all week—mostly because I’ve kept to myself, waiting for the flu to clear. But I’ve heard her singing, her guitar drifting through the open window with the warm breeze. There’s something honest and gentle in her music that brings me comfort.
Except that it also reminds me of the reason behind her renewed playing: Jack.
He’s asked her to return to his café for a warm-up gig, a short set before the main band plays, and she’s agreed.
It falls on the same night that Ellenor’s due to arrive in Whitstable, and she’s invited all of us all along.
I didn’t have the heart to refuse her.
This morning, I heard her practising upstairs again before she left for Canterbury with Rupert and Barbara.
They planned to visit bookshops first, then take high tea.
To my disappointment, Lily-Anne left via the fire escape, and when the side gate finally clanged shut and the neighbours’ car was gone, the house felt abruptly hollow.
I used to relish my solitude, but it seems to have lost its charm.
I’ve grown accustomed to her presence, and the silence soon drove me out.
“Aren’t you bothered by Dustin’s nephew barking up your tree?” Sean asks me, before slamming a fist against the tap, causing it to shoot a jet of beer over the counter.
“I am,” I say carefully. “But he encouraged her to take the leap with her music. Which is the reason she’s here, remember? I won’t interfere with that process.”
“Process, huh?” Sean sniffs derisively. “You’re a better man than me.”
I set my jaw. I don’t like it, but there’s no escaping the fact Lily-Anne arrived in England with a guitar she was afraid to play, and now the cottage is full of music.
She’s even got a performance on Willoughby’s stage under her belt.
She deserves the credit for that, but I think Jack had a hand in it too.
Which leaves me in the undesirable position of being grateful to him, however begrudgingly.
“Temperamental piece of crap,” Sean curses, glaring at the tap. “Why’s there so much fucking head?”
“Could it be dirty lines?” I ask.
He jabs a spanner in my direction menacingly. “Watch your mouth. There are no dirty lines in my pub.”
“Are you sure? I recall it was the issue last time. And why on earth do you have a spanner?”
“In case some gobshite like you gives me cheek.” He crouches, disappearing beneath the counter. “Now shut up and drink your beer. It’s the only head you’ll be getting, by the looks of things.”
I take another sip of foam, letting the comment slide. Sean continues to tinker, all the while grumbling and swearing.
“Would you like a hand?” I ask.
He snorts. “Sure, why not? You can’t make it worse.”
I set down my pint, swing myself over the bar, and crouch beside him.
A clatter rings out as something slips from my pocket and skitters across the tiles.
It’s a shard of sea glass, catching the amber light as it spins to a stop.
I snatch it up and pocket it. I really need to find somewhere to put these.
Sean raises a bushy eyebrow questioningly.
“I found it on the beach,” I say casually, by way of explanation.
“On the beach, huh? See, I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”
I don’t answer, busying myself with the tangle of insulated tubing vanishing into the floor. “The problem might be in the cellar.”
“The cellar, eh? Funny—I assumed the problem was upstairs.”
I meet his gaze evenly. I don’t care for the insinuation, but I’m not about to rise to it.
His voice softens. “Brandon. You’re living in the past.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Try less. Just…be. Go with the flow.”
I frown. “That’s what I’ve been doing. It’s why I moved back. I am going with the flow.”
“Yeah. You’re flowing like a river blocked by a bloody dam.” He straightens with a sigh, and I stand too. “I’ll make it really simple for you, alright? Forget that you’re older than her, and forget that mentor shite. Those are big ticks on some women’s wish lists.”
“That wouldn’t be—”
“What? Noble?”
“Actually, I was going to say—”
“Honourable?”
I open my mouth, then I shut it. He guessed correctly, and I can’t stand how self-important it makes me sound.
Sean sighs. “Mate. Let a wise forty-five-year-old give you one piece of advice. She’s a grown woman, yeah? So let her decide. Just tell her how you feel.”
“It’s…complicated,” I say cautiously.
“Then tell her all of how you feel. Disclose all the raisins in the fruitcake. Or are you worried you might scare her off?”
My jaw tightens. “I just don’t think I’m what’s best for her.”
Sean shakes his head, as if he knows better.
“What?”
“Eejit.”
***
I reach the cottage just as Rupert and Barbara are pulling up. I pause at the top of my front steps and raise a hand in greeting, bracing myself for the inevitable small talk. At least Lily-Anne’s with them—she’ll make the chatter bearable. I’m curious how she liked Canterbury.
Lily-Anne bolts from the car, making a beeline for me as she calls, “Thank you so much again for today!” over her shoulder with exaggerated cheer. She marches up the footpath, hissing, “Quick. Let me in.”
I blink, taking in the specks of paint on her hands and the faint smear across her cheek. “Oh no. They didn’t.”
“They did—Rupert and Barbara took me paintballing without even telling me until we got there! I thought I was being kidnapped.”
“And I don’t suppose you want me to invite them over to reminisce over tea?”
“Don’t you dare!” she hisses, glancing back at the neighbours’ yard agitatedly while I unlock the front door. The moment it opens, she slips inside, exhaling a long breath of relief once it’s closed.
“So, did the book shopping not happen?” I ask.
She scoffs. “Book shopping? You mean the five minutes it took Barbara to collect the order she’d already paid for? Okay, I’m exaggerating a little, but we weren’t there long. There was a ‘change of plan’, apparently. Look—”
She hikes up her shirtsleeve, revealing several angry red welts marking her forearm.
“Ouch.”
“Think that’s bad? Look at these!” She tugs down her collar, just enough to reveal several more welts along her clavicle. “Right between the body armour and helmet! Those boys of Rupert’s knew exactly where to aim.”
I begin to apologise on Rupert and Barbara’s behalf, but she waves me off.
“It’s fine. It was actually a lot of fun.
Painful, but fun. Anyway, I got them back good.
Turns out I’m a decent shot. And I didn’t mind being on Rupert’s team.
I wasn’t sure about Barb, though. I think she was on a team of her own.
” Her laugh is quick, light. “I guess this counts as following your advice and getting more life experience. Suffering builds character, right?”
“Rupert would have you think so,” I reply as we enter my kitchen. “He conscripted me once. Promoted me rather rapidly to sergeant.”
“Rupert said you’re a deserter.”
“That too.” I smile faintly. “I’m a pacifist.”
She smiles back and goes to the sink, scrubbing paint from her forearms. “I’m not sure what I am after today. I wanted to kill Rupert and Barb!”
“Growing on you, are they?”
“They’re a piece of work. But Barb is worse! She made it sound like a relaxed shopping trip with lunch and ‘a spot of tea’! Did you know you can get high tea as a takeaway?”
“I did not.”
“A cardboard tower of cakes and sandwiches. It was lovely, but I didn’t expect to be eating it in a trench!”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I’ve yet to see Lily-Anne this fired up, not even after the open mic.
“Anyway, sorry for barging in like this when you’re sick,” she says. “Although you’re looking a lot better.”
“Thanks. I feel it. Had lunch at the pub, actually.”
“Oh?” She leans back against the counter, drying her hands on a tea towel. “How’s Sean?”
“As delicate and soft-spoken as ever.”
She laughs, the sound bright, unguarded. “We’ll have to do lunch there again.”
She freezes the instant the words leave her mouth, her gaze flicking to mine worriedly as colour rushes to her cheeks.
“Lunch sometime would be good,” I say, without missing a beat.
“Yes—once Ellenor gets here.” She retreats towards the hall. “We can all go together.”
“Would you like to stay for some tea?” I ask.
She shakes her head, still flushed. “Thanks, but I should shower. And then I need to practise for that gig.”
We pause at the foot of the stairs.
“Earlier,” I say, after a moment. “I heard you. The music you’ve been writing—it’s very good.”
Her flush deepens, spreading down her neck until the angry paintball welts blur into the rest of her skin.
So much for helping her feel less embarrassed. Still, it had to be said.
She hovers, biting her lip. “Do you think it’s good enough to play for others?”
“Yes,” I say immediately.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I repeat. “Absolutely.” I don’t embellish. I don’t need to.
She nods, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression I can’t quite read—something that feels like a quiet thank you.
“Lily-Anne…” I begin.
“Yes?”
For a breath, I consider it—Sean’s voice in my head, urging me to stop making excuses and confess everything. That I do like her, far more than I should. That it’s not her I’ve been holding back from so much as the wreckage of my past. That if she’s felt rejected, it was never about her.
It would be a relief to say it.
But then she smiles faintly, still flushed, still here, and I think, Aren’t we doing fine? Isn’t this conversation proof we’re in a good place? Why risk undoing it?
So, I jokingly ask, “Do you think you’ll write a song about today’s paintball escapade?”
It’s a cop out, and I can hear Sean in my head: “Eejit.”
Lily-Anne teases me back. “I would, but it’s already been done. Hit Me With Your Best Shot.”
I chuckle. “Hold on.” Reaching into a hallway cupboard, I hand her a small bottle of aloe. “This should soothe the paintball welts.”
She thanks me, lingering a moment before heading for the stairs. The urge to stop her rises, fierce and insistent. I want to ask her to stay.
Instead, I step outside, letting the cool air hit me as I stand at the edge of the patio surveying the garden. My eyes fall on the kintsugi bowl on the table beside me, its blue-green glaze threaded with gold. At last, I know what to do with it.
I reach into my pocket and let the treasures fall in a stream.
Clear, pale green, frosted white, and blue.
Warm brown, the colour of her eyes.
As I stare at the growing pile of sea glass, I tell myself I’m only collecting them out of habit, and that it’s only pure coincidence that each piece just happens to be the right size and shape for a bracelet.