Chapter 22 Warming Up
Warming Up
Brandon
Jack’s café hums with low chatter, his uncle staring down at the diners from every photo-frame wall like a benevolent dictator. The reverent shrine is truly something. Nothing says humble family business quite like an entire wall of hero worship.
Dustin will have to forgive me—I forgot to genuflect upon entering.
The true miracle is that I’m here at all. I never thought I’d set foot in this place, which I’ve avoided like the plague. Yet here I am, sitting front row, forcing a neutral expression while it feels like I’m sitting on a bed of nails.
Lily-Anne stands by the stage, waiting to go on and play her set. It will only last twenty minutes—just the warm-up act to keep patrons entertained while they finish their meals before the main band.
I’m only here for her.
She keeps wiping her palms on her distressed jeans, a nervous smile on her face.
The simple movement draws my gaze, roving where it has no right to linger—the way the denim hugs her hips, traces the line of her legs, the soft curve of her waist, the brief flash of sun-warmed skin as her shirt lifts while she gathers her hair into a loose ponytail.
I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t tear my eyes away. She’s stunning.
“Didn’t think anything could drag you into this place,” Sean says beside me.
I don’t turn, offering only a quiet sound of acknowledgement as Lily-Anne leans closer to Ellenor, the two of them exchanging a few murmured words near the stage.
I want to go over and say something to Lily-Anne, but I already wished her good luck. It’s her moment now.
Sean clears his throat.
I throw him a distracted glance.
He tips his pint toward the stage, where Willoughby is holding the mic, working the crowd. “She must be something, if you’re tolerating his ego parade. Look at him prancing about. Christ.” Without looking at me, he adds, “You’ll have to face him eventually.”
He has a point, but I change the subject. “How’s your pint?”
“Hands down the shittiest beer I’ve ever had. Pure muck.”
“Must be dirty lines,” I murmur, appreciating the moral support.
“Aye.”
Finally, Jack wraps up his monologue, and Lily-Anne takes her place at the microphone, guitar strap slung over her shoulder.
I hold my breath, waiting.
“You look more nervous than she does,” Sean murmurs. “You sure you did this for a living?”
I ignore him.
A minute into her set, I start to relax. She plays beautifully. I knew she would, but it’s something else entirely to see it—to watch her come alive beneath the lights.
She plays a dreamy blend of folk and indie pop, including a personal favourite of mine: Just a Boy by Angus and Julia Stone. I sit spellbound as she sings. It makes me want to take her by the hand and steal away to the beach with her, the sudden impulse checked only by my desire to stay and listen.
She has a presence that doesn’t demand attention yet commands it anyway. Graceful and self-assured, her personality spills through every note, every lyric, every smile. When I glance at the crowd, I see they’re as captivated as I am. Even Jack’s paying attention instead of looking at his phone.
I turn back to Lily-Anne, letting her hope-filled music wash over me. She doesn’t perform so much as invite you to listen. There’s no persona—it’s just her. Genuine. Pure. Vulnerable. A treasure for the audience, but dangerous for her. The world doesn’t know what to do with sincerity.
She’s more than the guest who moved into my cottage, or the young woman trying to find her footing again. I see an artist who is confident, radiant, and entirely herself: Lily-Anne, the young woman I’ve come to admire.
It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time.
And I can’t look away.
When her set ends and the band starts tuning up, chatter swells again. Lily-Anne returns to us, cheeks flushed from the applause she received. She hugs Ellenor first, and then, to my surprise, she hugs me as well.
I get a hint of her floral perfume as I fold her into my arms. She feels warm, light, impossibly close.
The heat of her body seeps through the thin fabric of her shirt, and I’m suddenly aware of every point of contact—the press of her chest against mine, her hair brushing my jaw, her hands resting lightly at my back.
I hope she can’t feel my heart hammering, betraying everything I’m trying to keep locked down.
“Thank you for coming. It means a lot,” she says.
“You were brilliant,” I manage, my voice rougher than intended.
I want to tell her how extraordinary she was.
How she made the whole room disappear. How I’d gladly stand here all night just to hear her sing one more song.
But to my dismay, she’s already pulling away, and I have to resist the urge to tighten my arms, to keep her there just a moment longer.
My hands linger at her waist for half a second too long before I force myself to let go.
The absence of her warmth is immediate, almost physical.
Then Jack arrives, and the meeting I’ve avoided for years finally comes to pass. I brace myself for the inevitable awkwardness. For him to offer a stilted nod or a brief, meaningful glance to acknowledge our history. Not for my sake, but simply out of respect for Nova’s memory.
Instead, he saunters over, flashing a grin so bright it could have its own spotlight, hand extended in grand greeting as he exclaims, “Brandon! Good to see you. It’s been ages. How have you been?”
I stare at his offered hand, making no move to take it.
Is it good to see me?
The last time we were face-to-face, Nova was being lowered into the ground.
Before that, it was the hotel lobby, her hand slipping out of mine in a final farewell as she stepped into the lift. And the man who followed her into it was him.
When I confronted him at the wake, my fists curled, only for him to cry on my shoulder as he recounted how ‘Natalie’ had been exhausted and struggling to cope. How he’d begged her to slow down, cancel her tours. How he’d shouldered her burden, even attending a press conference in her stead.
His tears were performative—his grief was not.
He described in vivid detail how he’d returned to the hotel after the press conference to find Natalie, sleeping tablets scattered around her.
I’d never heard him call her anything but Nova until she was gone.
He should never have left her alone—not for a press conference. He’s not a publicist. Someone else could have stood on the podium, though few people were as well-qualified to enjoy the attention. And I didn’t believe for one second that he encouraged Natalie to cancel any tours.
But he didn’t give her those pills. And hitting him wouldn’t have brought her back.
The café’s noise crashes back in.
Jack’s hand is still there, waiting. His dazzling smile is in place. It’s as though none of it happened at all. No acknowledgment of the past; no recognition of the cost. Everything Nova had meant to us swept under the rug.
I force myself to shake his hand. My grip is firm, the gesture brief. It feels like swallowing gravel.
“Some bonds never die, do they, Brandon?” Jack chirps.
I’m saved from answering when Sean takes my shoulder and murmurs, “I’ve got to get back—beer line burst at the pub. Guinness everywhere. Can’t leave ’em alone for one bloody hour, can I?” He squeezes my shoulder firmly. “Hang in there, mate.”
He makes his escape, part of me wondering if I should go with him.
Meanwhile, Jack’s turned his trademark Willoughby grin on Lily-Anne, every inch the showman he fancies himself to be. “Well, I’m afraid we won’t want you for any more warm-up gigs, Lily—you’re just too good! You’re making the band look bad.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to—”
“Joking. But seriously, I’d love to have you back. How do you feel about performing here regularly? I need someone to do Monday nights. They’re quiet, but I’m sure you’ll draw a crowd.”
“As in…tomorrow night?” she asks. “I’d need more time to prepare.”
Jack shrugs. “Start the Monday after, then. Or Monday after that. We’ve just got a DJ running tracks, but I’m trying to shift the café towards more live music.”
That catches me off-guard. A shift in direction I didn’t expect from him.
“You’re changing things up?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Yeah. I’ve been stretching myself thin, trying everything, but I want to commit to a sound.”
His gaze slides back to Lily-Anne. The subtext isn’t lost on me—he wants to settle down, rather than chasing the next shiny thing.
“So, what do you reckon?” he asks Lily-Anne.
Ellenor swoops in before she can reply.
“Do it!”
“It would mean us delaying our road trip,” Lily-Anne says hesitantly.
“The road trip can wait,” Ellenor says impatiently. “This is more important. Besides,” she adds, a glint of mischief in her eyes, “you may as well make the most of Whitstable while you’re here, because once we’re on the road, you’ll be at the mercy of my inner Slytherin.”
She winks at Lily-Anne, who continues to look uncertain.
“Come onnn,” Jack coaxes, biting his lower lip in a grin. “You’d really be helping me out, Lil.”
The nickname grates against me as few things do. Lil. He says it too easily, too familiarly, like he’s claimed a piece of her.
Lily-Anne looks to me. “What do you think, Brandon?”
I dislike Jack. Always have. He’s glib, self-serving, and addicted to applause. But he’s not cruel, and he isn’t dangerous. For all his ego, he can make people feel seen—something Jeremy, her father, also did.
And I’ve been blaming him for a tragedy that wasn’t his to carry.
Natalie’s death derailed his life as much as it did mine, yet he’s built this café, this community. It would be unfair of me to cast a shadow on his character in a room full of people he’s brought together. People who owe their joy, in some small way, to him.
Including Lily-Anne. Her smile is brighter. Jack is offering her the opportunity she came to England for, so the least I can do is get out of her way.
“It’s your call,” I say. “If it feels right, do it.”