Chapter 23 Something New
Something New
Lily-Anne
Four Weeks Later
Most mornings begin the same way. Brandon is up early, already making coffee by the time I wander into the kitchen.
We sit at the patio table while the light comes up, mugs warming our hands, and I run new lyrics past him.
Sometimes I bring my guitar and play a gentle melody. I like the peacefulness of it.
He never offers feedback unless I ask for it, just listens, attentive and still.
“Come on—I want people at the café to enjoy it,” I plead.
“Well, I wouldn’t change it for their sake,” he muses, before noticing my irritation. “You might increase the tempo. But I enjoy it as it is.”
It’s odd to have to prod him for an opinion, but I keep sharing my music with him anyway. When he does offer critique, I take it in stride—even when it stings—and he seems to relax. His observations come a little more freely.
He has a keen eye for what can be improved, and his quiet approval has come to mean a great deal to me. When his praise comes, it resonates.
The mornings, I’ve come to realise, are usually ours.
Ellenor isn’t an early riser, still in bed at dawn as if she’s making up for years of late nights sleeping under her desk at the firm.
But when she’s finally awake, she operates at two hundred percent with an appetite for chaos and adventure—something Brandon has graciously made sightseeing plans to accommodate.
I didn’t expect him to be so eager to get out and show Ellenor and me the local sights, but he comes home every afternoon and whisks us away someplace new. The past few weeks have blurred into laughter-filled excursions to markets, beaches, and forest trails.
Our riverboat ride through Canterbury was my favourite.
The water slid beneath King’s Bridge, carrying us past medieval timbered buildings with names that sounded like stories, such as The Old Weavers’ House and The Alchemist’s Tower.
Brandon’s low voice carried over the water as he pointed things out, and it almost felt romantic—apart from Ellenor’s quips as she tried to boss everyone around, even calling out directions to the punters to ‘follow the ducks’.
Unlike Brandon, who’s always tolerant and unperturbed by her antics, Sean wasn’t having any of it.
He and Ellenor bickered the entire way, and I couldn’t tell which of them enjoyed the river tour less.
“It was a mistake to invite him,” Ellenor declared when we got home.
Given he’d brought out the worst of her debating instincts, I silently agreed.
It turns out even Brandon’s patience has its limits.
Ellenor’s practically taken over the cottage—commandeering the kitchen for her elaborate meals and rearranging furniture to her liking.
Brandon’s borne it all with quiet good humour, including the couch now facing the TV, but he drew the line when she tried to ‘improve’ his espresso machine by sticking a Hogwarts crest on it.
House pride, she called it. He muttered something about blasphemy and peeled it off within the hour.
Ellenor was always intense, but the Harry Potter references are starting to get a bit much, even for her. I’ve done my best to keep an eye on her as Mum asked, but it’s a lost cause; she slips out most mornings without a word.
When I asked her about it, she shook her head with a mysterious little smile. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Lily. That’s Hogwarts business. Very secret.”
Which told me everything I needed to know: she’s met someone. And I’m dying to know who.
She’s always been private about her love life, even when we were teenagers, from the ‘internet boyfriend’ she had when she was twelve to the secret engagement that lasted three months before my family found out about it.
I’ve quickly grown used to her chaotic presence in the cottage. With her gone and Brandon at work, it’s too quiet. Whenever I’m not practising, the air rings with silence.
Lately, I’ve been spending more time at the café.
It’s become a kind of creative refuge. Willoughby loves when people drop in to hang out, play, and talk music.
The scent of coffee, the low hum of chatter, and the faint buzz of the amp all feel alive in a way I didn’t know I was longing for.
Like a dream I’ve stepped into and don’t want to leave.
“Wow. You’re properly talented, Lil.” Willoughby has said this on more than one occasion.
I always laugh it off, but his compliments stay with me. My relationship with Toby starved me of praise, and I find myself soaking it up. Jack believes in my music without hesitation or caution. Maybe that’s what I’ve been needing all along.
And he’s so easy-going. When I asked to push the gig back a couple of weeks to give myself more time, he cheerfully agreed. Toby would have sulked and made sure I knew I was inconveniencing him.
I find myself looking forward to our practice sessions, to the spark in his eyes when I play something new, and the warmth in his voice when he tells me it’s good. It’s flattering, and more than that, it’s addictive.
The excitement fades a little when I’m back at the cottage, and I’m not sure it’s a bad thing.
I feel more grounded there. A few days before the gig, Brandon offers to run through a few songs with me.
“If you like, I could play rhythm while you practise. It’s been a while since I picked up my guitar. ”
I agree, curious.
I’m pleased to finally see him bring out his electric guitar, even if I’m surprised when he returns to the patio with a plain black Stratocaster. I’d built his guitar up in my head as something extreme, like a BC Rich Warlock, the body wicked and weapon-like.
He laughs when I tell him so.
“The Strat does the job. Ready?” he asks simply, sitting across from me on the patio.
I nod, watching him play in fascination.
Where Willoughby’s practice sessions buzz with excited energy —a joke to fill every pause, a phone checked between songs—Brandon’s understated playing catches me off-guard.
His focus is serious, every movement intentional and precise, yet I feel completely at ease as I sit with him on the patio.
And when I finally feel ready to join in, the world around me fades, and I’m lost to our music for a while.
Except when I’m not. Except when—against my better judgement—I catch myself watching him from the corner of my eye.
My throat goes dry as I watch his hands glide over the fretboard in smooth, expert slides, and air suddenly becomes scarce.
I stop thinking about the guitar altogether and I just sit there, my skin faintly alive with awareness, relying on muscle memory to play as I imagine—just for a moment—how those long fingers might feel against my skin, light and deliberate.
I swallow hard and pull my focus back to the music.
Unlike rehearsing with Willoughby, there’s no anticipation of performing on stage or talk of making it someday. Instead, Brandon plays without flourish—just steady, thoughtful chords that seem to breathe with the rhythm of the room.
Still, a small, impatient part of me longs for the pulse of the café, the feeling of movement; of something about to happen.
Something’s shifted between Willoughby and me.
His chair drags closer when we play, his thigh warming mine as he leans in to show me a chord I already know, his smile a little too knowing to be innocent.
I know he’s flirting, and it feels surprisingly good to be wanted again.
Like over lunch one afternoon, when he twirls spaghetti around his fork, his tone uncharacteristically soft as he speaks.
“You know, I’ll miss you when you go on that Harry Potter trip, Lil.
Why don’t you stay and keep playing with us? ”
I laugh as he pouts. “Whitstable will get sick of me.”
“Rubbish! You’re the real thing, Lily,” he says earnestly. “People will hear it.”
The words hit hard. I want to believe them. I do.
He stills, fork poised. “It’s a shame I can’t leave the café. I’d love to come on that road trip with you.”
He says it like I’ve invited him. But I haven’t.
As if reading my thoughts, he reaches across the table, his hand brushing mine. “You could always come back after your road trip.”
I stare at our hands, skin prickling. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if Brandon kicks you out, you can always stay with me.”
I frown and look up. “He won’t kick me out.”
“Maybe not. But you’ll be genuinely welcome at mine.”
Then he goes back to his food, leaving my pulse skittering as I try to process his meaning. Am I overstaying my welcome at Brandon’s? And is Willoughby actually asking me to move in with him? To live in his flat above the café?
It’s absurd. We haven’t even been on a date. And yet I don’t think he means it as roommates.
His words echo as I walk home. You’re the real thing, Lily. They pull me along like a current I’m not sure I want to escape.
***
The weekend before my gig flies by. I don’t get nearly as much practice in as I promised myself I would; Ellenor has assigned me ‘homework’ to reread the Harry Potter books before our road trip.
“At least the first five,” she insisted. “Goblet of Fire at the bare minimum, or I’m not taking you with me.”
She’s even dragged Brandon into reading them. I thought he was immune to her persuasion, but he joins me in the garden on Sunday afternoon, book in hand, and offers to read a chapter.
I agree before thinking it through. His voice is smooth and deep, with a calm authority that shivers my skin. I shift on the grass, feigning comfort, but every syllable rumbles straight through me.
I try to think of Willoughby instead, to remind myself he’s the one who’s actually available. The one who flirts with me. Not that I’m looking to date anyone. But if he asked, I think I’d say yes. I should at least consider it.
He’s so different from Brandon, whose caution to slow down feels like a cold shower.
Willoughby wants me to go for things, and after three years of paralysis, his energy feels like life itself.
Someone like Jack is exactly what I need.
Still, the longer Brandon reads, the less I think of Willoughby. My focus drifts from the story to the sound of his voice, and to the quiet, maddening warmth it stirs.
***
It’s Monday night and I’m a bundle of nerves as I get ready for the gig. Instead of squeezing in some last-minute practice like I planned, I’m subjected to Ellenor’s fussing. What started as me asking for her opinion has turned into a full-blown fashion tribunal.
“The red dress is perfect,” she decrees from the sofa bed, “but you can’t wear sneakers.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so. And ten points from Ravenclaw for arguing.”
I cross my arms. “Oh, so now you accept I’m a Ravenclaw? You wouldn’t deduct points if I were in Slytherin.”
“Just so. But hey, it’s not too late to jump ship.”
I sigh. “These are the only shoes I have.”
“What happened to the ballet flats I packed you?”
“They’re uncomfortable.”
“So?”
I throw my hands up. “Ellenor, I don’t have the brain power to debate shoes with you right now.”
“Fine. We’ll circle back. What are you wearing over the top?”
I reach for the green cardigan. She slaps my hand away. “No, Lily. Bad.”
I pull it on anyway. It’s my lucky charm, even if I’ll never admit that to her.
There’s ten minutes until we have to leave for the café when a knock sounds at the door leading to the stairs. I open it to find Brandon standing there.
He’s never come upstairs before.
“Hi,” I say, startled. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, fine.” He’s about to say something, but then his eyes sweep over me. “You look beautiful.”
“Oh.” I blink. “Thank you.”
He gives a small, almost self-conscious smile. “I have a surprise for you—a present.”
“For me?”
“Yes. From the music shop.”
He lifts a tall black canvas bag into view.
“A guitar case?” Ellenor asks, appearing beside me.
“A gig bag,” he explains. “Soft and padded. You can wear it like a backpack. I thought it might make your walks to the café easier, now that you’re a regular performer.”
“Wow. Thank you,” I breathe.
He turns it so I can see the logo printed on the side: Cole Clark.
“Oh my God…”
“It matches your guitar,” he continues. “I had to special order it from London—”
His voice cuts off as I hug him without thinking, my arms wrapping around him before I can stop myself. His coat smells faintly of cedar.
“I can’t believe you did this,” I whisper against his shoulder. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t speak, but I catch the faintest sound of a quietly pleased chuckle.
“Aww, you guys are so cute,” Ellenor drawls before snapping her fingers. “And where’s my present, Brando?”
We both know she’s joking, but it surprises me when Brandon says, “Check your phone.”
She frowns. “What are you on about—?” Her eyes widen. “No. Is this real?”
“What is it?” I ask.
“He sent me a Words with Friends request.”
“I thought it might make amends for the game I abandoned,” he says mildly.
“Might.” She narrows her eyes at him. “But only if you actually finish this one.”
“We’ll see.”
Ellenor insists they each place a word now in the interest of maintaining ‘foreign relations’.
Their voices fade to an easy rhythm in the background as I kneel and carefully transfer my guitar from the hard shell Dad bought me years ago into the soft case.
I hoist it onto my back, pleased with how weightless it feels. I’m lighter, freer. No more lugging the hardshell around.
Gratitude swells in my chest. Because of Brandon, the walk to the café feels less daunting—almost thrilling, like stepping into something new.
For once, I have a good feeling about performing. I’m not bracing for disaster. Instead, I’m trusting tonight will go well.
And it does.