Chapter 25 Almost Like Being…
Almost Like Being…
Brandon
I’ve just showered after work, still towel-drying my hair when the sound of a guitar drifts in through the open window. Lily-Anne’s playing outside again.
It’s the first of what promises to be a string of impossibly sunny days—a final hurrah before she leaves Whitstable.
I should change, or start dinner, but the melody stops me cold. It’s so beautiful it’s almost painful, making me ache in a way it wouldn’t have a few days ago. Now, with time slipping through my fingers, it hits differently.
I tell myself to ignore it, but I can’t. Not when this is one of the last times I’ll hear her play.
So, I give in. I step outside. The towel is still draped around my neck, the air thick with warmth and the low hum of summer insects. She’s sitting cross-legged on the lawn, sunlight glittering in her hair, guitar balanced on her lap.
I stop in the patio’s shadow and listen as she sings.
Goodbye shadow
You just cling to the doorway
Watch me, follow me—if you can
But my suitcase is light
And my heart’s still beating
With hope-driven steps
To a place I can breathe
I don’t know this town
But it feels like healing
Though the streets are so strange
And the cracks are revealing
The sky is new, the people too
But I’m still the same
I’m better, I’m wiser, but still, there’s this pain
She glances up, smiling. “Hi.”
“Hi. Sounds like it’s going well.”
“Not so well. I can’t get this song right. It was meant to be upbeat, but it keeps turning melancholy.”
“Perhaps that’s the start of your next song.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
I can hear the frustration in her voice, the familiar battle of trying to force something to stick to the original vision long after it’s taken on a life of its own.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little melancholy,” I say. “I think you should lean into it. Keep writing.”
She nods. “I will. Thanks.”
I glance at the patio chair. “Do you mind if I…?”
“No, not at all—please. I’d like the company. I’m done playing anyway.”
“Oh?” I watch in disappointment as she sets her guitar aside.
“I was just trying to memorise some new lyrics. Willoughby suggested some changes.”
She must catch something in my expression because she insists, “But they’re good changes. Really good.”
I give a faint smile. “Alright. Well, I think the scout will be impressed.”
She brightens. “Willoughby said the same thing. He thinks my songs are special.”
The affection in her voice hits me harder than I expect. She’s simply excited about the music, but it’s his praise that sparked it, and I can’t help feeling the loss of something I never truly had.
“That’s good,” I manage. “I’m glad he’s being supportive.”
Your songs are special, I want to add.
She nods, smiling. “He’s been great, actually. He even wants me to take the lead on one of our songs in the set. Says it’ll show range, and that the scout will notice.”
I raise a brow. “I thought you would sing all of your songs. They’re yours.”
“I am. We both are. Together. But some lend themselves better to a male voice. I’ll be doing backup vocals for those.”
I don’t quite know what to say. Does she hear it? The absurdity? The way she chews her lip tells me she does. I temper my response accordingly, focusing less on dismantling Jack and more on her.
“You’ve come a long way, you know. When you arrived, you were nervous to play in front of me. And now here you are, talking about gigs and scouts.”
Her cheeks flush. “Yeah. I guess I have.”
“You should be proud,” I add quietly, my words laden with feeling. “I know I am.”
We hold each other’s gaze a moment too long, the silence tightening until my restraint seems futile, my longing for her undeniable.
She drops her gaze shyly, her guitar resting between us like a boundary.
I move closer regardless, the impulse to lean across it and kiss her surfacing with a severity that makes denial impossible.
“Brandon, can I ask you something?” she asks, and I check my movement at the last second, my hand redirected toward the clover.
“Of course,” I say, brushing the green leaves as I pretend to search for a lucky one.
“Daisy and Jack keep telling me I should make a social media account. But I’m not sure. Do I have to be online?”
“Yes and no. You don’t have to let it consume your life.”
She frowns. “But where would I draw the line? I want to focus on creating, but if I’m spending a big chunk of my time responding to comments and messages…”
“You don’t have to engage. There’s no need to set a precedent. Treat it like a portfolio.”
“Like a business card?”
“Exactly. Or a creative outlet. Share posts or videos on what you’re working on. Then step away.”
“Hmm. I think I can manage that.”
“Or simply ignore the internet altogether.”
“Is that possible?”
“Probably not.”
I’ve seen artists lose themselves chasing numbers—likes and hearts and followers—and that was back when social media was still effective. From what I’ve heard, those days are long gone. Yet the internet is more relevant than ever.
I glance at her guitar, then back at her. “Play me one more,” I say softly.
She considers this, then she smiles. “Alright.”
Her fingers brush the strings, and the first few notes drift into the warm afternoon air.
“Any requests?”
“Not Dustin.”
She laughs. “Done.”
It’s so simple, so pure and gentle, yet every note hurts, just like earlier—only now, it’s sharper, deeper, like a heartache carving its way into my chest.
Doors open on a quiet room
And dust begins to swirl
Numbness fades, as something stirs
So slow, and sweet, and pure
It’s that spark again
It’s found me in the night
A treasure chest with chains and locks
Springs open to my touch
A tinderbox, a thousand stars
Lost dreams of a young girl
She cries out my name
And hark, that voice is mine
Her voice lifts, higher and more fragile, aching notes that stretch like a bird taking flight.
God.
I always knew she was extraordinary. I knew it on the beach, when the wind stole half the sound and I still felt it.
And I’m privileged to hear it again now.
I’m not waiting…for a sign in the sky
But I’ll paint a star, paint a star, paint a star
On the dark canvas of night
It’s not a miracle, but a hope that’s ever-bright
Her fingers brush the strings one last time, the final chord trembling. The sun has dipped low, bathing the garden molten orange, her hair deep gold.
Something deep within me stirs, unbidden. A truth I thought drowned, gasping for air as it resurfaces.
I see her now the way I did on stage: composed, radiant, and full of life.
No longer requiring my guidance, if she ever did.
And I realise, with a start that feels both inevitable and ruinous, that this longing ache in my chest is no new thing. It’s been with me all along. From the moment she drew that guitar case out of my hands at the airport, fearful I would take it from her. I could never hurt her like that.
And certainly, I’ve been drawn to her since I first heard her sing, fighting to reclaim what she lost.
But it’s a funny thing…
She glances at me, that modest, sweet smile catching me off-guard. I’m convinced she can see right through me and read every thought.
The song fades out.
“Well, what do you think?” she asks.
“Stunning. Truly.” She beams, and I add, “May I offer some advice?”
“Yes…?”
I choose my words carefully. “You should play that next weekend.”
“Really?”
I nod. “And I think you should do it as a solo piece.” Without Jack, I want to add, but refrain.
“Okay,” she says softly. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
She smiles at me—and for a heartbeat, the world shines around her. Too bright. Too much. Too close.
And yet she’s impossibly out of reach.
I die a little inside but offer her one of my cordial smiles.
***
The week slips by faster than I can bear, the days swallowed by work, the nights too quiet in her absence while she’s at rehearsals with Jack.
I think of her more and more lately. Like in the dark early mornings, waist-deep in cold water as I fix mesh by headlight and haul oysters from the bay. Her face, her laughter, her warmth keeps finding its way into my thoughts.
On Thursday evening, I walk to Sean’s.
He opens the door with a scowl. “You know, it’s bad enough you badger me at work. Do you have to take up my free time as well?”
“I wouldn’t impose if it weren’t important.”
“Yeah, yeah, Romeo and bloody Juliet—that’s if she doesn’t die of old age waiting for you to climb her balcony.” He eyes the ziplock bag in my hand. “Is that the loot?”
I pass him the bag of sea glass. He holds it up to the light, assessing it with an artisan’s squint.
“Do you think we’ll be able to drill holes through them?” I ask.
“Aye, my Dremel should do the trick. We’ll need water, though, or they’ll crack.” He gives me an approving look. “Glad you’ve finally manned up.” He waves me inside. “Come on. I’ve got Ma’s jewellery kit out—and she’s made her amber pie.”
***
It’s nine o’clock on Friday morning when I leave Sean’s house, the sea-glass bracelet resting in my pocket, the early sunlight warming my skin.
It took the three of us all night to make—Sean, his mother Molly, and me. Though, truthfully, it was Molly who carried the thing into existence, her clever hands weaving tiny silver beads between the pieces of glass.
She remembered who I was today, her mind sharp, her affectionate barbs landing true.
Sean stood a little apart, his voice gone quiet, as though he was afraid to break the spell—soaking in this rare, fleeting version of Molly while it was here, storing it up for the days when she won’t know him at all.
She asked me about Lily-Anne, prying information to her satisfaction before adding a delicate treble-clef pendant to the bracelet.
“She’s a lucky girl, Brandon,” she said, fastening the clasp.
I had no answer for that. Sean claimed I went red, though I maintain the fireplace made the room far too hot.
At the door, Sean claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t be late to that castle thing.”
“Are you sure you can’t come? Ellenor will be there.”
He huffs a laugh. “Aye, and I’ll be at the pub, up to my elbows in fryer grease, ’cause the new lad’s gone flaky already.” To my surprise, he adds, “I’ll be sad to miss it. The barbecue too.”
I raise a hand in goodbye and start for home, quietly marvelling at Sean and Ellenor.
The two of them have been seeing each other right under our noses, without fuss or fanfare.
Neither seems remotely troubled by the age gap—her twenty-nine to his forty-five—and I admire how frankly Sean confided he likes her.
However, it seems even they have their complications. Whatever is happening between him and Ellenor, she hasn’t told Lily-Anne. Perhaps she’s afraid to jinx it. Sean insists they aren’t dating, and for once, I was the one to call bullshit.
It’s not my place to interfere, or to question how fiercely Ellenor tries to hold herself together in front of her sister.
I check my pocket to ensure the bracelet is still there.
The silk bag Molly gave me was a nice touch.
It’s not a glamorous gift, but I’m sure Lily-Anne will like it.
It seems only proper that she should take a piece of Whitstable with her when she leaves.
For that reason, I hope she’ll accept it as a gift of friendship.
My other gift, however, will be of a decidedly romantic nature—along with my declaration.
I won’t stand in the way of her trip with Ellenor, but I also won’t let her go without telling her how I feel.
On the way home, I stop at a florist near the market.
The shop is a riot of colour and scents, and I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices. I gravitate towards cheerful tulips, lilies, and gerberas. Any of them would suit Lily-Anne’s spirit.
But in the end, I choose red roses. The traditional, timeless emblem of romance, rendering my intentions unmistakable.
I still don’t like red, though these days, it reminds me of Lily-Anne’s dress more than it does of anything else.
And she deserves to be courted properly.
My ostentatious choice of red roses also gives me no room to retreat should I get cold feet. It’s a little insurance against any last-minute lapses in courage, from a presently optimistic Yours Truly.
There’s a strange lift in my chest as I walk home with the paper-wrapped bouquet in hand, a giddy elation I haven’t felt in years. Not until she entered my life.
It isn’t just her laughter I’ll miss, or the sound of her guitar drifting down from the upstairs flat.
It’s her. Here, with me.
Over the summer, she’s become more than a houseguest, and the thought of her simply vanishing from my life as though she were only ever passing through is almost intolerable. I don’t want her to go.
I think of our near-kiss by the harbour when we stood toe to toe, our fingers brushing as we held my hat, a low pulse thudding beneath my ribs. If only I hadn’t broken the moment.
The memory unsettles me now, but it does something else too—it strengthens my resolve. Whatever comes next, I won’t regret what I’m about to do.
I catch myself walking faster.
I can picture it too easily: coffee shared in the mornings, her voice carrying from the next room, clothes tangled in the wash. Her legs tangled with mine as she sleeps, my arm around her through the hush of night. Fantasies I’ve given life to even as I deny them.
I turn onto my street, the cottage coming into view.
We’ll be departing for Whitstable Castle soon, but there’s no great hurry. I’ll steal a private moment with her before the day begins.
Hope and dread rise in equal measure, driving me forward, each step thrumming with the risk of it; with the thrill of what might be.
I’m nearly at the cottage when doubt catches up.
Could someone like me, a reclusive oyster farmer with an unremarkable life, make her happy? Without even trying to, she’s made me immeasurably happy in a way I never expected. She’s slipped into the rhythm of my days, and I’ve moved to match hers.
Not changing. Just syncing.
I tighten my grip on the flowers, pulse surging beneath my skin.
No rehearsed speech, no grand gesture. Only the truth I’ve kept secret for too long.
Resolve blazes through me like fire as I stride up the path to the front door, the cellophane wrapping rustling in my arms.
I can’t contain it any longer.
My feet tap up the steps. Keys jangle. A shaky breath.
I’ll admit it to her—and I’ll finally admit it to myself.
Because when I’m with her…
The lock clicks.
It’s almost like being—
The door swings open. Light spills into the hall.
Not quite like being…
But it’s almost like being…
Hopelessly…
Desperately…
And quite maddeningly…