Chapter 29
Offbeat
Lily-Anne
Back home, I’m still wound up from our castle escapade. It was an adrenaline rush for sure, but one I could’ve happily gone without.
I’m not sure what bothers me more: that I agreed to trespass, or that Ellenor’s so unfazed by it. It’s not like her. She’s like a bull when she sets her mind to something, unstoppable and maybe even reckless—but she doesn’t usually break the rules.
I find her downstairs in Brandon’s living room, remote in hand, socked feet on the coffee table in all their green-and-silver-striped splendour, browsing for something to watch.
I join her on the couch. “Hey, can we talk?”
“Sure. ’Sup?” she says, eyes on the TV.
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Is…everything okay with you?”
“Yep. Fine.”
“Are you sure? Because if there’s anything you’d like to talk about—”
She lowers the remote and looks at me, keen eyes searching mine. “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”
“Err, no.”
“How’s your music going?”
“It’s going well.”
She hums approvingly. “Excellent. And your love life?”
I splutter, “I don’t have a love life. Willoughby and I had one date.”
“Two, technically, if you count today.”
“Fine. Two.”
“Three if you see him tonight.”
“Currently two.”
“Aha.” She scrutinises me. “Is he treating you well?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Otherwise, I’d have to kick his arse. Anyway, look! They have that show.”
“What show?”
“This BBC one. With that handsome detective who looks like Brandon.”
“Oh?” Jealousy sparks as something tightens low in my stomach, and my tone cools. “You think Brandon’s handsome?”
She makes a face at me. “Ew. Did I say that?”
“Yeah, you pretty much did—”
“Hush. It’s starting.”
My nostrils flare. “Press pause, then.”
“No. Stay and be silent, or go. Sherlock McBrandon deserves my full attention.”
“I’ll go,” I mutter.
I’m nearly out the door when she calls, “Wait. Just to be clear—you realise those roses were meant for you, right?”
I freeze. Slowly turn back. “What?”
“Brandon got them for you.”
I stare. “Why would he do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he thought red roses were a nice platonic gesture. Or that you’d developed a sudden interest in herbology. Hard to say.”
I narrow my eyes. It’s classic Ellenor misdirection. She always talks nonsense when she’s covering her tracks. She doesn’t know I’ve figured out who her mystery boyfriend is.
I cross my arms. “Why’d he give the roses to you, then?”
Another shrug. “Because he didn’t know how to hand them to you in front of Willoughby without it being weird?”
“Did he actually say the roses were for me?”
“Well, no. But come on, Lily—they obviously weren’t for me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
She hesitates. Not the quick, dismissive pause I expect, but a longer one—eyes flicking away, mouth parting as if she’s replaying the moment, weighing what to say.
Hoping.
The silence stretches. Long enough that when she finally looks up and says, “They’re for you. One hundred percent,” it sounds rehearsed, as though she doesn’t believe her own words.
“Right. Thanks for the heads-up,” I mutter, turning away and leaving her to ogle the Brandon-lookalike detective.
She’s clearly just stirring the pot out of boredom. Or in denial of her feelings for him. Or some other batshit-crazy logic that fuels my sister’s mind.
Brandon buying me roses makes zero sense. Not after he rejected me and made it clear he wanted to keep things professional.
If he’d meant the flowers for me, he wouldn’t have given them to Ellenor. That must be why he looked so taken aback when he saw me in the kitchen. I thought it was the shock of seeing Willoughby, but perhaps he’d been hoping to give the flowers to Ellenor privately.
He wanted to spare my feelings.
Bitterness rises. That’s why they’ve kept their relationship from me this long.
My head spins as I head upstairs for my guitar. It’s absurd, but a tiny part of me—stupid and hopeful—wants to believe her. I know she doesn’t mean to toy with my emotions, that she’s just trying to keep whoever she’s dating a secret, but it’s a little cruel.
Or it would be, if she knew how I feel about Brandon, or how hard I’m trying to shut those feelings down.
At least he didn’t lie to me at the Rose Gardens. Better to know the truth.
I let out a long sigh and sling the soft case over my shoulder. I shouldn’t be cross with Ellenor. She lies for a living. And a new relationship is a big step for her.
Besides, her behaviour says more about her own fears than mine.
I head for the café before my thoughts can circle back to the roses…and to the man I wish had given them to me.
***
When I arrive, Willoughby invites me upstairs to his flat above the shop.
“The café has a trivia night on,” he explains, “but we can practice up here.”
This is our last chance to do a proper run-through. I don’t have high hopes of squeezing in much practice tomorrow before our evening gig.
How on earth did Ellenor and I think we could fit in packing and cleaning between the BBQ and my performance? I regret going along with her crazy optimism.
It’s my first time seeing his place, and I almost laugh when I see inside.
Willoughby’s flat is pure beach-town cliché.
Whitewashed timber, driftwood furniture, rattan lampshades, and a pristine surfboard yet to see action.
A massive framed photo dominates the dining area: Jack clutching Dustin’s twelve-string guitar on a lit stage, grinning like he’s just been handed a torch.
Dustin Willoughby memorabilia is everywhere, right down to a life-size cutout of the man himself propped by the dining table as if he lives here too.
Wow. I thought the whole nephew-of-a-legend thing was just part of the café’s schtick. But here? In his private space?
The living room’s been half-converted into a rehearsal space, cords and speakers crowding the couch.
“Drink?” he offers, glancing at his phone while opening the fridge. “I have water or beer.”
I accept a glass of tap water and settle on the couch. He perches on a speaker with his guitar, a beer sweating onto the floorboards.
We run through the set without amps to avoid disturbing the patrons downstairs. I’m pleasantly surprised by how many of my songs he’s included in the set. The rest are mostly Dustin’s, but I convinced him to add a couple of modern pop ballads to keep things fresh.
He clings to his uncle’s legacy a little too tightly. It’s as if he’s trying to prove he inherited that same magic.
There’s no denying his talent. He’s a gifted singer and guitarist, with an instinct for songwriting too. He helped me rework the song I was stuck on, changing the key to lift it out of its melancholy.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He’s loose, playful, swaying slightly as he sings. His voice is clear and earnest, with a touch of rawness that sounds almost confessional, like a James Blunt song.
I like the way he lets the music take him. Even when he misses a chord, he rolls through it with a smooth chuckle.
Considering how much tomorrow night means to him, especially with the scout coming, I admire his calm.
“Don’t worry—it adds flavour to the sound.” He grins when I stumble on a new line we just added.
“Thanks,” I say appreciatively. “It’s nice playing like this. Not taking it too seriously.”
He tenses. “I take it seriously.”
“Oh, of course. So do I. I just meant, I’m glad we’re not perfectionists.”
“Aha.” He nods, but I can tell my comment bothers him.
I regret saying anything. It would have made more sense if he knew about Toby, and how suffocating that was for me. But my life has barely come up in conversation, and I’m glad. I can pretend to be a happier version of myself.
Willoughby dodged my questions about his family. I found out from Daisy that his parents live in London, and that he left home to tour with his uncle the moment he came of age. I wish he’d told me himself, but I guess he tries not to dwell on the past.
It’s one of the things that drew me to him. He’s easy to be around—the life of the party without even trying. Plus, he’s undeniably attractive…which only makes me more confused.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel butterflies. No spark. No thrill.
Shouldn’t I feel something?
We haven’t talked about what this is, if it even is anything. And with me leaving Whitstable on Sunday, it feels like a song that will fade out before it’s even begun.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Shall we sneak one more song into the set?”
“Yes!” I say, then I falter.
There’s still that song Brandon suggested I play solo. I’ve been meaning to ask Willoughby, but I’m not sure it’s a reasonable request. After all, we’re supposed to be sharing the stage.
“Hold that thought,” he says when I go to speak. “I’m starving. Fancy a pizza?”
I glance at my phone and startle. “Oh my gosh. It’s nearly eleven!”
We haven’t even had dinner.
He laughs. “We may as well keep this party going.”
“Actually, I’d better go. I have to get up early. Ellenor and I are packing tomorrow.”
“Brandon kicking you out of the cottage already?”
I frown. “No, not at all. If anything, he offered to let us keep our stuff there during our road trip. But that doesn’t seem fair—not when he could be renting it out.”
“Well, you know what isn’t fair? You’re leaving now without letting me treat you to the Whitstable Special.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Come on…I know you’re curious.”
I feel a smile form. “What’s the Whitstable Special?”
“It’s a seafood pizza with white sauce. Please tell me you like anchovies.”
I make a disgusted face. “No. I hate anchovies. Sorry.”
“Only because you haven’t tried this one. Proper wood-fired pizza from this little local place. All homemade, just a smidge of anchovy. It will change your life. What do you reckon?”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on…please?”
For a moment, I’m reminded of Toby—except he would never have asked so earnestly. It’s an important distinction.
I give in. “Fine. I’ll give it a go.”
“Great. Trust me, you’ll love it.”