Chapter 29 #2
As he calls the pizza place, I step outside onto the balcony.
A cool breeze brushes my cheeks, carrying salt and woodsmoke. Through the rooftops, the sea glimmers silver beneath the moon, its smooth surface ribbed by wooden groynes.
My pulse calms. I feel utterly still, as though I belong here, woven into the night itself.
If Ellenor were here, she’d call it magic.
If Brandon were here, he wouldn’t need to say a word.
I breathe deeper, letting the silence settle. All I want is to stand here and simply feel.
A hand lands suddenly on my shoulder.
“Gotcha!”
I flinch, spinning around with a gasp.
Willoughby chuckles, phone in hand. “A bit jumpy?”
“Not usually,” I say, even as my pulse scatters.
“Alright. Well, food will be here in twenty. Got us some garlic bread to share.”
“That’s…great.”
He lounges against the railing, so at ease he could be posing for an album cover. “So, have you thought of a song for our set yet?”
Yes. I nearly tell him about the other song I wrote, but something holds me back. Something greedy that doesn’t want to share.
“I was thinking a Nickelback song,” I improvise.
He chokes. “Nickelback? Which one?”
“Hero. Technically, it’s by Chad Kroeger.”
“I dunno…We’ll still catch flak for playing it.” He sighs, giving me an endearing look. “But alright. Let’s do it. Daisy can do the drums. And you can sing lead, if you like.”
I brighten. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think you’d sound great.”
My chest swells. It’s a powerful song. I hope I can do it justice.
As we look towards the sea, I feel a pinprick of guilt for not mentioning my own song, like a secret tucked away.
“Beautiful out here, isn’t it?” he murmurs.
“It is.”
His gaze flicks to me. “You know…you look like you belong here,” he says softly. “In this town. On my balcony. With me.”
“Oh?” My heart rate picks up, feeling the sudden urge to flee.
“Yeah. You do.”
He moves closer—too close—tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think we make a great team.”
I swallow, caught in his gaze, irises ethereal in the moonlight. He’s so close I can make out every whisker on his jaw, every highlight in his dark curls, every angle of his chiselled features.
“Don’t you think?” he whispers, thumb brushing my cheek.
The space between us hums, his scent warm and heady.
“Think what?” I stammer. Part of me wants to step back. A more curious, traitorous part urges me to stay still.
“I asked, don’t you think we make a good team?” he repeats.
“Oh. Sure,” I say automatically. “We do…”
His lips are on mine before I’ve fully registered it.
I freeze as his mouth moves, panic rising as every muscle locks tight.
Then I remember to kiss him back—small, uncertain pecks. No fireworks. His stubble rasps as he deepens the kiss. I respond just enough not to be inanimate, my mind stumbling.
I thought to love is to burn, to be on fire.
But this could not feel further from that, and when Willoughby finally pulls away, all I feel is cold relief.
That, and my lips tingle, though not exactly how I’d hoped.
It’s still miles better than the small, inadequate version of myself I was with Toby. If only that were enough.
“Wow,” Willoughby says with a self-satisfied grin. “Not bad, eh?”
I force a smile through clenched teeth and nod.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe Toby broke something in me that can’t be fixed.
Willoughby puts an arm around me as we look out over the balcony. “Could you see yourself living here, Lil?”
“I don’t know,” I say, resisting the urge to pull away. This might be as good as it ever gets, but I wish I were anywhere else.
“Hey, I have a name for our duo. Ready?”
“Err…yes?”
He pauses dramatically before pronouncing, “Lilloughby.” When I don’t react, he adds, “It’s a mash-up of our names!”
I don’t know what to say. Especially when he spells it. ‘Lillaby’ I could maybe get behind. It’s kind of cute. But ‘Lilloughby’ makes me want to leap off the balcony.
When the food arrives, I’m grateful for the excuse to slide from his grasp and sit on the opposite end of the couch. He’s too focused on his pizza to notice my discomfort—or that I’m only eating garlic bread.
For all his assurances, I still don’t like anchovies.
We eat in silence, Willoughby scrolling on his phone with greasy fingers.
He’s on his phone a lot, I’m starting to realise.
After several minutes, he looks up. “Just updated socials—hashtag Lilloughby.” He winks.
I can’t tell if he’s joking.
“Shall we run through Hero?” he asks.
I agree, but I leave after only a few run-throughs. It’s late, and I really don’t know why I stayed. Was waiting to feel something, perhaps.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say, fiddling with my bag straps as I head for the door, hoping he won’t try to kiss me again.
How do I tell him this was a flop? That I feel nothing for him?
“It was fun,” he says, joining me on the fire escape. “You know, I have a good feeling about tomorrow night.”
I linger, my hand braced on the railing. I want to tell him right now and get it out of the way: Sorry, but I’m just not interested in you romantically. And I don’t like the name for our ‘duo’. In fact, there is no duo. It’s just one performance, so I don’t see the point in having a name at all.
“I’m glad you’re doing this with me,” he says. “Tomorrow night will change our lives.”
Hope shines in his eyes, and I lose my nerve at the last second.
I will tell him, but not until after the gig. After all he’s done for me, the least I can do is not make things awkward or rattle his confidence the night before we face the scout.
One more night won’t hurt.
“Well, I should let you go. Catch you at the barbecue.” He flashes that easy smile before the door clicks shut.
I’m left on the dark stairway, the café below eerily still—staff gone, lights off, windows shuttered.
It’s past midnight, far later than I meant to stay out.
A rowdier kind of noise drifts through the streets, laughter and drunken cheers emanating from pubs. It’s not aimed at me, just people still having a night.
When I turn the next corner, however, it all falls away.
A deep silence takes its place, raising all my hairs on end. The streets are dark here, the atmosphere wrong somehow, thick and expectant. The night air closes in, my entire body tense and alert as I pass buildings with blank windows watching me.
My senses prickle. Am I being followed?
I jump when a bottle clatters onto the pavement somewhere behind me. Too late to turn back.
I walk faster, my grip tightening around my phone, palm slick with sweat.
Do I run?
Panic spikes, but I quash it.
No, I’m fine.
A shiver climbs my spine. I cast a quick look over my shoulder, peering frantically past the gig bag slung on my back.
Nothing.
Still, my pace quickens.
I’m probably being paranoid. Mum always said to trust my intuition, to not let fear of embarrassment stop me from running if—
Footsteps scrape behind me.
I bolt.
Fear surges, raw and blinding, propelling my feet forward. My breath saws in my throat as I tear down the pavement, the guitar slamming against my back as I run.
A pub sign glows ahead like a lifeline. I dart around the corner, stumble down a narrow flight of stone steps, and grab the brass handle—
Locked.
A paper sign stuck to the door reads: Closed for refurbishment.
“Shit,” I gasp, trying to muffle my panting. Why the hell is the sign still lit if it’s closed?
My chest heaves. This is a dead end.
Do I stay here in the murky light?
Or risk going back up to the street?
Indecision keeps me paralysed.
Half a minute later, a shape passes at the top of the steps.
I flinch, cold fear sliding down my spine—but it’s just a drunk man, weaving slightly as he watches something on his phone, face aglow from the screen held close to his face.
He doesn’t even glance my way.
Relief hits so hard my knees go weak, a ragged exhale leaving me.
I can’t stay here, but I’m too shaken to venture out.
I take out my phone and call Ellenor. As it rings, I wonder if it would be safe for her to come get me with her car.
She doesn’t pick up.
I wait a few minutes and try again. No dice.
I consider calling Rupert and Barbara, but I know they’d make a fuss, and it seems silly to inconvenience them unless I have to.
That leaves only one person.
I hover over Brandon’s name. I don’t want to sound like someone who needs rescuing. And I’m not looking forward to explaining where I’ve been, or who I’ve been with.
Lily-Anne: Hi, Brandon. Sorry, I know it’s late. Are you awake?
The phone rings almost immediately.
Relief washes over me when he picks up.
“Lily-Anne, is everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” I say too fast, my words ragged from panting. “I just…got a bit freaked out walking home.”
“What happened?” he asks in concern.
“It was nothing. I thought I was being followed, but it looks like it was just someone—”
“Where are you now?” he cuts in, voice rougher, more urgent than I’ve ever heard it.
“At a pub…” I read the faded lettering on the door. “The Walrus and the Oyster? Does that sound right?”
“I know the one.” Then, calmer, more certain: “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”
I start to thank him, but he’s already hung up.
***
It takes him just over five minutes to find me.
I’m immensely glad to see him, and the knot in my chest immediately unwinds. I hurry up the steps, stopping short of hugging him.
“Thank you for coming,” I say gratefully.
“Are you alright?” he asks, scanning me as if expecting injuries.
I nod. “Yes. I just got a bit scared. I thought I was being followed, but it was just some drunk watching something on his phone.”
His eyes flick over me. “You’re out late.”
I freeze. “Oh—right. I, um…” My voice catches. “I was just practising for the gig with Willoughby. Lost track of time.”
I don’t know why my face heats, but it does. It was only a kiss—one stupid kiss—but I suddenly feel like Brandon can see straight through me, as if Willoughby’s kiss is somehow stamped on my lips. I almost lift a hand to wipe them, as if I can erase the evidence before he sees it there.
He doesn’t react, but I still squirm in my seat.
“Jack didn’t walk you home?” he asks after a beat, the question careful, almost too casual.
“I don’t know. He didn’t offer. And I didn’t ask.”
He frowns faintly, eyes still on the road.
I drop my gaze. “I feel silly now. I’m sorry you had to come get me.”
His frown deepens as he glances at me. “You don’t have to explain why you felt uneasy—or apologise for it. On some level, your instincts sensed danger. That’s reason enough.” He turns the corner and gives me another quick glance.
His words settle, smoothing the jagged edges of what I was feeling. He’s right.
“Thanks for saying that,” I whisper.
“Of course. Anytime.”
I release the breath trapped in my lungs. I’m suddenly exhausted, my limbs heavy with the crash of adrenaline.
The drive is short, the hum of tyres and wind filling the silence.
My phone vibrates as he pulls onto our lane.
Ellenor: Sorry, I was showering. What’s up? You okay?
Lily-Anne: Yep, all good. I’ll be home soon
I pocket my phone. Thinking of Ellenor brings the red roses back to mind, and in my raw state, I nearly blurt out a question to Brandon, asking if he really meant to get them for her.
Common sense prevails. I know how pitiful I would sound: me, jealous of my sister. I can’t bear to make a fool of myself with Brandon again. Three strikes and I’m done; I’ll die of humiliation and respawn in Sydney.
Besides, how could I possibly ask about the flowers when, not even an hour ago, I was kissing Willoughby?
He cuts the engine.
Neither of us moves.
“Thanks again for coming to get me,” I say.
He nods, still looking straight ahead.
As I reach to undo my seatbelt, he speaks.
“Lily-Anne, I know you’re leaving soon, but…”
I freeze. “Yes?” I hate how hopeful I sound.
He turns to me, his eyes dark and impenetrable in the dim light. “No matter where you are, no matter the reason…if you’re ever in trouble, you can call me. Alright?”
I hold my breath, a shiver blooming under my skin. His solemn, unwavering timbre makes me feel safer than I have all night. I nod, barely trusting my own voice as I whisper, “Okay.”