Chapter 31 #2
We launch into the first song. The music pours out of me, but I’m on autopilot.
Willoughby plays with extra flourish, more than he’s ever shown in rehearsal. He’s performing for Hilary, and I can’t blame him. Every move, every wink, is perfectly timed. When he tosses me a grin, I match it automatically, though it feels plastered on.
Goodbye shadow
You just cling to the doorway
Watch me, follow me—if you can…
It sounds good. Willoughby has a great voice, and he gives it that radio-ready push that wins over a crowd. But I miss the way it was during practice, earnest and carefree.
I’m not sure I’m proud of my performance, either. As I vocalise, lilting breathy oohs and aahs behind his words, I try to recall how we decided that he’d sing lead on this one.
Because this is my song.
At least, it was. Before we started collaborating, it was a tender, heartfelt piece. Melancholy. Now, it’s brighter, faster, and more upbeat, and I can’t help wondering if changing the key was a mistake.
When the song ends, the audience cheers.
“Crowd loved it,” Willoughby says to me with a grin.
“Seems so.” I smile back.
I notice that Hilary doesn’t clap. She just thoughtfully sips her drink.
I sing lead on a Dustin number next. Willoughby made a big deal out of how special this song was to him, and how he wanted me to sing it, and I accepted the boon. As I finger-pluck a fill between lines, however, I notice that Hilary’s scrolling her phone, her expression flat in the screen’s light.
Embarrassment prickles my skin as I finish the song. This whole thing feels more gimmick than genuine. Throughout the next few songs, an uneasiness settles in my gut. Even though our songs are well-received, I know they could be better.
I could be better.
As I squint into the stage lights, echoing Willoughby’s words, it suddenly all feels bizarre and surreal. The brightness flattens everything—the crowd, the sound, even the air—until it’s just colours and movement and noise.
How did I get here?
What series of steps led me to standing on this stage, beside a man I kissed, letting him sing the songs I wrote?
And why is it I’m performing for a scout who could change everything, yet every part of me aches to be somewhere else?
The next song comes on: Hero by Nickelback. I picked it, and I was excited when Jack suggested I sing it. Who wouldn’t want to deliver a rock power ballad like this under the stage lights?
But as the first chords crash through the speakers, a quiet melancholy seeps in. All I can think about is what comes next—another one of my songs. The last one of the night. Another one where Jack’s voice will dominate.
That thought clings to me through the verses of Hero, bittersweet and heavy. As the intensity builds, the drums thundering, I’m swept up in the ache and defiance of the lyrics.
It’s the promise that someone might still come to save you.
My voice rises, strong and full of longing as the crowd sways below.
I can feel their energy, their hearts beating with mine. And in the middle of it all, something takes over. I’m not just singing Hero—I’m feeling it. The sadness, the yearning, the fragile hope threading through every line.
I feel lost.
And I feel powerful.
Finally, it dawns on me: no one is coming to save me.
The song ends. My ears ring with applause for a song I didn’t write.
“You were brilliant, Lil,” Willoughby says, pulling me into a half-hug, squeezing my shoulder. “Absolutely brilliant.”
He pulls away, hand lifted to the crowd in thank-you, already introducing the next song.
My song.
I remain still, staring at the spot where his hand rested a moment ago, the echo of that ‘encouraging’ squeeze still burning on my shoulder.
Since when did it become like this—every moment needing a compliment, a pat on the head, some tiny dose of validation? This icky feeling is all too familiar.
Since I let him.
I’ve been lapping up his praise like it means something. Like I need it.
For all his warm smiles, something about it reminds me of Toby. Except he didn’t lavish me with praise—he drip-fed it when I did something that pleased him and withheld it every other time.
Willoughby isn’t Toby.
But I’m not the person I was a few months ago, either. I don’t want anyone’s permission anymore.
My heart pounds as I pull Jack aside, dread crawling under my skin. This, I realise, is what independence feels like: uncomfortable, risky, terrifying.
Jack won’t like what I’m about to say, and I’ll have to live with his disappointment. It’s tempting to just smile and say nothing. That would be far easier.
But I didn’t travel across the world to smile and nod while someone else decides how I’ll live my life.
“I want to sing lead for this one,” I say.
He frowns. “Are you sure? That’s not how we practised it.”
“I know. But it’s my song.”
He gives a tight smile. “Well, technically, our song. We’re a team, right?”
The question demands agreement, but I hate the implied guilt. It’s like a spider in a quiet room, creeping along quietly, thinking no one’s noticed it yet.
And I watch it as it creeps, waiting to see if it’s smart enough to leave before I squash it.
“I’m singing lead,” I repeat, louder this time.
Willoughby’s smile wavers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I do.”
His lip curls, but he nods briskly. “Fine. We’ll push the volume up.”
As he turns to talk to the sound tech, I exhale through my nose. I hate this. I hate that he’s forcing me to fight him on this.
He strums the opening chords, and I finger-pick a melody, the crowd quieting as music blooms around us. His timing is perfect, and despite the tiff we just had, I have to admit we sound good together.
Then I start to sing.
And so does he.
At first, I think he’s just joining in softly, a bit of harmony as we practised. But a few bars in, something feels off. I can’t really hear myself. The monitor mix is weird—lopsided and unbalanced. I angle closer to the mic, trying to project, but my voice stays faint.
Then it hits me.
I can hear him. Loud and clear. Every word, every note, dominating the stage.
He’s not backing me up. He’s singing lead.
The bastard turned my mic down.
I glance sideways, pulse kicking. He looks completely at ease, smiling into the mic like this was the plan all along. Meanwhile, my voice is barely audible, washed out beneath his.
Anger surges through me. I’ve been demoted to my own backup singer.
Is this what Brandon was trying to warn me about at the barbecue?
As the bridge swells, a spark flares to life inside me, burning so hot that it sears my skin.
I’m done waiting for someone else to lead me, and I’m not going to stand here and wait for a hero to save me, either.
The person I’ve been waiting for all this time…is me.
And finally, I’m here.
It’s not too late.
The last chord rings out. Applause fills the room. Willoughby beams.
“Thanks, everyone—you’ve been amazing!” Willoughby says, gesturing to the bar. “Stay a while, have a drink, support the venue! Don’t forget to like and share our page—and tag us if you’re posting!”
As he moves to the edge of the stage, grinning and saying something to the front row, I step up to his mic.
“Before we finish, I’d just like to say something.” My voice carries through the speakers, bright and clear.
Yeah. His mic is definitely louder.
“What are you doing?” Willoughby hisses as the chatter dies down, the crowd turning their attention back to me.
“I want to thank Jack here,” I continue, glancing his way.
I use his first name—not out of spite, but because I’m trying to get through to the man behind the facade.
The one who’s actually a decent person when he’s not trying to be someone else.
“He’s been a huge part of this set, and of my time in Whitstable. ”
Jack looks like he’s just chewed glass. He smiles for the crowd’s sake, but his eyes are worried.
I take a deep breath, half-dreading someone will cut my mic.
“The truth is, I’ve been stuck for a long time, both creatively and personally.
I came to this town for a change of scenery, hoping to find inspiration.
And I did. The sea air, the people, the kindness—it all helped me find my spark again.
So, thank you all for coming tonight to hear us play.
But most of all, I want to thank Jack here.
I owe him a lot for this opportunity.” I glance his way, offering a genuine smile.
“Can we give him a round of applause for everything he’s done with this place?
The café, the live nights, the community he’s built… ”
Applause ripples through the café, and I wait for it to start fading before reaching deep and saying, “You’ve created something really special here, Jack.”
I hope he takes it to heart. He’s already made it.
Applause ripples through the café. Jack laughs awkwardly, giving a small bow, clearly unsure whether I’m praising him or setting him up. Maybe both.
I point over the crowd to the bar. “And a big thank-you to Daisy as well, the owner of Willoughby’s Café, for hosting us tonight.”
Daisy looks around, stunned, as people turn towards her, clapping.
I wonder if it’s the first time she’s been acknowledged.
When I glance at Jack, he’s seething, smile paper-thin, fingers flexing on the neck of his guitar.
I smile at the crowd and continue, “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to finish with one last song.”
A few cheers rise from the back.
“We’re out of time,” Jack says abruptly, leaning down to turn off my amp.
But I’m already strumming.
Slow, steady fingerpicking fills the air, soft enough that the room quiets to listen. He can’t shut it off now without the crowd booing. He won’t risk that.
Jack hovers at the edge of the stage, brow furrowed. He doesn’t know this song—it’s the one Brandon suggested I play solo.
I’m glad I kept it to myself now.
The melody winds through the stillness, fragile but sure, and I sing, my voice carrying bright and clear through the speakers.
I let the song carry me forward, the melody rising as the last chorus gathers its breath.
No, I’m not waiting…for a sign in the sky
But you gave me one, and I won, you’re the one
Now it glows prismatic white
It’s not a miracle…but a dream cracking apart
My pulse thrums in my throat, and I keep my fingers pressed to the strings, letting them shimmer.
It’s not a miracle, just a truth I finally see
Even broken dreams can set you free
It sounds like a love song, but it isn’t. It’s a thank-you to everyone who’s shaped me. Dad. Mum. Ellenor. Brandon. Jack. Even Toby.
If it weren’t for all of them, I wouldn’t be standing here.
But this moment, this voice, this nerve-wracking courage, is all me.
It’s the broken dream that sets me free
The last note trembles, then it fades.
Silence. Then a single clap. Another. And suddenly, the room erupts in cheers and whistles, and my name is called from the back by Daisy and her friends.
I bow, offering a heartfelt smile.
Jack turns to me, smiling for the crowd too, but his jaw is tight, his blue eyes icy and piercing.
Brandon was right.
Maybe not about Jack stealing my music behind my back, but close enough—he’d been doing it right in front of me, and I let him.
Old Lily-Anne would’ve shrunk back, but I know better now.
“We need to talk,” he says, his smooth tone strained at the edges.
“We do,” I agree. “Later. Let’s enjoy this moment.”
I gesture to the crowd, and he hesitates before approaching centre stage with open arms, bowing low before taking his place at the mic.
The applause swells again, washing over me, warm and bright. I nod once, lift my hand to thank the audience, and step down from the stage.
Jack can keep the spotlight.
I’ve already found my light.
As the applause rises to whatever Jack’s saying about Lilloughby’s future tours, I’m already slipping out the door, my breath shaky but elated.
I don’t look back—nor at the scout, nor the stage, and not at him. I just leave, the noise of the café fading behind me.