Chapter 33 Breaking Point
Breaking Point
Lily-Anne
Ellenor leaves the engine running but doesn’t move.
“What the hell was that about?”
I yank the seatbelt, but it jams. “Prima…facie…authorship,” I grunt, jerking it harder. “It means—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know my Latin. But why’s he asking you about it?”
“If you stop interrupting me, I’ll tell you!” The belt finally clicks in, and I slump back, breath ragged.
A pause. “You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Just drive.”
As the café lights disappear from the side mirror, I finally exhale.
“Brandon was right,” I mutter. “Jack’s trying to take credit for my songs.”
“What?”
“Since he performed them publicly, he can claim they were his first, thereby—”
“Thereby establishing prima facie—”
“Will you let me finish?” I cry, thumping the dashboard. “God.”
Her eyes widen, but she smooths her expression quickly.
“Legal tantrums?” she teases, trying to coax a smile from me.
It doesn’t work.
She sighs. “Look. You’ve been writing those songs for years. Easy enough to prove they’re yours.”
“Yes and no.” I unzip my gig bag and pull out my battered spiral notebook.
“Aww, the one with the little Hedwigs! You still have it?”
“Seriously? Harry Potter? Now?”
“Just trying to lighten the mood slightly before you start spiralling.”
“I’m not spiralling.”
“Alright.” She glances at the notebook. “So, what’s in there?”
“Everything. Tabs. Lyrics. Dreams.”
“All in your handwriting. Good start. What else have you got?”
“There is no ‘else’,” I say glumly, flipping through the notebook. “This is all I have.”
“No recordings?”
I shake my head.
“Social media? Email? Anything digital with a timestamp?”
“No. I never shared my songs until now. I just…remember them.”
She winces. “So, you have no proof of when you wrote them.”
“Most of it’s in grey lead pencil, if that helps?”
“Oh yes, good idea,” she says sarcastically. “Let me just run this up to the nearest lab, and we’ll get it carbon-dated for you.”
I snap the notebook shut, heat rising under my skin.
“I get it, alright? Jack screwed me over. But I never thought I’d one day end up in England dating a café owner who just so happens to be Dustin Willoughby’s nephew and who, by the way, wants to steal my songs!”
“Okay, no need to shout.”
“You were shouting first!”
I hit the dash again. Pain snaps up my hand, and she smirks as I massage it.
“Feel better?”
“Not really.”
“Well, third time’s the charm—go ahead, hit it again. It’s only a rental.”
I refuse to laugh. It isn’t just tonight—it’s years of shrinking, of silencing myself to keep the peace. Whitstable made me believe I’d finally mended, but tonight proved how easily the seams can split.
Ellenor rubs my shoulder. “Hey. It will be alright.”
“You reckon?” I ask hopefully.
“Yeah. Jack was probably just running his mouth off.”
“I guess.”
“And as a wise Hogwarts Headmaster once said—”
“Oh my God, Elle—”
“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times,” she continues stubbornly. “You just have to back yourself, Lil. Don’t let some wannabe-Willoughby steal your shit.”
“Trying not to.” I fill her in on the details—the gig, my attempted reclaiming of my song, and Jack’s barbed remarks.
She lets out a low whistle. “Jeez. Where do you find these guys? First Toby, now this whack job.”
“At least I find them,” I shoot back, but it comes out wrong.
Ellenor doesn’t say a word as she pulls up in front of the darkened cottage and shuts the engine off.
I’m about to apologise when she says, “For the record, I have found someone.”
That’s when I notice Brandon’s car isn’t here.
“You have? Well, good for you.” Snarkily, I add, “Speaking of Brandon—where is he?”
She gives me a weird look. “What do you mean, ‘speaking of Brandon’? He went to Sean’s after the barbecue. He’s still there. He’s going to stay the night to cool off.”
“And you’re not spending it with him?”
“Huh?”
I fold my arms. “Brandon. I know you two are together, okay? It’s fine.”
She blinks. “I’m dating Sean, you goose.”
“What?”
“I said, I’m dating Sean. And it’s been going well, thank you for asking.”
My brain short-circuits. “Sean, as in Irish pub Sean? When…? How…?”
Ellenor shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “He asked me out the same night we met, right after your warm-up gig. I initially said ‘yes’ just to humour him…and here we are.”
“Bit of a silver-fox situation, huh?” I tease weakly, trying to recover.
“Don’t you sass me, missy. You’ve got your own fox sniffing around.”
Heat floods my neck as I steer the conversation back. “But you and Sean are always arguing.”
“I know—it’s too good to be true.” She smiles fondly. “He’s older. He’s sweet. He never bullshits me.” Her voice hitches. “Turns out we want the same things.”
I perk up. “Like what?”
“Nope, we’re back on you. Please explain—why have you been denying the one man who actually cares about you?”
My heartbeat spikes. “You mean Brandon.”
“Ha. Yes. Your sexy BBC detective lookalike.”
My eyes boggle. “See? When you say things like that, how was I supposed to know you weren’t dating him?”
“Err, because I told you the roses were meant for you? And a gazillion-bazillion other reasons?”
“But…you said…the roses…” I try to recall her exact words.
“Well, he had to give them to somebody, didn’t he? So, he gave them to me. And then I gave them to Sean. And he gave them to his mum. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.” She eyes me. “Poor Brandon’s been walking around like someone’s kicked his dog.”
I rub my face tiredly. “Oh God…this is such a mess.”
“A little,” Ellenor concedes. “So, I was right, wasn’t I? You secretly loved Brandon all along?”
Love. I’ve been pinballing around it so much I’m afraid to land on it.
“I can’t stop thinking about him,” I whisper, the words fragile. Then, “If you knew he liked me, why didn’t you say something?”
“Err, because I figured you knew? He’s obviously crazy about you.”
I open my mouth, but she barrels on.
“Honestly, Lil, sometimes I think you treat him like he’s your own personal Dumbledore—the younger one, played by Jude Law. Wise old mentor, always ready with advice. But he’s not magic, you know. He’s just a man who feels things.”
“For your information, he knows how I feel. Maybe not in so many words, but I tried—” I cut myself off—too late. Heat flares across my cheeks.
“Tried what?” Ellenor demands, eyebrows flying up.
I stare out the window. “To kiss him.”
“You’re kidding! And?”
I shrug. “He wanted to keep things professional.”
“Oh, Brando…” She rubs her temples. “Well, at least I know why you’re with Willoughby now. A bit of rebound sex to make him jealous.”
“What? I’m not—it wasn’t like that,” I splutter.
“No?”
“No! And I’m not with Jack anymore, if I ever was. It wasn’t going to work. Especially not after tonight.”
“Still can’t believe he was such a dick,” she sympathises. “Well, at least it frees you up for Brando.”
I frown, twisting the red fabric of my skirt. “I don’t know. Maybe he was right to keep things professional.”
She blinks, thrown. “Why? I thought you liked him. I get that he’s a bit dull—”
“He’s not dull.”
“No?”
“No. He’s interesting. And kind. Surprisingly funny when he lets himself be—”
I stop, catching sight of Ellenor’s smug grin. “Yeah, I can see how professional it is.”
“Oh, shut up.” I swat her arm.
She sobers a little, watching me. “So why pull back?”
I swallow. “I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship right now. Not with anyone.”
“Lil—”
“And don’t try to talk me into one,” I plead. “Tonight made me realise I’m still messed up after Toby.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then says gently, “Just because Toby and Jack were assholes doesn’t mean every guy is. You can trust Brandon. He’s not like that.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I do trust him. But I don’t want him stepping into a relationship only to end up having to look after me, like I might fall apart if he doesn’t hold me together.”
“That’s not how it would be.”
“Isn’t it? It’s literally why I came to England.”
“There are worse reasons to come to England.”
I let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I told myself he’d be able to fix me. Like some kind of dog whisperer for music.”
“Yeah, but…you’re not a dog.”
I round on her. “That’s what you got out of that?”
“Alright, alright.” She lifts her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, you’re making this way more complicated than it has to be.”
I clamp my jaw shut, swallowing the retort that tries to launch itself out of me.
A thick silence settles over the car, the engine ticking as it cools. We both stare straight ahead, not knowing what to say.
Ellenor eventually sighs. “You’ve turned this into the emotional equivalent of the Yule Ball. Everyone’s dancing with the wrong person, and no one’s having any fun.”
Something in me snaps.
“Oh my fucking God, Elle—why does every single thing have to link back to Harry Potter?”
“Because—”
“Why can’t we have one proper conversation without you quoting some fictional witch or wizard? You never used to be this bloody obsessed!”
She pales. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? You’ve got the emotional capacity of a turnip lately!”
I’m spiralling, just like she worried I would, the words tumbling uncontrollably.
“I came here because I lost my music. You know that. And yet you rocked up out of nowhere, taking over the cottage and planning this whole road trip—which is fine, I love you, and I love the references—but no one can say two words to you without getting a bloody Hogwarts monologue. It’s ridiculous! ”
“But…you love my monologues,” she tries to joke, but her armour is cracking.
And I strike.
“You’re my older sister. If you’re going to be here, I need you to grow up and actually be here, not hide behind jokes every time life gets hard. Do you even care what I’m going through?”
Something shatters in her expression. We stare at each other, the silence stretching just long enough for the realisation to hit: I’ve crossed a line.
“What about what I’m going through?” she whispers.
I blink. “What?”