Chapter 42 Home
Home
Lily-Anne
It’s good to be home—even if it’s technically only Brandon’s home, not mine. The cottage hallway smells of tomato and basil, the distinct smell transporting me back to Mum’s kitchen in Sydney.
I’ve barely crossed the threshold, but I’m already looking forward to my bed. A week in hospital for post-surgery recovery has left me stiff, overslept, and foggy from painkillers. My foot is cocooned in a thick, heavy cast, my underarms sore from the crutches.
I have no idea how I’ll manage the stairs. I suppose someone will have to carry me. I try not to think about it as I hobble through to the kitchen, where a pot simmers on the stove.
“Ta-da! Spaghetti bolognese—our favourite,” Ellenor announces, fussing over me almost as much as Mum as they help me settle for dinner, propping my leg on a chair, pouring water in my glass as if they know I’m thirsty.
They’re all trying so hard to help me. I attempt a smile, grateful and uncomfortable in equal measure.
The table hums with easy chatter—Mum telling stories, Ellenor interrupting with outrageous commentary, Brandon offering the occasional low-voiced remark that makes them laugh.
The sound should be comforting—and it is, in a way.
I’m just too drained to contribute more than a nod, and I let their voices drift around me like background music.
Brandon stands to clear the plates. As he passes behind my chair, his hand settles briefly on my shoulder—a warm weight that anchors me when I feel like floating away. His fingers linger, then they slip away, and I lean back into the ghost of his touch, wishing he hadn’t let go.
After dinner, as Mum and Ellenor wash the dishes, Brandon pauses in the middle of wiping down the table and drags up a chair beside me.
“Lily…I brought you something from your house. I didn’t want to overwhelm you earlier, but I think you should see it.”
I look at him, confused.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small silver flash drive. “This is a backup of your dad’s old phone. The Nokia. Your mother and I found it in his office. There were a few videos on there—one in particular…”
My world narrows as I stare at the USB. “A video?”
“Yes. Of one of your songs.” He places the USB in my palm. It feels absurdly heavy. “You don’t have to watch it now. And if you’d prefer to view it alone—”
“No. Now is good.”
He nods. “I’ll get my laptop.”
He disappears briefly, then he returns and plugs the USB in. We gather around the screen as a grainy video loads. It’s teenage me in our Sydney garage, a school guitar on my knee, singing and playing. I must be fourteen or so. Pre-Cole Clark days.
I’m not sure if watching my younger self perform is sweet or embarrassing. The melody is rough, the lyrics different, but it’s undeniably one of my songs in its earliest form.
The song stops halfway.
“That’s all I have so far,” teenage me says, grinning sheepishly at the camera.
A familiar laugh comes from the person holding the phone—Dad’s laugh.
It strikes me like a spark down my spine, lighting up every nerve at once. Joyful even as it stings.
“That was beautiful, Lily! Fantastic.”
My throat closes, tears welling in my eyes. He sounds so proud.
Teenage me beams. “Thanks, Dad.”
Then the video ends.
The room is still.
I’m not sure I’m breathing.
Mum speaks first. “It was wonderful of you to look for this, Brandon. I can’t believe I never looked at Jem’s phone.”
“I can’t believe you had braces,” Ellenor says to me. “I completely forgot.”
“I haven’t. They were uncomfortable,” I say vaguely, unable to look away from the screen. It’s a moment frozen in time of a fisherman’s knit sleeve, my father’s hand extended into the frame as he gives me a thumbs-up.
I forgot about this moment.
Just like I forgot he used to wear that worn knit jumper whenever he was home. Sage green. The exact shade of the cardigan wrapped around me now.
I toy with a button, remembering when I bought it earlier this year at a secondhand store. How disappointed I was when Toby didn’t like it. How fiercely I insisted on wearing it anyway—stubborn in a way that surprised us both.
Now I know why I clung to it.
“Green,” I murmur to Brandon, brushing the soft knit.
He follows my gaze, a slow understanding crossing his face as he looks between my cardigan and the frozen frame. “It’s a good colour on you.”
His soft sincerity makes my cheeks warm. “Thank you.”
“So, what do we do with the video?” Mum asks. “It proves Lily wrote at least one of the songs, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Brandon says. “And it would be enough to discredit Jack entirely. If one claim falls apart, the rest will too.”
“Will we need a lawyer?” I ask.
Ellenor shoots me an unimpressed look. “If you want someone with a vested interest to help you nail him up, you won’t find better than me.”
“With your experience in family law?”
She beams. “Well, we are family.”
I groan, then cover my mouth as it turns into a yawn. I’m too tired to argue.
Ellenor scrolls her phone—and gasps. “Oh my God.”
“What?” we say in unison.
“It’s Willoughby. He’s deleted everything from his profile. The café’s page too.”
She turns the screen to show us. Every post, every video relating to my music is gone.
“I guess we won’t need the video,” Mum murmurs.
“Still good to have for peace of mind,” Brandon says, removing the USB. He slides it to me across the table. “But yes, it’s over. Unless you’d like me to make some calls, Lily…?”
The dangerous glint in his eyes says exactly what he means: he’s offering to ruin Jack’s career. Burn it down on my command.
“A few conversations in the right corners of the industry and Jack would never get beyond playing small venues,” he adds.
“Do it,” Ellenor urges me. “Jack still hasn’t messaged you to apologise, has he?”
I shake my head. “No. And I don’t expect him to.”
A tiny part of me still hopes he will, if only to prove I wasn’t completely wrong about him. That my faith in him wasn’t entirely misplaced.
“Fuck him,” Ellenor spits, meeting my gaze. “Let Brandon take care of him.”
I shake my head. “No. Jack’s dug himself into a deep enough hole. Let’s give him a chance to climb back out.”
“Or you could bury him,” Ellenor mutters. “Pass me the shovel, and I’ll do it.”
“Elle,” I say, quietly but firmly. “I know you enjoy conflict, but I don’t. He’s removed the videos. Let’s drop it.”
Mum says gently to her, “If Lily can let it go, so can you.”
She throws her hands up. “Fine. We’ll be merciful. And boring.”
Mum squeezes my hand beneath the table. “How are you really doing?”
I glance at Brandon. I don’t have words for everything he’s done—the phone, the USB, saving me. Instead, I lean over and, without overthinking it, peck his cheek, quick and soft. His eyes widen; colour rises along his cheekbones.
“I’d better go to bed,” I whisper. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“I’m always here if you need anything.”
“Actually…” I wring my hands. “I could use some help up the stairs.”
“You’ll be staying in Brandon’s room, darling,” Mum says, overhearing. “Easier for you to get about.”
“Brandon’s?” I squeak.
Ellenor’s grin is instantaneous and wicked.
“Mum will have your room,” she crows. “I’ll keep the sofa bed. And you, my sweet sister, shall sleep downstairs with Brandon.” In a stage whisper, she adds, “Only one bed.”
I’m grateful that Mum and Brandon pretend not to hear. I’m going to kill her.
“Mum can share the sofa bed with you,” I say coolly.
“Oh no. Far too crowded,” Ellenor says. “I sleep like a starfish. Besides, two people per floor is a more appropriate division of space and resources.”
“This isn’t Survivor,” I mutter.
“I’ll be staying downstairs with you, Lily,” Mum interjects, shooting Ellenor a warning glare. “At least for a few days.”
“I’ll take the couch regardless,” Brandon says, rising to his feet. He looks exhausted, rubbing his eyes. The past week has worn him out too. “I’ll leave you to settle in. The bed has fresh sheets.”
“But not for long,” Ellenor whispers, eyes gleaming.
“Oh, get over yourself,” I snap.
Thankfully, I don’t think Brandon heard her that time. He’s already moving down the hallway, the living room door shutting after him.
Ellenor is still snickering, pleased with her meddling.
Two can play at that game.
“Mum,” I say sweetly, “did you know Ellenor has a boyfriend?”
“Really?” Mum asks at once.
After a lengthy interrogation that I only half pay attention to, yawning and trying to stay awake, we leave the kitchen.
The hallway is dim. I didn’t expect this—don’t think I’m ready for it. Sleeping in Brandon’s room. His sheets. His pillow. The place he sleeps. The fact that he isn’t there makes it worse. Like I’m an intruder.
I cling to the crutches as I limp to his door, Mum in front, ready to steady me, Ellenor ambling behind with a bag of my belongings.
“I’m right here, darling,” Mum murmurs, eyeing me as I wobble. “I won’t let you fall.”
“I might,” Ellenor jokes.
I snort despite myself. I’m reluctantly grateful for her humour. It stops me from drowning in self-pity.
Mum opens the door to Brandon’s room, but I freeze, my pulse skittering.
“Well?” Ellenor prompts.
I manoeuvre the crutches over the threshold, each hop-thud of rubber on floorboards sounding far too loud. The room is warm and softly lit by the bedside lamp—Brandon must have left it on for me. His familiar scent greets me: clean, earthy, the faint coolness of damp cedar and crushed pine needles.
I never imagined I’d end up in Brandon’s room. Especially not like this, injured and leaning on crutches.
My chest goes tight.
“I’m just going to…brush my teeth,” I mumble, needing a minute to myself.
The en suite is cool and dim, compact and modern, all soft-grey tiles and a clear glass shower stall.
A dark towel hangs neatly on the rail, and a black razor sits on the vanity beside men’s shaving cream.
The sight is unmistakably masculine, sparking a tiny jolt of awareness in me—that this is his space.
There’s a faint trace of his cologne or shampoo in the air, fresh and understated. It catches my breath for a beat.
Being in here feels intimate. I’ve stepped into a part of his life I was never meant to see. And yet, nothing about it feels unwelcome.
I brace myself against the sink, the cornflower-blue porcelain cool under my palms, and glance at my reflection.
My face is pale and shadowed, my blonde waves lying flat despite Mum’s help washing them this morning.
I don’t look half as terrible as I feel, just muted, my mouth drawn down like I’ve forgotten how to smile.
Sleep will help, I promise myself.
I brush my teeth, splash cool water on my face, and remind myself to breathe.
Then I limp back out, feeling a fraction better.
Ellenor is waiting with her arms spread wide like a benevolent ruler bestowing gifts upon her loyal subjects.
“Behold,” she declares grandly, gesturing at the bedstand with a flourish.
“Hot chocolate—with extra marshmallows. You’re welcome.
” She taps a book. “Chamber of Secrets to keep you entertained. You’re a really slow reader, by the way—you know that?
And…” She rustles the white pharmacy bag of pain meds the hospital sent home. “Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gee, I wonder which flavour I’ll get.”
“Who knows? The sky’s the limit. But I’m guessing paracetamol.”
“Beats earwax,” I mutter.
They help me onto the bed. It’s slow and awkward, with Mum supporting my upper body while Ellenor lifts my leg gently into place.
“It’ll get easier with time,” Mum assures me.
I watch her arrange pillows to elevate my foot with practised ease.
“You came all the way to England just to do the same thing you do at work,” I say apologetically.
“Nonsense,” she says, tucking the blanket around me before smoothing a hand over my hair. “This isn’t work, sweetheart. This is looking after my daughter.”
“I’ll be upstairs when you’re ready to tuck me in, Mum,” Ellenor sings, blowing me a kiss before leaving.
“Night,” I call after her.
The doorway feels oddly empty once she leaves, and my mind drifts to the fact Brandon is just down the hall. Close, but painfully far on crutches. Not that I’d go knocking. Still…I’m aware of his presence.
“How are you feeling?” Mum asks.
“Fine,” I lie. “You don’t have to stay—I think I can manage.”
“I’m staying, at least for a few nights,” she says firmly, then her tone softens. “The first night home is always the worst.”
I don’t argue. My eyes are already drooping.
“What do you want for breakfast?” she asks.
She’s just trying to take my mind off things, and I’m oddly grateful, even if I feel a little childlike asking, “Pancakes? With—”
“Maple syrup,” she finishes, smiling.
Once she’s climbed into bed, I whisper, “Mum?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”