Chapter 51 Always
Always
Lily-Anne
Brandon’s in the shower after returning home from work. It’s our last night before we embark on the road trip together.
I sit cross-legged on our bed with his laptop, chewing my lip as I scroll through the social media page I made last week—a tiny corner of the internet where I post diary-like videos.
Not polished performances, just fragments: me humming a new melody over a cup of tea, strumming half-written chords, talking about what music feels like and the things that have inspired me.
It’s a portfolio riddled with unpolished, imperfect moments. I made it to remind myself that creating doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.
A new notification flashes.
Jack Willoughby liked your video.
My stomach tightens—not with panic, just with sadness. This small gesture feels like his version of an apology—the closest he’ll come to one.
It’s not the end of his repentance, however. Desperate to be back at the café, he’s busy clawing his way back into Daisy’s good graces, and she has him starting from the bottom—cleaning toilets, she informed me with a smirking emoji.
Brandon made some calls after we saw him at the café a few days ago, including an extended phone call with Dustin Willoughby I took part in, and finally confirmed everything: Jack’s latest version of the truth checks out.
He really did break things off with Nova days before she died.
She hadn’t been using hard drugs, as the media implied, nor was there any foul play.
She’d simply been alone and heartbroken, sinking under the weight of it all.
Jack didn’t commit a crime, but his callousness felt like one. His lies to us—and himself—only caused more pain. I hope he grows up and learns to be gentler with the hearts he’s handed.
And though we’ll never know the full details of what happened in Nova’s final days, we know enough that Brandon finally has the closure he needed.
I don’t block Jack—I just filter him out, letting his name slip quietly out of my view. I don’t need him in my life. Not as a friend, not as a shadow, not as anything.
I close the tab, exhale, and open my draft email to Hilary.
At first, I thought I’d wait until I had something polished to show her, like the perfect song or an impressive social media following. But maybe honesty matters more.
Dear Hilary,
Thank you so much for reaching out. I’m genuinely honoured that you’re interested in my music.
I’m still writing songs that I’m deeply invested in, but I don’t feel ready to take the next step, yet.
I want to give myself the space to grow and make sure what I create feels true to who I am.
Thank you for your patience and encouragement. I hope to reach out again soon if and when I’m ready to take things further.
Kind regards,
Lily-Anne
I hover for half a breath. I’m about to hit Send when Brandon yells from the bathroom.
“Fucking hell!”
I chuckle to myself.
He appears in the doorway, towel slung low on his hips, droplets tracking over his chest and along defined lines of muscle.
“What is this?” he demands, brandishing the garden gnome.
“Benjamin,” I say, simply and unperturbed as I pretend to type on my laptop.
“It nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“You know, it’s adorable how he seems to scare you more than me,” I say, repeating the words he said to me.
He laughs shakily. “Yes, well…I wasn’t expecting to find him inside my shaving cabinet, was I? Smiling at me like an aspiring axe-murderer.”
“He just wants to be friends.”
“Not bloody likely.”
I’m struggling to hide my smile now.
He sets the gnome down and raises a finger sternly at me, mock chastising. “This is not to be repeated. You hear?”
“No,” I agree as he disappears back into the bathroom. “I’ll hide him someplace else next time.”
I reread my draft email to Hilary twice. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I hit Send.
I let out a long breath. It feels strange, stepping back. Not chasing. I always thought I would pursue music within an inch of my life. But not having that pressure is strangely liberating, and I have the constant urge to get out my guitar and write songs.
My guitar, I remember with a pang. Despite my hopes, it’s never to be repaired.
Somehow, I have to stop thinking about it.
When Brandon emerges again, I show him my email.
“I’m impressed,” he says after reading it. “But are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes,” I say, pleased at the conviction in my voice. “It is.”
He smiles, shutting the laptop as he leans over it to kiss me, soft and brief. “You do realise she isn’t going to give up? She’s like a bloodhound. She won’t stop emailing you until you say yes.”
I laugh. “That’s flattering. Although I didn’t know bloodhounds could type.”
“They’re one of the few breeds that do.”
“How clever.”
Brandon laces our fingers together, ruminating on something for a long moment. “You know, I may not be a manager anymore…but the day may come when you feel ready to take your music further.”
“Possibly…” I agree, wondering what he’s getting at.
“I’ve been thinking…should you ever decide to pursue music professionally—not just for yourself, but as a career—I’d be willing to represent you.”
“As a manager?”
His eyes meet mine. “As someone who believes in you.”
A warmth flows through me. I would let him, I realise.
I know he has my best interests at heart.
But it would venture into territory that’s sensitive for us both.
He is contemplating a return to the world he left behind, and I’m trusting someone with not only my heart, but my career as well.
We’ve both been there, but with different people.
I understand what he’s really offering. Not control, but trust. Not management, but love.
“And who’s going to manage you?” I whisper, crawling forward and pushing his chest until he falls back against the mattress.
He stares up at me as I sit astride him, his voice hoarse. “Perhaps we could take turns?”
“Hmm.” I lean in and nibble his ear, breathing warm air until he shivers. “I think it’s my turn now.”
The doorbell rings.
Brandon freezes. “Don’t move.”
“Can’t we ignore it?” I plead as he carefully sets me aside.
He smiles secretively as he shakes his head. “Wait here.”
I sigh and flop onto my back laughing, because of course the universe has terrible timing.
A minute later, he returns, carrying a guitar case.
I sit bolt upright as he gently sets it down on the bed. “The courier just dropped it off.”
My breath catches. My guitar. It’s finally here.
And it’s still broken.
I’ve been trying not to think about this moment. I was starting to hope it wouldn’t be returned until after we left for the road trip, so I wouldn’t have to face it.
“Not going to open it?” he asks.
“No,” I say glumly, opening the paperwork that came with it.
A consignment form from the courier.
And an invoice.
Invoice?
Of course there’s an invoice for the assessment, even though nothing was fixed. How much did that cost me?
I peel the thin plastic open and unfold the page.
I baulk at the figure printed there. It’s a lot. And in British pounds—I don’t even want to do the conversion. Why on earth is it so much?
Between paying Mum back for my flights and this, I’ll be tethered to the past forever. Indulging in this soul-searching adventure finally caught up to me.
My gaze snags on a single word printed in small capitals.
PAID.
Then—
Balance: ￡0.00
“What…?” I spot the services listed on the invoice, then my head jerks up to Brandon. “You didn’t.”
He gives the world’s most unhelpful little smile as he nods at the case.
Hands trembling, I unlatch the lid and lift.
Air leaves my lungs in a silent rush.
The body has been perfectly rebuilt. The new wood blends into the old so seamlessly that it’s as though time rewound itself.
With one distinct change: the rosette I fantasised about is real. Tiny pieces of turquoise sea glass are inlaid around the circular opening, overlaying wood, the blue-green shards cool and faintly luminous, held in fine lines of gold. It reminds me of sunlight caught in shallow water. And of…
“Kintsugi,” I breathe. Or something resembling that.
It’s beautiful.
It’s not just restored—it’s reborn.
A new beginning.
Wonder floods me, warm and full, too much for my chest. I feel expanded, lit from the inside, sunlight pouring as a smile spreads on my face, tears filling my eyes.
“You paid for it?” I ask in awe, already knowing the answer.
“Yes. I thought…” Brandon starts, voice low, uncertain. “You only declined because of financial constraint. I—”
I launch my whole body at him, arms around his neck, showering him with kisses wherever I can reach—his cheek, his jaw, his mouth. He laughs against my lips.
“Thank you,” I whisper between kisses, giddy and breathless. I press my forehead to his. “Thank you.”
The laughter melts, and our lips find each other again. I’m still half draped over him, fingers tangled in his shirt, the guitar gleaming on the bed beside us.
“I love you,” I breathe against his mouth. A kiss. Another. Softer, surer. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
And I always will.