Page 1 of The Sound Between Us

1

make mine a double shot

Seren

I watch him across the café, and my chest does that stupid flutter thing. He lifts his coffee, double shot latte, always, without looking away from whatever broadsheet has caught his attention this morning. Very Soho House-core. I’ve decided he must be a spy. Or maybe a documentary maker.

What would it feel like to kiss those lips?

I lick my own and instantly hate myself for it.

“You’re going to get arrested for stalking soon.”

Flick’s voice cuts through my thoughts as she bangs down my filter coffee, hard enough to send liquid sloshing over the rim.

“Won’t.”

I try to look away from him. I can’t. My eyes won’t cooperate.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This time I manage it, turning to meet Flick’s knowing look as she wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. Her pink hair sticks to her skin in damp curls, halo-like.

“I say this every day, but why don’t you just go over and say hi?”

She shakes her head. “Make conversation. Ask him what he does once he’s finished drinking my excellent coffee. I doubt he’d beat you away with a stick.”

Her eyes flick over me, assessing the day's damage. Whatever she sees, she’s unimpressed. She shakes her head again.

“If I said hi, I’d need something vaguely interesting to follow it up with. Can’t be arsed.”

“You can’t be arsed about anything.”

“I know. It’s my life motto.”

I cringe. Christ, I sound just like Dad.

“Annoyingly chill,” she mutters, clearly reading my mind.

“You know, I’d love to have been a fly on the wall at those parties your dad used to throw. That level of detachment doesn’t happen naturally. Takes serious pharmaceutical assistance.”

My stomach dips.

“Listen, you can’t change your genetics. You get to live in a gorgeous house in the best part of town, and instead of earning real money, you spend your days doing what you love. Listening to those awful records.”

Awful records.

And yet we’re best friends.

The café clock hits 8:30. Steam curls through the air, turning the place into a low-budget sauna.

“Thanks for the coffee. Better go open up.”

“Expecting a rush today?”

“It’s March. It’s arctic. And it’s a vinyl shop. So, no.”

I lift an eyebrow. “But Vinny hates when we’re closed. And you never know when some pretentious tosser will wander in and drop five hundred quid on Beatles rarities while I silently judge their life choices.”