Page 103 of The Sound Between Us

“I made a strategic retreat.”

“You ran,” Flick repeats, not unkindly. “And now you’re hiding in your flat feeling sorry for yourself.”

By the time we finish eating, I’m curled up on the sofa, and Flick settles beside me, pulling me into a hug that smells of her familiar perfume and the cigarettes she thinks I don’t know she smokes.

“Tomorrow’s a new day.” She strokes my hair.

“Why doesn’t it feel that way?” I whisper into her shoulder.

“Because some days are bastards. But they end eventually.”

She stays until I fall asleep, and when I wake up alone the next morning, the flat feels emptier than ever.

The coffee shop queue moves with its usual sluggish efficiency, and I find myself standing behind Double Shot Latte Man—the one I’ve been half-heartedly building up the courage to speak to for months. He turns and gives me a smile that used to make my morning marginally brighter, but today it bounces off me without leaving a mark.

The shop smells the same as always—old cardboard, dust motes dancing in weak London light, the particular mustiness that comes from thousands of records that have lived full lives. It should be comforting, but today it feels suffocating.

Simon appears around nine thirty, hoodie up but practically vibrating with barely contained energy.

“Right.” He announces, throwing himself behind the counter with theatrical flair. “Spill. Everything. I want details, emotions, and a full breakdown of Harrison Carter’s morning routine.”

“There’s nothing to spill.”

“Bollocks. You’ve been gone for three days with a pop star, there are still photographers lurking about, and you look emotionally demolished by someone very attractive.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Was he good? Please tell me he was good. My faith in celebrity fantasies depends on this.”

“Simon—”

“Because honestly, Seren, if Harrison Carter is disappointing in bed, what hope do the rest of us have? I’ve been living vicariously through other people’s sex lives since Andrew started that weird cleanse where he won’t even kiss me with tongue.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s something comforting about Simon’s shameless nosiness. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh, it’s complicated.” He claps his hands together. “That’s code for ‘incredible but emotionally devastating,’ isn’t it? Did he whisper sweet nothings? Did he make you breakfast? Did he have one of those stupidly expensive coffee machines that makes you feel poor?”

The observation is uncomfortably accurate, and I busy myself reorganising the Smiths section to avoid his gaze.

“You’re reorganising. That’s stress behaviour.” Simon narrows his eyes. “What happened? And don’t say nothing, because I can literally see the heartbreak radiating off you.”

That’s when the bell jingles and Uncle Vinny appears, wearing his full tartan suit glory but looking unusually serious.

“Let me guess.” I don’t look up from the vinyl. “Dad sent you.”

“Your old man’s too much of a coward to come himself.” Vinny settles into the chair we keep for customers who want to browse the listening booth. “Nice to see you too, love.”

Simon’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit, you’re Vincent Shaw.”

“Language, young man.” Vinny says mildly, but he’s already pulling out a pen to sign something. “And yes, I am.”

“He knows he fucked up at the awards.” Vinny continues, addressing me whilst scribbling his signature on the back of a Smiths album. “Badly.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But hiding in here isn’t going to fix anything.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m working. This is my job, remember?”

Vinny takes a long look around the shop—at the organised chaos, the careful displays, the way I’ve made this space mine despite never owning it. “You know what I told him after your mum died? That he’d lost the best part of himself. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”