Page 111 of The Sound Between Us

27

family reckoning

Seren

The front door of the Rogers family home feels heavier than usual. Maybe it’s trying to keep me from making a terrible mistake. I stand in the marble-floored entrance hall, listening to the familiar sounds of family chaos drifting from the dining room—crystal glasses clinking, Hailey’s theatrical laugh, the low rumble of Dad’s voice holding court.

I’m jet-lagged from LA and want to sleep for a hundred years. Part of me wants to turn around and flee back downstairs to the basement, or back to my safe little shop where no one expects me to be anything other than surly and antisocial. But Mrs. Martin spotted me through the window, and backing out now would hurt her feelings more than anyone else’s.

Christ, when did I become someone who shows up to family dinners?

“There she is! My little superstar!” Dad’s voice booms across the dining room the moment I appear in the doorway, and I want the expensive parquet flooring to open up and swallow me whole. He’s practically bouncing on his feet, arms spread wide—a long-lost daughter returning from war instead of the reluctant offspring he ambushed at an awards ceremony three weeks ago.

The same man who got so drunk he could barely stand. Who humiliated me in front of eight hundred people. Who turned my breakdown into his moment.

“Dad, please,” I mutter, but he’s already swept me into one of his theatrical hugs, the kind that’s designed more for observers than recipients.

I should pull away. Should remind him that we haven’t actually resolved anything, that his drunken performance at the awards is still sitting between us. But there’s something so genuinely delighted about his enthusiasm that I can’t quite bring myself to ruin it.

This is the problem with Dad—just when you’re ready to write him off completely, he does something that reminds you why you loved him in the first place.

“Played your tracks for everyone at the studio.” His chest puffs out as he speaks. “Had grown men crying, treasure. Grown men!”

Of course you did. Because everything I do becomes about you somehow. Even when you’re proud of me, it’s about how it reflects on you.

Kimba appears at my elbow, dressed in a cream silk blouse and tailored trousers, her blonde hair swept into a perfect chignon. “Darling! You look wonderful. Doesn’t she look wonderful, everyone?”

I’m wearing jeans and a jumper that’s seen better decades, but Kimba’s treating me as if I’ve just stepped off a red carpet. There’s something both touching and mildly deranged about her enthusiasm.

Felix lounges in his usual chair, all elegant limbs and calculated nonchalance, raising his wine glass in what might be a salute or might be mild sarcasm. With Felix, it’s impossible to tell.

“Sister mine. Heard you’ve been causing quite the stir.”

“It’s hardly a stir. It’s just a few songs.” I settle into the chair Mrs. Martin has pointedly pulled out for me.

“Just a few songs?” Dad’s eyebrows disappear into his silver hairline. “Seren, that voice! That raw honesty! Where did you get that from?”

I give him a look that could melt steel. Really? Where do I get my musical ability from? What a complete bloody mystery.

Hailey sits across from me, perfect pout in place, arms crossed in a way that makes her look sulking despite being twenty-two. “It’s not that she’s actually famous,” she announces to the room, her tone suggesting she’s delivering crushing news. “It’s just indie music.”

There it is. Classic Hailey—supportive for exactly thirty seconds before the claws come out.

“Actually, Hails,” Felix says, setting down his wine with deliberate precision, “indie credibility is worth more than reality TV fame.”

The silence that follows could be carved with a knife. Hailey’s mouth falls open, clearly not used to Felix taking anyone’s side but hers in family politics.

“Those songs are properly good, Ser,” Felix continues, his voice carrying that particular brand of grudging respect that from him feels winning the lottery. “Actually artistic.”

I blink at him, genuinely shocked. Felix has shown exactly zero interest in my music for my entire life, probably because it wasn’t commercially viable enough to warrant his attention.

“Well,” Hailey says, recovering with the speed that comes from years of being a professional attention-seeker, “I suppose we’re all talented. It’s genetic.”

“Right. That’s definitely how genetics works,” I mutter.

Kimba bustles around the table, playing hostess with the kind of manic energy that suggests she’s been sampling the cooking wine. “I always said she had it,” she announces to the room, as if we’re all suffering from collective amnesia. “No one can say I didn’t say she had it.”

This is categorically untrue. Kimba has never shown the slightest interest in my musical abilities, unless you count that one time she suggested I try out for The X Factor because “it would be good exposure for the family.”