Page 131 of The Sound Between Us
“Simon’s method is perfectly functional.”
“Simon’s method is why you can never find anything.” He settles beside me on the bed, his arm automatically circling my waist. “Besides, I need a job now that I’m unemployed.”
“You’re not unemployed. You’re... transitioning.”
“I’m a thirty-year-old former pop star with no practical skills and questionable taste in literature.”
“You have excellent taste in literature. And you make a decent cup of tea.”
“See? Employable.”
He’s yawning as he says it, his chin dropping toward his chest. I should be exhausted too, but my pulse still skips every few beats, my skin still humming.
My phone pings with a text message, and I glance at the screen to see Flick’s name.
You’re trending, it says, followed by approximately fifteen flame emojis and a link to what appears to be a Twitter thread.
“What is it?” Harrison asks, his voice already thick with approaching sleep.
“Flick says I’m trending.” I click on the link and find myself staring at video after video of tonight’s performance—my songs, Harrison’s declaration, the kiss that followed. The comments are scrolling by too fast to read properly, but the ones I catch are overwhelmingly positive.
“Who is this girl and why have I never heard of her before?”
“Her voice is incredible. Actually incredible.”
“Harrison Carter’s girlfriend can SING. This isn’t just industry nepotism.”
“Forget Elementary, I want a Seren Rogers album.”
I scroll through more videos, more comments, more evidence that something significant happened tonight. My thumb keeps moving, clicking from one clip to another. I don’t close the app. I don’t switch off the phone.
“Good trending or bad trending?” Harrison mumbles against my shoulder.
“Good, I think. Very good.”
“Mmm. Told you they’d love you.”
He’s asleep within minutes, his breathing evening out into the rhythm I’ve become familiar with over the past few weeks. I should sleep too, but my eyes stay open, fixed on the Tokyo skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows.
My chest feels different. Loose, something that’s been clenched tight has finally let go. My shoulders sit lower. The knot at the base of my skull has unwound completely.
Tonight, I stood on a stage in front of fifty thousand people and my voice didn’t shake. Tonight, Harrison told the world he loves me and I kissed him back in front of cameras. Tonight, my father called me magnificent and I believed him.
My breathing is steady, deep. In, out. No catch, no hitch.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance at the screen, expecting another message from Flick or maybe Simon wanting to know if I’ve lost my mind. Instead, it’s an unknown number.
We need to talk - Henry
My thumb hovers over the screen. Then I delete the text and put my phone face-down on the bedside table.
Tomorrow can wait. Tonight, I want to stay here—in this bed, in Harrison’s arms, in this feeling of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Outside, Tokyo glitters, and I close my eyes and let my breathing match Harrison’s. Slow. Even. Unafraid.
Sightseeing the Harrison Carter way isn’t sightseeing at all—it’s kissing in as many locations as possible and signing autographs.
Now we’re in a rooftop restaurant overlooking half of Tokyo, a glittering circuit board of light and life stretching endlessly in every direction. Rain drums against the glass panels above us, turning the city below into an impressionist painting of neon and shadow. Empty tables surround us, chairs pushed in, no other voices but ours.
