Page 153 of The Sound Between Us

“You can come.”

He exhales, his whole body sagging. “Yeah?”

“But you’re buying me a new milkshake first.”

He actually laughs—head tilted back, milkshake-splattered hoodie and all, and the sound cuts through the noise of the festival like a song only I can hear. “Deal. Though you might want to aim better next time.”

“Who says there’ll be a next time?”

“Hope. Or madness. Or both. You’re the only risk I’ve ever wanted to take twice.”

I look at him properly as I speak, at the soft curve of his mouth, the mess of his hair, the apology written into every line of his body. And something inside me, something that’s been locked tight for months, creaks open.

Maybe some people are worth the fallout. Maybe the past doesn’t get to decide the ending.

“Come on.” I nod toward the fairy-lit food stalls. “Let’s get you cleaned up before someone posts about this and you trend for all the wrong reasons.”

“Too late.” He murmurs, still smiling. “Pretty sure someone already caught me at my lowest.”

“You’ve definitely had worse looks. Though milkshake couture is... bold.”

He bumps my shoulder, gentle and familiar, and the memory of Tokyo—skin, breath, the way he said my name like it meant something—flickers between us like static.

“You know what I keep thinking?”

I glance over, and he’s not smiling anymore.

“I didn’t lose you because I stopped loving you. I lost you because I was too much of a coward to trust you with the truth.”

My chest aches. Because yeah—that’s what it always was. Not the absence of love. Just fear. Too much cowardice when courage mattered most. Wounds too big for bandages.

“I’m not asking to go back. I’m asking if we can begin again—as the people we are now.”

I nod, just once. And for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels like a beginning.

The lights are blinding.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I feel like they’re lighting me up from the inside.

I step up to the mic, fingers wrapped tight around it—not out of fear, but because for the first time in my life, I’m ready. My boots plant solid on the stage floor as the first notes echo from the band behind me. Not Elementary. Not my dad. Just a handful of studio session players and a borrowed spotlight.

But I feel seen.

I take one breath, then another, and look out past the golden wash of stage lights.

And there he is.

Harrison. Standing right where I knew he’d be. Just beyond the barrier, arms crossed over his chest, a faint grin pulling at his mouth. Eyes locked on mine like there’s no one else in the field.

And in this moment, there isn’t.

To my left, I catch a glimpse of Damon in his ridiculous velvet blazer, grinning and whooping like a maniac. Uncle Vinny is there, too, doing some sort of proud dad shuffle that would be mortifying if I didn’t love him so much. The crowd is bigger than I expected. Louder, too. My name spreads through the field like a ripple.

I nod to the guitarist. The intro rolls in slow and sweet.

And then I sing.