Page 36 of The Sound Between Us

I grimace. “That sounds exactly what my dad would have eaten down the pub during the footy.”

“We could get takeout. But if you’re okay being seen, there’s somewhere I could take you. Cool place. No one’s fussed about famous faces.”

Before I can answer, she steps close. Tugs my cap down lower over my eyes. Soft fingers; casual intimacy.

I forget how to swallow.

She spins away. Shampoo and lilies trailing in the air behind her. I inhale it.

And it’s awful.

God, it’s awful.

Because I know what this is. I’ve felt this kind of ache before; the sort that digs into your bones and rewrites your centre of gravity.

I’ve just found a sliver of peace.

And I already know I’m going to ruin it.

“Oh my shit.”

The words groan out of me as the sharp, vinegary sweetness of chilli sauce splatters down my chin. It’s violent. Undignified. Somehow erotic.

Across the table, she ducks her head, cheek sliding into her palm as she draws a curtain of syrup waves around her face. Her voice is muffled but still cutting.

“Jesus. Are you eating it or fucking it?”

I snort red-hot chilli up the back of my nose and into my sinuses. It burns and I’m grinning.

No one looks at us. We’re hidden in the corner of a dark Vietnamese place, tucked onto the end of a shared bench. From under my cap, I keep one eye on the staff, but they don’t seem interested in us. Focused on other Sunday-night stragglers. Perfect.

“So you really have a thing about people knowing who you are?” I slurp again, trying to hold in my groaning. “Why?”

She shrugs. Drops her chopsticks; starts doodling with a biro on a paper napkin. “I don’t think there’s any reason anyone would want to know me.”

Her focus studies the rolls.

“My dad made music that teenage boys used to ruin on cheap acoustic guitars. My mum gave up her career. I’m hardly front-page news.”

I watch her. She won’t meet my gaze, so I steal a roll and wave it in the air.

“We’re circling back to that, but I’ve got other questions first.”

Now she looks up. Her eyes widen, black and wide. “I came out for pho, not Question Time.”

I take a dramatic bite of roll, chewing slowly, not blinking. Watching her.

She’s nothing like Hailey Rogers. Not a sliver. And I could’ve said that without hearing her sing; but after hearing her at the piano, it’s written in stone.

She sits hunched, preparing to vanish. Despite her height, she makes herself smaller; fragile and tense. A bird mid-flinch.

Her hands are long-fingered, wrists narrow, nails bare. No polish, no gloss. She’s all raw edges and half-finished moments; moonlight and bruises wrapped in skin.

“You look like you’re about to snap in half. Do you eat?”

Her mouth drops open, scandalised.

“That wasn’t a question, by the way. More of a statement. You’ve got sauce on your chin.”