Page 37 of The Sound Between Us

She glares at me and shovels a forkful of noodles into her mouth with pure spite.

“Maybe I’ve got statements and questions.” I shrug.

“Maybe you’re a dick.”

She slides me the napkin she’s been drawing on. I glance at it; jagged lines sketched in biro, clever and raw. I pocket it without asking, then wipe my chin with the back of my hand. “I’d never dispute that.” I grin. Properly this time; the chilli hits again, a slap of heat that pulls me back into my body. “So. Question.”

She groans. “Jesus. Use a napkin and a little decorum.”

“So, considering you’re apparently very talented—” I pause, her voice echoing somewhere in my chest “—and you’ve got elite music taste, what are you doing working in a record shop in Camden?”

She chews slowly, lips pressed into a tight little bud. When she finally swallows, she licks them, brushes a piece of hair back from her cheek.

“You think I’m talented? I can’t decide if I should be honoured or horrified.”

I hold her stare. Pull a smile wider than necessary; just long enough to watch her eyes flare. Her breath catches, barely.

She shrugs again. Casual. But I can feel the shift beneath it.

“I saw what it did to my mum. And I never wanted people to think I only did well because of my dad.”

The words hang between us. Heavy. True.

I lean forward, elbows on the table. “But for people to think you’d coasted on your dad’s coattails, you’d actually have to put yourself out there.”

Her cheeks colour. Peony pink. “So?”

“So you haven’t tried. Have you?” I lean closer, my knees brushing hers under the table. I wait for her to pull back, but when she doesn’t, I relax into the pressure. “What are you really afraid of?”

Her cheeks flush. Pale pink; delicate and furious. Peonies are definitely my new favourite flower.

And it has nothing to do with the flower.

“Oh, wait a minute. So you have tried?”

“I wouldn’t say tried.” Her voice drops, eyes fixed on a new napkin she’s defacing. “I sang a few sessions. It was Mum’s idea really. She still knew some session musicians; said I should jam with them. Just to practise.”

“I listened to The Red Session on repeat for days after she died. It felt such a loss.”

She nods, and I don’t overthink it. I just reach out and cover her fingers with mine; press her hand into the tabletop. Grounding her. Grounding myself.

She looks at me. A still, unreadable gaze that stops my breath in my throat. The yearning crawls up from my chest.

“Anyway.” Her voice softens. “So Mum died. And Dad had this sudden good-parent epiphany. I moved to Belgravia. The guys I was playing with... I think they assumed I had better things to do. Eventually they stopped calling.”

I wait. Give her space to fill in the blanks. But she doesn’t.

“You didn’t call them?”

Her cheeks pink again. Warmer this time; not embarrassment. More shame. She ducks her head.

I don’t move my hand. Just brush my thumb over the soft skin under mine.

“Maybe I figured they were relieved. Maybe I wasn’t that good, and they were being loyal to my mum. Didn’t want to tell me.”

She lifts her face then, and the smile she gives me isn’t sweet. It’s sharp and bruised and real.

My heart kicks. One hard punch to the ribcage.