Page 72 of The Sound Between Us

16

car crash tableaux

Harrison

The Rogers family table looks like a still life titled Dysfunction in Designer Wear.

I’m seated three tables away unable to wrench my gaze from where Seren’s sat.

She’s sitting slightly removed from the rest of them - not physically, just... atmospherically. The black dress that clung to her on the red carpet now reads more like armour. She’s perfected the look of elegant detachment, shoulders held a little too tight, lips pressed into something that isn’t quite disapproval, but definitely isn’t ease.

I don’t think she’s looked at me since the conversation by the drinks tray.

Now she’s pretending I’m not here.

Damon sits at the head of the table like a king pretending he didn’t orchestrate a coup. His silver hair catches the ballroom’s chandelier light; every gesture calibrated for the cameras. Kimberly Rogers is draped beside him, the picture of supportive elegance - champagne flute in one hand, family mythology in the other. Felix and Hailey complete the golden quartet, glossy and genetically symmetrical, their movements choreographed to appear effortless.

Then there’s Vinny. Tartan suit; whisky glass. Mild contempt for the whole performance. He’s the only one who looks vaguely human at that table.

Seren leans slightly toward him whenever he murmurs something low, and I watch her shoulders release, just barely. The instinct to get up and go to her is so sharp it nearly slices me in half.

But then Hailey catches my eye.

It’s brief, half a second, maybe, but it lands like a punch. She holds the gaze just long enough to make it mean something. Then, deliberately, she looks at Seren.

And I want to be anywhere but here.

There’s a burn of ugly guilt in my chest. The memory’s foggy; blurred by too much tequila and the hollow ache of regret I couldn’t name at the time. But it’s there. I look away first.

The compère takes the stage, all teeth and glossy bravado—the human equivalent of a press release. His voice carries too well in the room’s acoustics, echoing off crystal and polished bone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the West Coast Music Archive Legacy Awards, where we celebrate the artists who’ve shaped the soundtrack of our lives.”

Polite applause swells on cue. Even the clapping sounds curated in this room.

“Tonight we’re honouring some extraordinary talent, and we’re privileged to have music royalty in our audience.”

His gaze lands squarely on Damon. “The legendary Damon Rogers, whose band The Revelry defined a generation of British music.”

The cameras swing. Damon executes the nod—warm but appropriately humbled. Kimberly his second wife glows; Felix and Hailey smoulder.

Seren doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink; just stares ahead.

“And of course...” The compère smirks. I know what’s coming. “We also have a member of Elementary in the house tonight.”

The camera finds me. I school my expression; that smile—the one I’ve worn through world tours and crisis PR campaigns. Warm; charming. Empty.

The applause is thinner this time. Not insulting; just... cooler.

The message is clear: you can sell out stadiums, but you’ll never be a Rogers.

I don’t flinch. But as the camera lingers on me a second too long, I find her face across the room.

Seren’s watching me.

There’s something in her expression, careful and difficult to name. Not sympathy exactly; not forgiveness. But maybe recognition. She knows this feeling; of being made small in a room that only values the myth of you.

I don’t think. I wink.