Page 90 of The Sound Between Us
“Seren? You hungry?”
I am, actually. Ravenous. Though whether from hunger or nerves is debatable.
The Mexican place is everything the studio isn’t. Cramped, loud, unapologetically chaotic. Red plastic chairs that have seen better decades, fluorescent lighting that flatters no one but makes everyone look more honest. Food that smells like actual joy instead of manufactured ambition.
“You’ve got better taste than your old man,” Dex addresses me through a mouthful of carnitas. “No offence.”
“None taken. I agree.”
Jamie nearly chokes on his beer. “Did she just—?”
“Trash her own father? Yeah.” I steal a chip from Harrison’s plate, watching the way his gaze tracks the motion. “Shocking, I know. The industry darling has opinions about nepotism and artistic integrity.”
“Careful,” Jamie grins, beer foam clinging to his upper lip. “That kind of honesty could get you blacklisted.”
“What are they going to do, make me work in a record shop in Camden? Oh wait.”
The laugh that follows is unguarded. Real. For the first time since I walked into that studio, something loosens in my chest. These aren’t industry robots. They’re just people. Talented, disillusioned people trying to make something that matters and failing a little more quietly each time.
“You’re nothing like we expected,” Jamie says, signalling the waitress for another round.
“What did you expect?”
Dex shrugs, wiping salsa from his chin with zero ceremony. “Honestly? Another industry princess. Daddy’s connections, mummy’s cheekbones. The kind who thinks slumming it with the talent makes her interesting.” He pauses, studying my face. “But you’re actually funny. And you clearly hate this world as much as we do.”
The words hit harder than they should. Being liked for who I am, actually liked, not tolerated or assessed for my potential utility, feels like drinking cold water after years of convincing myself I wasn’t thirsty.
“My dad and Uncle Vinny were like this once,” I admit, the words falling out too soft to be casual and far too honest to take back. “Before everything got complicated. Before success turned them into brands instead of people.”
The table stills. Conversations taper into silence. I can feel Harrison watching me with that particular intensity that makes the back of my neck flush.
“Is that what you think happened to us?” Jamie’s question comes quietly.
I don’t answer immediately. I let the weight of it hang in the fluorescent-lit air between us. I consider diplomacy, but what would be the point?
“I think you stopped remembering why you started.”
“Christ,” Dex mutters under his breath, but there’s no heat in it. “She’s brutal.”
“She’s right,” Harrison says, his voice quieter than the others, accepting the diagnosis he’s been too afraid to voice himself.
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s necessary.
“Tommie used to say we were the poets of our generation,” Dex says finally, his usual bravado stripped away. “Said we had something to say that mattered.”
“Before the machine got hold of us,” Harrison finishes. “Before we stopped being artists and became a product.”
I watch the way they look at each other, these three men bound by grief and success and the terrible weight of having lost someone who kept them honest.
“Who was Tommie?” I ask gently.
“Our original drummer,” Jamie explains. “Harrison’s best mate since they were kids. Died in a car crash three years ago, right before we really took off.”
“He’d fucking hate what we’ve become,” Harrison says, and there’s such raw pain in his voice that I want to reach across the table and touch his hand. “Everything we represent now. He’d hate all of it.”
The words settle in the air like smoke, curling and clinging and impossible to ignore.
“So change it back,” I say simply.
