Page 38 of The Sound Between Us

Fuck. I’m in trouble.

I push forward before I can get lost in the ache. “What did she go through? Your mum?”

She exhales as though I’ve stepped on a bruise. “Why the interest? Seriously. Did you come all the way here just to interrogate me?”

I laugh. Loud; enough that heads turn.

“Shut the fuck up, dickhead.”

I laugh harder because she’s perfect this way. All fury and flinch and contradiction. “Sorry. Don’t want to be seen with me?”

She gives me a look. “Are you kidding? No. Absolutely not.”

A smile flickers across her lips. “All these questions, and you’re not even listening to the answers.”

“Maybe I think your answers are bullshit.” I toss a peanut in my mouth. “You seriously don’t think you’re talented?”

She pushes back from the table. Abrupt. Controlled. “I’m going. I don’t need pity from a washed-up pop star with a God complex. If I wanted that, I’d go sit on the sofa with my dad. So go back to LA. Write whatever moody record you need to write. Just leave me out of it.”

She walks. No pause; no glance back.

The door swings shut behind her, and heads turn. I ignore them; drop a wad of notes on the table and toss the waitress a grateful smile.

“First date teething issues.”

More stares. I don’t care. I chase after her; because I’m that guy now.

A masochist chasing a hurricane in Doc Martens.

The March air hits me with the force of a slap. Sharp. Wet. Unforgiving.

London’s doing that thing where it can’t decide between rain and mist, so it settles for both. The drizzle hangs in the air, turning everything grey and slick. Street lights blur into halos. The pavement gleams under my feet, treacherous with that fine layer of water that makes every step feel uncertain.

I pull my jacket tighter and scan the street. There—thirty meters ahead, her silhouette cutting through the gloom. Hair whipping in the wind, shoulders hunched against the cold.

“Hey. Wait.”

She stops so abruptly I almost crash into her.

The cold has turned her cheeks pink, droplets of moisture clinging to her hair. She’s shivering, arms wrapped around herself, but her eyes are blazing.

“Harrison.”

The way she says my name makes my blood rush. Too fast; too hot.

“Serendipity.”

She opens her mouth, but I lift a finger.

“A chance. A twist of fate. The unexpected.”

“You can read a dictionary. And you’re pretty. Congratulations. That’s the full package.”

I step closer. The drizzle mists between us. “You think I’m pretty?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”