Page 50 of The Sound Between Us
“Hey.” Voice low.
She doesn’t turn. “Your phone’s been ringing. Thought it might actually combust.”
I glance at the counter. My phone’s lit up; thirty-seven missed calls. All Henry. Jesus.
I cross the kitchen, dread crawling up my back.
She says nothing; just sips her tea as though I’m already gone.
I hit redial.
The call connects on the first ring.
“Harrison fucking Carter. Where the hell have you been?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“I’ve been fielding journalists, panicked assistants, and two borderline heart attacks from the label. You missed the flight. Do you have any idea how bad this looks?”
I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just needed one night, alright? A break; space.”
“You had one night, and it was stupid. I’ve sent a car.”
“No, wait—”
“No, you wait. Get in the car and I’ll sort the rest. What the fuck is wrong with you at the moment? And who the fuck do you know in Belgravia?”
How the hell does he know where I am? The fight drains out of me.
The back of my neck prickles with heat. “I know.” I sigh. “I know. It was stupid.”
Behind me, the ceramic clink of her mug hitting the counter is deafening.
The shift in the room is instant.
I swear the steam stops rising from her tea.
Her back goes straighter, spine a steel rod.
I’m barely listening to Henry’s stream of instructions.
I hang up and turn. She’s holding out my jacket as though it’s radioactive; as though she doesn’t want to be touching it, or me, or any of this.
“So.” Her voice is light. Barely. “That was fun.”
It knocks the breath from my lungs. “You’re throwing me out?”
She shrugs. But it’s calculated; not careless—controlled. Measured. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to do anything else stupid.”
I blink. “Seren—”
“No breakfast?” she cuts in, voice sharp as glass. “Or are you on a tight timeline to get back to your ecosystem?”
I wince. “You know that’s not what I—”
“It’s fine. Truly; I get it. You came, you conquered, you remembered what it feels to write a sad little ballad.”
“That’s not fair.”
