Page 52 of The Sound Between Us

11

the family

Seren

The sheets still smell of him. Which is offensive, really. You don’t get to mess with someone’s existence and leave your scent behind as though it’s a signature.

I tear the pillowcases off first, yanking one so hard it tears at the seam. Good; one less relic.

The duvet cover follows, twisted and warm with the imprint of our one-night lie. It takes effort to peel it off, and part of me hopes I’ll find something gross inside—permission to really hate him.

But it’s just fabric. Linen; expensive. White. The colour of things that are easily stained.

The fitted sheet clings stubbornly to the corners of the mattress, elastic refusing to give up its grip. A metaphor I don’t want to consider too closely.

I carry the bundle of used cotton to the washing machine. It probably is radioactive.

I shove it all in, fists punching it down, and twist the dial to boil wash. Ninety bloody degrees; that should be enough to dissolve him.

His voice still echoes in here. That soft murmur just before dawn, when the world was too quiet and my guard was too low. Just one night.

Bastard.

I press the button and the machine hums to life, vibrating with passive aggression that feels personally tailored.

Back in the kitchen, I stare at my phone. Flick’s name hovers in recent calls, her little thumbnail a blur of tequila and glitter from her birthday what feels a lifetime ago, but I think might only be three days.

If I ring her now, she’ll hear it in my voice and she’ll pounce. An emotionally intelligent vulture. And she’ll never let it go.

I can already hear it: You let him in? Emotionally and physically? Seren, babe, we need to get you neutered.

No. Can’t face that.

I swipe the screen off and shove the phone into the fruit bowl. Among the bananas, it looks both smug and ashamed.

And then there’s a clatter on the stairs; the kind of clatter that’s orchestrated for dramatic effect. Which means only one thing: Damon bloody Rogers is in the building.

Family Day.

Except it’s not Sunday... so...

I close my eyes and breathe in through my teeth. The smell of steam and detergent rises from the bathroom, mixing with the ghost of Harry, no, Harrison, and everything in me curdles.

“Morning, treasure.” Dad calls, as though we’re characters in a sitcom where trauma doesn’t exist and he’s never missed a single milestone in my life. “Kettle on?”

“I’d sooner drown in it.”

He chuckles. Of course he does. Everything rolls off Damon Rogers, rock legend extraordinaire and professional narcissist. Frontman of The Revelry—think Oasis without the self-awareness. Britpop legends who never quite got the memo that it wasn’t the nineties anymore.

He appears in the doorway. He owns the place. Technically, he does.

Black jeans, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. The hair’s greying at the temples now but styled as though he’s about to headline at Reading. He glances around with the air of someone checking for paparazzi in his own home.

“Smells of... lemon and regret.” He grins, spotting the washing machine. “Burning your sins, love?”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be on a Monday morning.” He walks into the kitchen and helps himself to the fridge. “Vinny’s coming over later, by the way. Said he’s bringing that horrendous beetroot thing he makes. You know, the one that looks as though it’s bleeding?”