Page 57 of The Sound Between Us

12

musical genius

Harrison

I wake up on the wrong sofa in the wrong room of my own house. My neck’s fucked; there’s a crick running down my spine like I got into a brawl with gravity and lost. One arm’s asleep and dead to the world, the other is clinging to an empty tequila bottle like we made vows in Vegas.

The house is too quiet. It’s a big place; too big. Clean lines, glass everything, some abstract monstrosity in the hallway that cost twenty grand and looks like a toddler had a tantrum with a glue gun. A view of the hills that would be impressive if I wasn’t dying.

There’s a cactus in the kitchen that someone said would “balance the energy.” It’s dead.

I stare at it. “Same.”

The clock reads 6:42 a.m. And I’m here, on a leather couch that smells of cow and expensive polish. With the taste of ash in my mouth and the phantom of her melody still echoing behind my ribs.

The song. Our song.

It’s there. A bruise; purple and hidden under the surface. Press it and it hurts. Don’t press it and it still fucking hurts.

And I can’t use it.

I mean—I could. But that would make me the kind of man who steals music from a woman who won’t even kiss him because he made her feel too much too soon.

And I might be a walking mess of impulse control issues, but I’m not a thief. At least not of her; not of that.

I peel myself off the sofa, muscles cracking, and stumble toward the espresso machine, hoping it will save me, or at the least, bring me back to life. It hisses at me. Judging my life choices. It’s probably right.

I’ve just lifted the milk out of the fridge when the intercom buzzes. Once.

Then again.

Then again. Long and insistent. The person pressing it thinks they’re the main character in a Netflix reboot of my actual nightmare.

“Fuck off.” At the wall.

But I already know who it is. Because hell doesn’t knock—it buzzes.

I ignore it because that’s what intercoms are for, but then freeze when two minutes later, she’s at the door, letting herself in. Tall, tanned, legs for days, and wearing leather trousers that might require a team of engineers and a crowbar to get into.

Ruby.

Because a tequila hangover isn’t complete without an ex to make your remaining brain cells hurt.

“Hi, baby.” She steps into my house. She still keeps a toothbrush here, apparently. She doesn’t. I tossed it, along with mascara and lip stain that she’d slipped into my bathroom cabinet.

“Don’t call me that.”

She pouts. “You’re still grumpy.”

“No. I’m just sober.”

She hums. That’s a concept she doesn’t quite believe in. She tosses her hair back with the casual elegance of someone who’s been practising on red carpets since she was nineteen.

“I was in the neighbourhood. Figured we could catch up.”

“I figured we wouldn’t.”

She grins at me over her shoulder. “Still mean when you’re sad. I find it oddly hot.”