Page 62 of The Sound Between Us

“I’m not going.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

He smiles. The devil on a Sunday. “It’s just a trip, sweetheart. A bit of sun; a bit of studio time. Maybe an overpriced green juice. You might even tan.”

“Or die.”

The door clatters again. Simon drags himself in, allergic to effort, hoodie up, eyes bleary. The scent of rain, cigarettes, and urban decay trails after him. Cologne for disillusioned youth.

“Are we open?” He blinks at the dim lighting. A house cat who accidentally got outside.

“Tragically.”

Vinny sizes him up. A particularly baffling museum piece. “Who’s this?”

“Our Saturday boy. Simon. You met him last month.” But Vinny’s face remains blank, the way only truly rich people can manage.

Simon stares. “I live upstairs.”

Vinny pulls out his wallet—thick, battered, obnoxiously cash-heavy—and peels off a neat stack of fifties. Dealing blackjack in a Bond film.

“Take the week off.”

Simon stares. It’s a trick. “Are you mugging me?”

Vinny flashes white teeth. “Do I look as though I need to mug a teenager in a Joy Division hoodie?”

Simon concedes with a silent nod, pockets the notes with the quiet efficiency of a boy who’s used to strange luck, and exits without another word. The bell tinkles behind him. A full stop.

I turn on Vinny, arms crossed, rage quiet but brewing.

“That was unnecessary.”

“Effective.” He adjusts his sunglasses. He’s not indoors.

“I am not going to LA.”

He shrugs, maddeningly. “Sure you’re not. And I’m not coming with you.”

I nearly hurl the barcode scanner at him—mostly for the drama, not the damage.

“You are not coming.”

“Rogers’ jet. Minibar. I absolutely am.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Flick props her chin on her hand, all dreamy-eyed mischief, her tea cooling beside her, forgotten—too busy romanticising my life. It’s hers to narrate. “You’d look hot in LA. We could bleach your ends again, wear linen. Live the dream.”

I glance at her sidelong. The shop’s lighting bathes her in gold and nostalgia—makes her look as though she’s starring in a vintage Polaroid someone found in a shoebox labelled the best summer of our lives. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Loud and clear.” She sips her tea, the sound delicate, ladylike—totally incongruent with the way the shop’s ancient heating system rattles to life behind her. It’s dying in stages. “Seriously though, why not go?”

Because Harrison’s there. Because I’m still humming the song we wrote. It lives in my bloodstream. Because I’m not the girl who thrives under palm trees and neon signs; I’m the girl who lives in basements and lies about being fine.

“Because I don’t want to.” The words bone-dry in my mouth, ashy and weightless and entirely untrue.