Page 63 of The Sound Between Us

Vinny swings himself up onto the counter—legs dangling, shoes creaking, expensive leather groaning under the weight of someone who’s always carried too much and never quite learned how to set it down. “You know what I think?” His voice goes that particular brand of soft he saves for interventions and hangovers.

“No. And I don’t want to.”

“I think you’re scared.”

I snort, but it’s hollow; weak. Someone tried to laugh underwater. “Of what?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Of wanting it.”

And there it is—settling into the shop. Dust. Grief; knowing something you wish you could un-know. Flick looks at me, not pushing but not letting go either, her eyes all quiet curiosity and stubborn loyalty.

I don’t tell them I still see Harrison’s mouth forming the word stay every time I close my eyes. I don’t say the song’s still on my piano, that I rewrote the second verse at 3am and told myself it didn’t mean anything. I don’t say part of me is already packed.

Instead, I reach for sarcasm. Always sarcasm; the first coat of paint I ever learned how to apply. “Yeah. Scared I’ll get a tan and accidentally develop self-worth.”

Vinny grins, toothy and too fond. “That’s my girl.”

Flick bumps her shoulder into mine—warm, grounding, real. “Just think about it. That’s all we’re saying.”

I sigh, long and dramatic. Maybe the sound alone could carry all this weight. “Thinking about it is how I got into this mess in the first place.”

Vinny puts on his faux-thoughtful face, eyebrows doing Olympic-level gymnastics above his sunglasses. “Nope. That was your dad’s inability to use a condom.”

“Gross.” I roll my eyes, but the smile’s already creeping in—traitorous and soft. Vinny just waggles his brows. The incorrigible bastard he’s always been.

The letter arrives heavy.

Physically, yes—the envelope thick and cream-coloured, the kind of expensive stock that smells of men who drink whisky with ice they cut themselves.

But emotionally too.

It’s addressed to my dad—of course—but Mrs Martin leaves it on the breakfast bar. A planted clue, her lavender hand cream trailing in the air behind her. “Looks official.” Which is her way of saying open it before Kimba sniffs it out and turns it into performance art.

So I do. Obviously.

The kitchen is too white; too quiet. The underfloor heating hisses beneath my bare feet, trying to soothe me into submission. Outside, March is throwing a tantrum—wind slamming at the windows. It’s got something to say.

I slide the paper out; the kind that whispers important in a serif font and formal phrasing.

Faith Jones—my mum—is being honoured at the West Coast Music Archive’s Legacy Awards. Posthumously. Of course.

Lifetime Achievement in Arrangement and Composition.

I blink. Once; twice. Hard enough that the words blur, swimming underwater.

Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes it sneaks up on you in a dream; other times, it slams into you in a too-warm kitchen, wearing your mother’s perfume in memory only.

A small, traitorous voice whispers—She would’ve been proud. She would’ve rolled her eyes, sure, but worn that silk blouse with the pearl buttons anyway. She never got recognition when it mattered; not really. Damon soaked up the spotlight. Oxygen. Took credit for melodies she hummed in bare feet on Tuesday nights with wine-stained lips.

Later, Flick’s on the sofa—barefoot, legs thrown over one of Kimba’s designer cushions. A goddess of chaos and comfort. The light is golden; the universe is conspiring to make everything cinematic.

“You have to go.” Through a mouthful of crisps. It’s that simple. “It’s your mum. LA in March? That’s practically a Lana Del Rey lyric.”

I shake my head, soft and doomed. We both know it’s already too late; I’ve Googled the flights. Checked the weather. Fantasised about the in-flight wine and the ache in my chest when the plane descends over LAX.

“I’m not going with my father.”

Flick snorts, nearly chokes on her tea. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re not going with him; you’re going despite him.”