Page 80 of The Sound Between Us

19

earl grey or breakfast?

Seren

Where the fuck am I?

The thought hits me before I’m fully conscious, followed immediately by the sensory assault of unfamiliar luxury. High thread count sheets wrap around my legs. Blackout curtains filter the morning light into something soft and unnaturally calm. There’s a particular quality to the silence, not London’s constant urban hum, but the insulated quiet that comes from being high above everything, cushioned by distance and money.

Memory crashes back.

The awards ceremony. The piano. My public meltdown in front of eight hundred industry vultures. Dad’s drunken performance and my spectacular response.

I’m in Harrison Carter’s guest room.

Christ.

I sit up slowly, taking inventory of the damage. My black dress from last night lies crumpled on the floor, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, LA sprawls below me. An alien landscape of palm trees and swimming pools that looks nothing like the grey comfort of London.

The mortification is immediate and thorough. I needed rescue. Actually needed it, like some Victorian heroine swooning into the arms of the nearest available man. Except instead of smelling salts, I got a ride in a luxury car and a night in a house where I don’t belong.

How do you face someone who watched you fall apart completely?

I pad to the window, bare feet silent on carpet softer than anything I’ve ever owned. LA stretches endlessly in every direction, all sunshine and possibility and absolutely nothing familiar. I’m trapped five thousand miles from home with no exit strategy and only one person between me and complete destitution.

A soft knock interrupts my spiral into self-pity.

“Seren? I’ve left some things outside your door.”

I wait until his footsteps retreat before opening the door. Folded neatly on the chair is a t-shirt, obviously his, soft from years of wear, with “Elementary World Tour 2019” in faded letters across the chest.

Very funny, Harrison.

I hold it up, noting how it would swallow me whole. The cotton is impossibly soft, worn thin in places, and it smells of him. Clean and warm with that hint of expensive cologne that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

The intimacy of wearing his clothes hits me. Too much playing house, too much like we’re more than two people who collided in spectacular fashion.

But it’s either this or the dress, and I can’t bear to put that back on. It feels contaminated by every camera flash, every whispered comment, every moment I lost control.

The t-shirt falls to mid-thigh, and I catch sight of myself in the mirror. All pale legs and messy hair, looking exactly what I am: a woman who’s lost control of her entire life.

Maybe I could just leave. Walk to LAX in designer heels and a tour t-shirt.

Reality check: I don’t even have money for a cab.

I can hear movement downstairs. The soft clink of dishes, running water, the domestic sounds of someone who actually lives here instead of just existing in hotel rooms. There’s no avoiding this confrontation, and the longer I hide up here, the more pathetic I become.

Time to face the music.

I find him in the living room, barefoot in faded jeans with his hair still messy from sleep. He’s got an acoustic guitar across his lap, feet up on the coffee table, picking out what sounds vaguely like a melody if you’re being generous about it.

Morning light streams through those ridiculous windows, hitting him perfectly. Of course he looks perfect. Of course even his casual doesn’t look casual.

“You sound as though you’ve never had a lesson.”

He looks up with a grin that’s half relief, half amusement. “We can’t all be genetic musical maestros.”

I roll my eyes and perch on the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt if this gets weird. “Nice shirt. Very subtle.”