Page 83 of The Sound Between Us

The fourth photo makes my stomach drop completely. Harrison’s hand on my back as we leave the venue, his face turned toward mine with obvious concern. The caption reads: “New Romance or Damage Control? Harrison Carter Rescues Industry Meltdown.”

But it’s the fifth screenshot that destroys me. A compilation of headlines:

“Who Needs Who More: A Fading Star or the Obsolete Daughter of a Has-Been?”

“Carter’s Latest Charity Case: From Pop Princess to Nepo Baby Babysitter”

“Is This Harrison’s Midlife Crisis or Seren’s Cry for Relevance?”

The comments underneath are a mix of sympathy and absolute savagery:

Finally a Rogers with actual talent

Attention seeking runs in the family

She looks ready to have a breakdown just like her mum

Harrison using her for publicity, she’s using him for relevance

That last one hits hardest.

“Seren? What’s wrong?”

I can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

Another text from Flick: Simon’s fielding calls at the shop. Someone offered £10k for “insider details about your relationship with Harrison Carter.” I told them to fuck off. Also, they found your mum’s grave. There are flowers and photographers there too.

Harrison reads over my shoulder. His face goes from confusion to something that looks like guilt mixed with weary resignation.

“Christ, they’re not holding back.” He actually laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Though I have to say, ‘fading star’ is kinder than usual. Last month they called me ‘the poor man’s Ed Sheeran with daddy issues and a messiah complex.’”

I look at him, startled by his casual tone.

“Oh, that’s nothing. There was a whole think piece in The Guardian about how my accent gets posher during interviews, clearly compensating for my ‘council estate roots and nouveau riche pretensions.’” He grins, but there’s something brittle around his eyes. “They spent three paragraphs analyzing my kitchen renovation as evidence of my ‘desperate climb away from his working-class origins.’”

“They wrote about your kitchen?”

“Apparently having marble countertops when you grew up eating beans on toast is a betrayal of the authentic working-class narrative they’ve assigned me.” His laugh is sharp, defensive. “The funny thing is, Mum would have loved those countertops. She used to say the only thing she wanted in life was a kitchen where she didn’t have to worry about the laminate peeling. But they don’t write about that part.”

“How often do you see her?”

Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. “Not as often as I think I’d like.”

“What does that mean?”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring down at his coffee. “With my first royalty cheque I bought her the house with the marble kitchen tops.” His voice gets smaller, more vulnerable. “But I always got the impression she loved them more than she loved me.”

The words hit me. I can see it so clearly, young Harrison desperate to prove his love through expensive gifts, only to watch his mother fall in love with the house instead of understanding the gesture behind it.

I almost lean forward. Almost reach for him, almost let my hand cover his where it rests on the counter. Almost offer the kind of comfort I’ve never been good at giving.

Almost.

Instead, I curl my fingers around my mug and let the moment pass.

My phone buzzes again. Unknown numbers, one after another.

“Turn it off.”