Page 86 of The Sound Between Us

I push past him, leaving him spluttering in the doorway. Behind me, I can hear Dex snort with laughter.

“Where are you going?” Henry calls after me.

“Home.”

“We’ve got three hours left!”

“Then write something yourself.”

I’m already gone before he can respond.

The moment I open the front door, I know she’s here. The air smells different. Floral and clean, wild honeysuckle that doesn’t belong in my sterile house. And then I hear her voice, soft and slightly off-key, humming something I don’t recognise.

She’s curled on the sofa, bare feet tucked under her, drowning in my t-shirt and the yoga pants my assistant dropped off. A book in her lap, thick, literary, probably tragic knowing her taste. When she looks up, she smiles. Soft. Unknowing. She doesn’t realise the effect she has just by being here, by existing in my space as though she belongs.

“You’re back early.” She marks her place with a finger, studying my face. “How was your day of musical genius?”

“Absolutely fucking terrible.”

Her laugh is surprised, delighted. “That bad?”

“Worse. We spent four hours achieving the musical equivalent of watching paint dry.” I collapse into the armchair across from her, suddenly exhausted. “Jamie suggested we sample an eighties track. Dex played the same three chords for an hour. I think I heard my soul leave my body.”

“Poor baby.” Her voice is all mock sympathy, but there’s warmth underneath. “What exactly does a failed writing session look like? Do you all just stare at each other in creative despair?”

“Pretty much. Although Dex has perfected the art of making carpet patterns with his foot. Very avant-garde.”

She tucks her legs up, making room on the sofa. An invitation I shouldn’t accept but can’t resist. I move over, settling beside her but maintaining careful distance. She smells of my shower gel and something that’s entirely her.

“Play me something,” she says suddenly.

“What?”

“Play me something you wrote today. Let me hear how terrible it was.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “There was nothing to play. That’s the point.”

“Bullshit. There’s always something. Even if it’s awful.” She leans forward, eyes bright with interest. “Come on, what did you attempt before giving up?”

“You really want to hear musical mediocrity?”

“I live for musical mediocrity. It’s my natural habitat.”

I get up and grab the guitar from the corner, settling back beside her. Our knees bump as I adjust the instrument, and she doesn’t pull away.

“Right, but you asked for this.” I play the chord progression we’d been torturing all morning. It’s bland, predictable, the musical equivalent of beige wallpaper.

She winces dramatically. “Oh, that’s proper awful.”

“Thank you. Very helpful.”

“No, wait.” She reaches for my hand on the fret board, her fingers covering mine. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm. “Try this instead.”

She guides my fingers to a different position. The chord that emerges is richer, more complex, with an unexpected melancholy that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

“How did you⁠—?”

“The original was too safe. Music isn’t supposed to be safe.” Her hand is still covering mine, and I can feel the warmth of her palm against my knuckles. “Try it again, but add this.”