Page 12 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

the family

Seren

The sheets still smell of him. Which is offensive, really. You don’t get to mess with someone’s existence and leave your scent behind as though it’s a signature.

I tear the pillowcases off first, yanking one so hard it tears at the seam. Good; one less relic.

The duvet cover follows, twisted and warm with the imprint of our one-night lie. It takes effort to peel it off, and part of me hopes I’ll find something gross inside—permission to really hate him.

But it’s just fabric. Linen; expensive. White. The colour of things that are easily stained.

The fitted sheet clings stubbornly to the corners of the mattress, elastic refusing to give up its grip. A metaphor I don’t want to consider too closely.

I carry the bundle of used cotton to the washing machine. It probably is radioactive.

I shove it all in, fists punching it down, and twist the dial to boil wash. Ninety bloody degrees; that should be enough to dissolve him.

His voice still echoes in here. That soft murmur just before dawn, when the world was too quiet and my guard was too low. Just one night.

Bastard.

I press the button and the machine hums to life, vibrating with passive aggression that feels personally tailored.

Back in the kitchen, I stare at my phone. Flick’s name hovers in recent calls, her little thumbnail a blur of tequila and glitter from her birthday what feels a lifetime ago, but I think might only be three days.

If I ring her now, she’ll hear it in my voice and she’ll pounce. An emotionally intelligent vulture. And she’ll never let it go.

I can already hear it: You let him in? Emotionally and physically? Seren, babe, we need to get you neutered.

No. Can’t face that.

I swipe the screen off and shove the phone into the fruit bowl. Among the bananas, it looks both smug and ashamed.

And then there’s a clatter on the stairs; the kind of clatter that’s orchestrated for dramatic effect. Which means only one thing: Damon bloody Rogers is in the building.

Family Day.

Except it’s not Sunday... so...

I close my eyes and breathe in through my teeth. The smell of steam and detergent rises from the bathroom, mixing with the ghost of Harry, no, Harrison , and everything in me curdles.

“Morning, treasure.” Dad calls, as though we’re characters in a sitcom where trauma doesn’t exist and he’s never missed a single milestone in my life. “Kettle on?”

“I’d sooner drown in it.”

He chuckles. Of course he does. Everything rolls off Damon Rogers, rock legend extraordinaire and professional narcissist. Frontman of The Revelry—think Oasis without the self-awareness. Britpop legends who never quite got the memo that it wasn’t the nineties anymore .

He appears in the doorway. He owns the place. Technically, he does.

Black jeans, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. The hair’s greying at the temples now but styled as though he’s about to headline at Reading. He glances around with the air of someone checking for paparazzi in his own home.

“Smells of... lemon and regret.” He grins, spotting the washing machine. “Burning your sins, love?”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be on a Monday morning.” He walks into the kitchen and helps himself to the fridge. “Vinny’s coming over later, by the way. Said he’s bringing that horrendous beetroot thing he makes. You know, the one that looks as though it’s bleeding?”

That softens me. Vinny’s my safe place; the only member of The Revelry who never tried to turn me into a commodity.

I nod, barely.

Dad notices. “Ah, there it is. That’s the closest thing I get to affection these days.”

“You get affection from your wives.”

“Ex-wives. Please, keep up.”

I don’t answer. He doesn’t expect me to.

He’s halfway to the piano before I realise what he’s seen.

The song. Our song.

Still scrawled across a page, half-folded over the music stand. Harrison’s handwriting in the margins, my chord changes scribbled underneath. The pen I threw across the room when it got too much still lies on the carpet.

Damon sits down on the stool, fingers cracking, and begins to play. Soft, slow, not showy. And that’s how I know it’s good. He only restrains himself when music gets under his skin.

He plays it through, quiet and almost reverent.

When he finishes, he turns to me. “This is really good.”

I say nothing and my arms fold of their own accord .

He watches me for a beat, eyes narrowing as though he’s solving a particularly annoying puzzle.

“Why do you fight it, Seren? The music. The gift. Out of all my kids, you’re the one with the real thing. And yet you spend every day selling rubbish to dickheads.”

“Don’t let Vinny hear you say that.”

A smirk. But there’s a flicker underneath it; regret, maybe. Or guilt dressed as bravado. Hard to tell with Damon.

He starts to play the intro again, just the first few bars, the progression Harry and I built together, the rhythm that felt rhythmic and alive.

I flinch.

“You can have it. The song. If you want it. Slap your name on it and pretend it was your idea.”

He shakes his head and lets his hands fall from the keys. “Nah. It’s not for me.”

He stands, adjusts his cuffs as though he’s on stage. “See you at two.”

“I’ve got plans.”

“Cancel them. It’s Belated Family Day; you’re contractually obligated to suffer.”

“What! That’s not fair, it’s not my fault you weren’t here for Sunday.”

He pauses at the door and gives me a what you going to do about it shrug. “And Seren?”

“What?”

“At least try and make an effort.”

He leaves before I can tell him exactly where to shove that sentiment.

The silence rushes in, thick and humming. I drift back to the piano before I realise I’ve moved. My fingers hover over the keys as though they don’t belong to me.

There’s a single bar in the second verse that felt off while we were writing, slightly clunky. Harrison didn’t notice, or if he did he didn’t say. But I see it now .

I change a note. Then another.

The harmony falls into place with a sigh of inevitability. It had just been waiting for me to stop being a coward.

I stare at the finished page. It feels... different now, more finished, more whole.

And still I hate it.

I grab the sheet and fold it in half, then again. I press the crease hard with the heel of my hand until the paper fibres groan in protest.

He can have it.

Let Harrison Carter sing it to stadiums full of screaming girls with tears on their cheeks and lyrics on their tongues.

Let him take it, own it.

Because I don’t want it.

Not if it reminds me of how I felt in his arms; not if it makes me wish for things I can’t afford to want.

I tuck the folded sheet under a book and walk away, trying not to look back.

Trying harder not to care.

Upstairs smells of money and lavender polish. That specific combination of wealth and effortlessness that comes from never having to hoover your own carpets.

I climb the stairs two at a time, mostly for dramatic flair, but partly because if I pause too long, I might turn back and fake appendicitis. But I had that already.

The big house is already buzzing. A house full of people who don’t work, not that I can comment on that. Vinny insists that Monday should be hangover day, so the shop is closed.

I can hear laughter from the kitchen—Mrs Martin’s unmistakable cackle—and a blender being murdered violently. God help us, someone’s attempting a smoothie.

The sitting room is a cathedral of tasteful neutrals.

Cashmere throws artfully draped over cream sofas; art on the walls I’m fairly sure was bought for the frame.

And there, perched on the edge of a chaise as though she’s in a lifestyle shoot for Tatler, is Kimberly. Kimba, if you’re brave or stupid.

“Darling!” she sings, arms extended as though I’m returning from war rather than the basement.

I let myself be air-kissed within an inch of my life. She smells of fig and bank accounts.

“You look pale.” She coos, brushing my cheek with manicured fingers. “Have you been underground again?”

“I live underground, Kimba. A mole; or a mid-2000s emo.”

She laughs, delighted. “Oh, you are so funny.”

Felix is by the fireplace, flipping through a copy of Monocle. He looks as though a GQ editorial got lost and set up camp in our living room.

“Sister mine.” He drawls, eyes twinkling above his absurdly symmetrical cheekbones. “To what do we owe the honour?”

“It’s Monday.” I plop into a chair that probably cost more than my car. “Family Day, remember?”

He shudders. “I try not to.”

The kitchen door swings open and Mrs Martin bustles in, cheeks flushed, apron dusted with flour, carrying what looks suspiciously actual food.

“There she is.” I beam. “The only reason I show up.”

Mrs Martin winks. “That’s because you know I’m hiding the good potatoes.”

“You always know my love language.”

Kimba huffs lightly, no doubt offended by my preference for staff over family, but she’s distracted by the sound of a blender finally giving up the will to live.

Dad chooses that moment to make his entrance; a storm in a silk shirt.

Damon Rogers, ex-frontman of The Revelry, part-time chaos merchant, and full-time embarrassment. He’s changed for dinner; I sometimes think he changes his outfit to keep boredom at bay. Some people read a book, Damon Rogers changes pants.

Today’s outfit includes snakeskin boots and sunglasses indoors.

“Jesus. Did you mug a Vegas magician?”

“Style icon, darling.” He swans over, arms wide. “You’ve got to commit to the look.”

“You committed a fashion crime.”

He roars with laughter, planting a kiss on my hair as though we’re best mates and not just genetically entangled.

“Right then.” He grabs a handful of almonds from a crystal bowl. “We’ve been offered a bloody telly show.”

“God help us.” Felix murmurs.

Kimba clasps her hands as though someone just proposed marriage. “Oh, I love that idea.”

“It’s the Kardashians but better.” Damon announces, mouth full. “Cameras follow us around, get a bit of the old family madness, show the world the Rogers dynasty in all its glory.”

I blink. “Didn’t we already try that when you married your backing singer and forgot to tell Mum?”

“Exactly!” Damon points at me. “Drama; redemption. Relatability.”

“Deep trauma and low-cut tops.” Felix adds dryly.

Damon shrugs. “Exactly.”

Just then, the front door bursts open and in breezes Hailey. Long legs, even longer lashes, and a skirt so short I briefly consider donating fabric.

“Hi!” she trills, kissing air and posing in one fluid motion. “Sorry I’m late, I was in a meeting with my agent and you’ll never guess what.”

“I already have hives.”

“They want me for Love Island.” She announces, as though she’s just been offered a Nobel Prize.

“Brilliant.” Damon groans. “Absolutely not. ”

Hailey pouts. “Why not?”

“Because you’re already in the papers more than King Charles, and not always for the right reasons.”

She waves a hand. “That’s old news. Plus, it’s great exposure.”

“You’ve had enough exposure.” Felix mutters. “Most of it on beaches.”

Hailey flops onto a sofa and starts scrolling through her phone. “You lot are so uptight. Seren, back me up.”

“Hard pass.”

“Traitor.”

Mrs Martin appears with a tray of Yorkshire puddings, rescuing us from ourselves.

“Dinner’s ready, you heathens.”

Damon claps his hands together. “Ah, the sacred Monday roast. Can’t miss Family Day, even if it means eating Sunday dinner on the wrong bloody day.”

We gather around the ridiculously long dining table that has absolutely no business in a house of people who eat most of their meals in dressing gowns. I end up wedged between Kimba and Felix, a fate I probably deserve for some past sin.

Hailey eyes the platter of roast beef as though it’s roadkill.

“Oh, I can’t eat that,” she announces.

Everyone freezes.

“I’m doing this thing where I only eat food that’s been kissed by moonlight and blessed by a Himalayan goat.”

Silence.

“Right.” Felix says. “Well, I’ve got scurvy just listening to that.”

Mrs Martin rolls her eyes and plonks an extra Yorkshire on my plate. “Eat up, love. Someone’s got to absorb the carbs in this family.”

Damon’s grinning, as though all this chaos is his favourite meal .

And then, casually, as though it means nothing: “By the way—Seren’s been writing again.”

Every head turns. I nearly choke on my roast potato.

“It’s nothing.”

“She’s being modest.” Damon leans back, sipping red wine as though it’s truth serum. “You should see what she had on the piano. Gorgeous melody; she’s got the real stuff, this one.”

I stare at my fork; at the mashed remnants of parsnip. Anything but them.

“You should use the studio. Get in there this week; lay down a track.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?” Felix asks, amused. “Berating teenagers and alphabetising regrets?”

I flick a pea at him. It hits his lapel and bounces off.

“You should do it.” Kimba says sweetly. “Get it out of your system.”

Hailey’s still scrolling. “Honestly, if I had talent, I’d be using it every second of the day. But, well, I don’t. So I just use my face.”

“Truly a feminist icon.” Felix murmurs.

Damon raises a glass. “To creativity; and being a dysfunctional, highly marketable family.”

Everyone toasts. I sip water as though it’s vodka and pretend I’m anywhere else.

Then he drops it. The grenade.

“I’m heading to LA later in the week. You should all come with me.”

I freeze, and everyone’s eyes turn to me as though I’m suddenly the most interesting thing at the table.

Kimba claps her hands together. “Oh, that would be lovely.”

“We’re not doing the Kardashians in LA, are we?” Hailey frowns, looking genuinely concerned .

Felix nudges my shoulder with his elbow. “Sunshine might warm up your soul.”

“Can’t.” I shake my head, stabbing at my carrots. “I’ve got the shop to think about.”

They all snort at this. Dad bangs the table as though I’ve just punch-lined his life.

But all I can think is: Harrison Carter is in LA.

And the only thing worse than being near him... is wanting to be.

I force a smile and stab a carrot. “I’ll think about it.”

Which is code for: absolutely not.

Except... now I am thinking about it.

And that’s the problem. That’s always the bloody problem.