Page 3 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

grow up

Seren

A knot of girls clusters in the left aisle, flipping through record sleeves. They smell like school and summer and pink body spray.

Simon scowls at his phone beside me, scrolling through whatever digital landfill he’s currently fixated on. “What are you even looking for?” I tilt my chin at him, abandoning my half-hearted dusting of the A section.

“Trying to find that picture of Hailey,” he says.

“Please don’t.” My voice comes out sharp. “I’m not interested.”

“But it’s insane. She thinks she’s Kim Kardashian now.”

I grimace. “Apart from the part where she looks nothing like a Kardashian.”

Hailey and I have the same basic framework—long limbs, angles. But she’s sculpted herself into something sellable. Lips. Cheeks. Tits. Contour.

Me? BB cream and the mascara I found on the bathroom floor.

“No, no, Seren—just look.” He waves his phone again. “Here’s Felix in New York, apparently.”

He angles the screen at me, but I defocus my eyes and shoot him a warning look.

“I honestly don’t get why you won’t introduce me. I’ve suffered your friendship for this long—you’d think I’d at least get access to the super sex-god brother.”

“You know I don’t talk to either of them unless absolutely necessary. Like Christmas. Or death.”

Simon mumbles something under his breath, but stops when one of the girls glances over.

“Wait. Are you talking about Felix Rogers?” Her voice goes up two octaves.

Simon falters, flinging a sheepish look at my scowl. “Uh—yeah. Just gossip stuff.”

I narrow my eyes until they’re slits.

“Hailey and Felix are so beautiful,” the girl breathes, stepping closer. “It’s, like, not fair. How can two people get all the genes and all the talent?”

I snort. Loud enough that I have to disguise it as a cough.

My chest tightens. My skull starts to pulse. My ears buzz. I turn away before I say something I’ll regret.

I storm off toward the back wall, pretending to straighten some stacks that were never crooked to begin with. There’s only one other customer in here—a guy hovering near the door in a cap.

Behind me, Simon tries to rescue the situation by chatting to the girls about whatever celebrity meltdown was trending this morning. I tune out.

Accidentally, I end up at the J’s. And there it is—my sacred object. Faith Jones: The Red Session.

I own it already. Signed. Framed. Hung in the only spot in my flat that gets sunlight.

The girls explode into collective hysteria. “Do you have any Elementary vinyl?” one shrieks. “Oh my god, we are so excited for tomorrow. We’re gonna be first in line, right?”

They clutch hands and bounce together. I glance down at the black-and-white tile floor and briefly hope it crumbles beneath them.

“He always comes to the front,” one girl gasps. “Right by security!”

I mime shooting myself in the head. Make a soft little boom sound with my mouth. Simon chokes down a laugh, suddenly engrossed in the floor.

The guy in the cap glances over.

“My god, I can’t wait till he touches me,” one of them moans, flapping her hands in front of her face, cheeks flaming.

I physically recoil. “You want him to touch you?”

They blink. Finally noticing me.

“You just said—out loud, and in public—that you want a man literally twice your age to touch you.” I shrug. “I’m just saying, those are dangerous words to fling around.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my cut-offs and raise my shoulders. Simon’s eyes sweep the ceiling.

“That’s gross,” Frizzy Hair Girl stammers. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” I try not to look threatening. “But people do. This world’s fucked six ways to Sunday, and you’re standing in a record shop romanticising some sleazy brush with fame.”

I pause. Tilt my head. “Also, if we’re being honest? Get better taste. There’s no way Elementary even have vinyls. Their fanbase isn’t old enough to spell ‘turntable’, let alone operate one.”

Simon winces.

I don’t stop.

“So maybe,” I say sweetly, “run home and paint on your mascara, and if you’re very lucky, you’ll get to the front and Jenson—” I make air quotes “—might sweat on you. A personal baptism.”

“His name is Harrison?—”

“Get out.” My voice slices. Quiet but final .

They stare at me. Frozen.

“Get out of my shop. Come back when you’ve developed taste and a working conscience.”

They scurry out, skirts fluttering, perfume trailing. Someone’s chewing gum lands near the door—pink, trodden, already forgotten.

Simon stares at me. I stare at the floor.

Behind us, the man in the other aisle coughs—a polite little sound.

“Sorry,” I mutter. Mostly to Simon.

“It’s Harrison Carter. That’s his name. I know you pride yourself on ignoring contemporary pop culture, but please tell me you know that?”

“Yes! Of course I fucking know that.” My voice lashes out. “Unfortunately, it’s impossible to un-know those sorts of stupid, soul-damaging nuggets of information.”

I spin on my heel and storm toward the back, grabbing my coat and purse.

Simon sighs. “Where are you going? We’re closing soon.”

“Coffee.”

“But cocktails are in, like, two hours,” he whines.

I throw him a look. “Do you want something?”

“Hot chocolate.”

Rolling my eyes, I make for the door. At the threshold, I pause.

“Sorry if I interrupted your browsing,” I offer to the man still half-turned in the aisle. “It’s not usually bitch o’clock.”

“Not a problem.” His voice is low. Unbothered. He doesn’t turn.

I let the door swing shut behind me.

“That’s it. Hot drinks are cut off,” Flick declares, slapping her tea towel on the café counter.

“You can’t cut off hot drinks. That’s supposed to be for tequila and poor life choices. ”

“Nope. Caffeine is ageing. You’re going to have skin like your dad’s by next year.”

I grimace. “One last coffee. I need to detox from the stupidity I just witnessed.”

“Yours or someone else’s?” She raises a finger. “Or—wait—Simon’s? It was Simon, wasn’t it? What’d he do this time?”

I laugh. “No. Just a flock of girls. Saying objectively horrifying things.”

“Girls saying stupid things in a record shop?” Flick gasps. “Unheard of.”

I give her a half-smile. “So. Are you excited for your birthday diiiiiner?” I shimmy my shoulder like a drunk aunt.

“Jack and Mel said they’ll be late.”

“Babysitter issues?”

Flick grins. “No, actually this time it’s... yeah. No. I can’t lie. It’s the babysitter.”

“We could’ve gone there, then. Would’ve solved the problem.”

I don’t mean it. I hate their house.

Flick side-eyes me. “We could go to your house.”

“Uh. No.”

“Oh, but come on. You’ve got the space. The lush cushions. The ridiculous throws. And then, well, maybe your dad could wander downstairs and play us something?”

“My dad won’t be wandering anywhere. And anyway—I could play something. We don’t need his crumbling legacy.”

She brightens. “Still. Would be funny.”

“For you.”

I grin, but it disappears too quickly. “No. I don’t want to fall out with your other friends if someone says something. Or if anything gets out.”

Flick softens, but presses. “You ever think maybe no one cares? Like—just because Hailey and Felix are in the press every five seconds doesn’t mean you would be. ”

She pauses. “Unless you wanted to be. Because you kind of should be.”

“No.”

Just that. Flat and absolute.

She pouts, doesn’t push. “What are we drinking?”

“Hot chocolate for Simon. And a—” I wince. “Strawberry milkshake for me.”

“Wow. Dangerous order.”

“I walk on the edge.”

I glance at the window seat—Double Shot Latte’s usual haunt. It’s empty.

“You look so sad.”

She tries to reach for me, but I dodge. Spine straightening, smile tightening.

“I’m not sad.”

She fills her cheeks with air, holding her breath in protest.

“Anyway—has it been a good birthday so far?”

“Oh yeah. Look at me. Dripping in glamour. I’m a literal princess.”

But to me, she always is. Flick has that effortless light. Nothing fake, nothing filtered. All real.

“Beautiful. I’ll see you at eight?”

“Seven. Cocktails. Don’t forget.”

“You and Simon with cocktails is basically chemical warfare.”

“But it’s my birthday.” She turns on the puppy-dog eyes.

“Fine. Seven. But only because it’s your birthday.”

I grab the drinks, balancing them carefully.

“Better get this back before Simon throws a tantrum over cold chocolate.”

“Go, winner!” she sings, already wiping counters.

“Happy birthday!” I call as I leave, laughing to myself. I’m still humming Happy Birthday when I hit the pavement.

And slam directly into a person-shaped wall.

A dark blur. A jolt. A soft thud .

My strawberry milkshake erupts between us like a sticky, sugary bomb.

“Oh shit.” I blink up—and meet the eyes of the man from the shop. The baseball cap. The one who didn’t turn around.

Now he has milkshake on his hoodie.

“Oh fuck.”

I should run. I should apologise. I should rewind time five minutes and pick a bloody espresso instead.

Instead, I just stand there. Staring.