Page 35 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)
“About everything. About what it feels to remember who you used to be.”
Dex is shaking his head, processing, and when he looks up there’s a familiar glint in his eye. His mouth curves into that troublemaker grin I know too well.
“So, Damon Rogers’ daughter?”
I nod, no shame or defensiveness. This isn’t a secret I’m interested in keeping.
His pause is deliberate, loaded with mischief. “Which one?”
“Shut it. Leave it.”
The protective edge in my voice stops him cold, and Jamie intervenes before the moment can turn ugly .
“He’s happy, Dex. Look at him.”
And I suppose that’s the thing they’re both seeing, that I look myself again instead of the carefully managed version I’ve been performing for the past few years. Present instead of going through the motions.
“I haven’t seen you this... here in ages. You look yourself again.”
“Fair point,” Dex concedes, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “You do look less you’re dying slowly of boredom and existential dread.”
“Cheers for that ringing endorsement.”
“What I’m saying is, if this is what makes you human again, I’m not going to argue.”
We talk business for another hour: lawyers and contracts and the logistics of dismantling a multinational entertainment empire.
Henry’s going to be furious when he finds out we’re planning our exit strategy without him, but his ten years with us have been as profitable as ours.
We’ve done right by each other, even if we haven’t always agreed on creative direction.
“I’m getting a lawyer to go over our contracts with Henry’s management team. Make sure we can do this clean.”
“He’s going to be pissed,” Jamie says, which is probably the understatement of the century.
“Yeah, well, his ten years have been as good as ours. We’ve done alright by him.”
“More than alright,” Dex adds. “Man’s probably got enough commission to buy his own small country.”
“If this is what you want, we’re with you,” Dex says finally, and something tight in my chest loosens at his words. “Brothers before business, right?”
“Brothers before business,” Jamie adds, and the phrase takes me back to when we were sixteen and stupid and thought we could change the world with three-chord progressions and adolescent angst. Maybe we did change the world, just not in the way we expected.
Maybe the real victory was surviving it with our friendship intact.
Outside Soho House, the paps are waiting with predatory patience. The goodbye hug is genuine, emotional, and I know it’ll be front-page news tomorrow: three millionaires embracing on a London street, the end of an era captured in digital pixels.
But right now it’s just us. Three friends who’ve shared everything: success, failure, loss, the peculiar burden of being more famous than we ever wanted to be, acknowledging that some things are meant to end.
“See you in Japan,” Jamie says, and it sounds a promise.
“See you in Japan.”
I walk away from that life with a bounce in my step, heading home to Seren and whatever comes next.
The flat smells of white roses. I bought them from a street vendor on impulse, the petals soft and pale against the brown paper wrapping.
I find her in the bath, eyes closed, hair piled on top of her head with what appears to be the same pencil she was using earlier. She looks more peaceful than I’ve ever seen her, someone who’s finally stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.
This is what contentment looks. This quiet domestic moment that no camera will ever capture, no journalist will ever analyse, and no publicist will ever spin into a marketable narrative.
She opens her eyes when I appear in the doorway, and the question is written across her face before she speaks.
“How did it go?”
Instead of answering immediately, I step into the bathtub fully clothed.
The shock on her face is perfect: wide eyes, dropped jaw, the beginnings of laughter already bubbling up from her chest. The water soaks through my jeans immediately, my shirt clinging to my skin, and I don’t give a single fuck about ruining clothes that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary.
“You’re completely mental!” she squeals, water sloshing over the edge of the tub and onto the bathroom tiles.
“Yeah. I’m getting used to it.”
“You’ve ruined your jeans!”
“I’ll buy new jeans. I can’t buy another conversation the one we just had.”
The flowers float forgotten as I pull her against me, both of us laughing at the absurdity of it all. Water everywhere, my expensive clothes ruined, her bath disrupted, and neither of us caring because this is joy in its purest form.
“Perfect,” I tell her, and she knows I’m not talking about the meeting anymore. “They understand. Ten more shows, then Glastonbury.”
“Then what?”
“Then we figure it out together.”
“Together as in...”
“Together as in you and me against the world. Together as in I love you and I’m fairly certain you love me back, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it yet.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face with that particular intensity that means she’s trying to decide whether to flee or fight.
“Ask me again in Tokyo,” she says finally.
“I will.”
The water’s getting cold, but neither of us moves. This is what happiness feels: not the manufactured high of performing for thousands of people, but the quiet contentment of choosing someone and being chosen back. This is what I’ve been searching for without knowing it.
And now that I’ve found it, I’m never letting go.