Page 41 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

burning it all down

Harrison

“Change the locks. I’m changing my fucking house.”

The words come out clipped, brittle. They splinter the air.

Three men in navy polos are tearing my life apart, one cardboard box at a time. Every surface is gutted; cushions flung from sofas, cables dragged from walls, guitar cases stacked along the hallway.

“Be careful with that.” I mutter automatically as one of them lobs my Mercury Prize into a box labelled TROPHIES / MISC.

The man raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t respond, but the message is clear: You asked us to destroy this place. Now let us do it.

I don’t blame him.

The house is too quiet. I hate how the silence isn’t clean; how it echoes her voice. Not her speaking voice. Just fragments.

“This is what selling out sounds like.”

Her words hang in the air, ghosts with perfect timing.

I grab the nearest amp cable and yank it out of the wall, the plug snapping. This is what a breakdown looks when you’re rich; clean chaos, bubble wrap on ￡12k speakers, your spiral reduced to packing labels.

I can’t feel my face. Haven’t slept in forty hours, haven’t eaten in at least thirty. All I’ve done is drink; coffee, whisky, memory.

Every time I close my eyes, I see hers. The way she looked at me in that hotel room; blank at first, confused. Then the slow unravel.

Confusion. Realisation. Disgust.

But worst of all? Disappointment.

Because she expected better. And she was right to.

My phone buzzes again. Henry. Still trying. Probably wants to spin the press leak, mitigate the story. Maybe he’s realised too late that throwing Seren under the bus didn’t get him what he wanted.

I don’t bother reading the text. He can go fuck himself with a press release.

Another buzz. I flip the phone and throw it. It hits the marble floor and shatters with a satisfying crack.

It’s not enough. None of this is enough.

I stride toward the hallway where the Basquiat hangs crooked on the wall. Bought it at auction three years ago during some European tour I can barely remember. Everyone thought it was a statement. It was. A stupid one.

I grip the frame and rip it off the wall. The force sends me stumbling back, frame cracking against my shin as I go. I hiss in pain.

Good. At least I can still feel something.

The Basquiat hits the floor, splintering on one side.

“That’s insured, right?” I say to no one.

Dave/Dan/Dickhead doesn’t answer.

I walk past the painting and into the kitchen, pop the fridge open. It’s empty except for a half-full bottle of tequila and a Tupperware of something green that I’m not brave enough to identify .

I take the bottle. No glass. Just the burn straight from the neck.

The house is almost empty by the time they leave. I don’t bother locking the door. Let someone steal what’s left.

I walk back into the studio, the tequila bottle in one hand, the weight of everything else in the other.

There’s a box I haven’t opened yet. Marked SEREN.

I crouch beside it, hands trembling slightly, and peel the flaps open.

Inside: · A pink milkshake-stained sweatshirt · A folded napkin with her handwriting on it: vanilla strawberry chocolate (don’t @ me) · A Faith Jones vinyl. The Red Session.

I carry it over to the turntable. Blow the dust off. Set the needle down.

The crackle fills the silence first. Then the piano. Then her voice.

And mine breaks.

I sink to the floor with the tequila bottle between my knees and the vinyl spinning behind me. My notebook is on the floor, where I left it weeks ago. I pick it up. Flip to a blank page.

I write:

Serendipity You knew who I was, and you loved me anyway. Until you didn’t. I don’t blame you.

The tequila burns going down. The music continues. The door stays open.

And for the first time in years, I have nothing left to hide behind .

The drive up Topanga makes me feel vaguely sick. Hidden enough that the press can’t find you, expensive enough to make sure no one else does either. It’s all eucalyptus, canyon air, and rich people pretending they’re bohemian.

Jamie’s place is perched halfway up a private slope that smells of sage and dust. Cedar, glass, and steel. Looks surgically inserted into the hillside, all angles and mood lighting. A Bond villain’s weekend hideout, if the villain smoked weed and missed every child support payment ever.

I pull to a slow crawl, gravel crunching beneath the tyres.

“Still living fucking wizard,” I mutter to myself.

The house is quiet when I step inside. Not silent. Just quiet in that Jamie way—music still playing on the Sonos in some room no one’s in, incense burning out in a glass tray, open windows letting in the canyon night.

“Jamie?” I call out.

Nothing.

I move into the open-plan living room. There’s that ridiculous infinity pool spilling off the edge of the deck, that abstract sculpture he claims is “meditative,” and—on the very edge of the sofa, Jamie.

He’s sitting forward, elbows on his knees, face pale as chalk. He’s still in yesterday’s jeans and a Joy Division tee so faded it’s basically a suggestion. Phone clutched in both hands.

His eyes flick up when he hears me, but they don’t land. Don’t focus. Just... slide right over me.

I freeze. “Is Dex okay?”

It’s the first place my brain goes. Always is. Always has been. Dex, pale on a bathroom floor. Dex with no pulse. Dex the cautionary tale following our lost band brother.

Jamie blinks once, slow and delayed, his brain buffering.

“That was my lawyer,” he says.

I exhale. “Jesus. What’ve you done now? ”

Because that’s the next fear—restraining order, lawsuit, another trash tabloid story we’ll have to spin into charm.

Jamie lifts his head. He looks wrecked.

“I’m a dad.”

I blink. “Come again?”

He swallows. “Some woman I don’t even remember is dead. And I’m the baby’s dad.”

Nothing moves. Not in the room, not in my chest. For a second, I’m not even sure I heard him right.

“You’re serious?”

Jamie nods, the movement painful. “Kid’s three months. The woman died last week. She put me down as next of kin. Lawyer found me today.”

“Wait... who?”

“I don’t know.” He rubs his face with the heel of his hand.

“I think it was Miami. Or maybe that after-party in the Hills. Eighteen months ago, fifteen months, Christ, I don’t even know.

Could’ve been the European leg. They all blur together, you know?

She had an accent. Or maybe I was just wasted. ”

I let that sit. It tastes bad in my mouth because I know exactly what he means. Three years ago we were all going through the motions, tour after tour, party after party, woman after meaningless woman.

“And you’re sure?”

He gives me a sharp look. “Did a paternity test before we left for Japan. I got the results today.”

Then he lurches forward and throws up in the sleek chrome waste bin next to the coffee table.

Jesus.

“Okay. Right. Good. That’s... healthy.” I crouch slightly, hands up, trying to find something—anything—to do that doesn’t feel wildly inadequate.

Jamie doesn’t move. He just rests his head in his hands and lets the silence collapse around us.

“What the fuck am I going to do with a baby, Harry? ”

I sit down beside him, the leather sofa cold under my thighs. “I mean... start with not throwing up on it?”

He lets out a weak laugh. It sounds lost.

I glance over at him. His hands are shaking now, just a little. “Was she alone?”

“Yeah.” He swallows thickly. “No family. Kid’s in temporary care until they find a placement. Or until I...”

He trails off.

“You’re really doing this?”

“I don’t know. Am I supposed to? Can I say no?”

“I don’t know either,” I admit.

He exhales, pained. Then says, “I’m going to ruin it.”

“You don’t know that.”

He looks up at me with wide, wild eyes. “I ruin everything, Harry. You’ve seen it.”

He’s not wrong. But he’s not right either.

The canyon outside hums with twilight. Inside, everything feels suspended.

We sit there. Two men who spent a decade pretending the world was entertainment and are now quietly realising the punchline was us.

Eventually, Jamie gets up and walks to the bar. He pours tequila into two mismatched tumblers and doesn’t ask if I want one. He knows I do.

He hands it over, and we sit in silence, staring out at the lights crawling across the valley below.

Jamie raises his glass. “Glastonbury.”

I clink mine against his. “Glastonbury.”

And for once, we don’t say anything clever. There’s nothing left to say.

We don’t talk much after that. Me and Jamie. Just drink tequila and lie on opposite sides of his stupid oversized sofa in the dark, staring at the ceiling .

By the time I leave, the sun’s already climbing over the canyon ridge. My flight’s in four hours. I don’t even go home; I just have Lee swing by, grab my bag, and drive me to LAX. My head pounds with every bump in the road.

The flight is long. I don’t eat. Don’t sleep. Just cycle through the same playlist on repeat, but the songs don’t sound right anymore.

By the time I land at Heathrow, everything feels different. The air tastes of rain and exhaust.

It’s past ten when we pull into the suburbs. Red brick terraces, garden hedges trimmed neat, those old-fashioned yellow sodium lamps casting everything in sepia.

The car rolls to a stop. I sit there for a moment, watching the condensation form on the inside of the window.

I step out. The cold hits immediately—damp and clinging. Not like LA’s dry chill. This cold gets into your bones.

I sling my leather overnight bag over my shoulder. It’s the only thing I brought.

The walk up the driveway is slower than it should be. The roses in the front garden are still perfect. Mum’s handiwork.

I stop in front of the door. Same brass knocker. Same chipped paint on the post-box.

I knock twice, then wait.

I can hear movement inside—shuffling, the low murmur of the telly. The rattle of a chain, then the locks turning, one by one.

The door swings open.

She looks smaller than I remember. Grey at the roots, slippers on her feet, face lined and unimpressed.

“Alright, Mam?” My voice cracks a little, but I keep it steady. “Can I come in?”

She stares at me for half a beat. Then steps aside.

“Put the kettle on. You look like shit.”

I walk through the door.

And just like that, I’m home.