Page 11 of Every Shattered Note
Because I know exactly how it feels when the music stops and you have to face the silence.
And I should leave.
I should take Rosie and go back upstairs, change out of this stuffy suit.Order food since I haven’t eaten since ...what, noon?
Maybe enjoy a silent night for once—just me and the hum of the city.
But I don’t move.
Instead, I lean against the far wall, guitar case beside me, and keep my eyes on her.Something about watching her—it’s magnetic.Like witnessing a storm from the inside of a car.Safe, but not untouched.
Maybe I want to watch her because she saw me just as a person and that hasn’t happened to me in years.
She crosses the room to one of the banquet tables where someone left behind a cardigan and a pair of glittery flats.Her hand brushes over the fabric like it hurts to care about one more thing.Then she closes her eyes for a second, just a second, before turning and scribbling something on her clipboard.
She doesn’t look up at first.Then her eyes flick across the ballroom—and find me.
There’s a pause.
She straightens slowly.Her expression shifts through a dozen things: surprise, annoyance, calculation, and something else I can’t name.
“You’re still here,” she says, not a question.
“Guess I was waiting for my applause.”
That earns me a dry look.“You got it.Right after ‘You Make My Dreams.’”
“You noticed.”
“Hard not to when you’re hijacking my personal soundtrack.”
I shrug.“Thought I’d do some research.Didn’t want you thinking I was a lost cause.”
Her lips twitch like she might smile but decides against it.“That was a low blow.”
“I would’ve paid a thousand dollars to be here.”Wink at her.“And get my money’s worth.”
She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose, and for a moment, I see it—the crack in her armor.
“That’s ridiculous,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.Her voice is low, frayed from a day that’s stretched too long.“I don’t have time for this.”
I take a step forward—slow, measured—like approaching a startled animal.“Then I’ll make it quick,” I say.“Thanks for letting me play.”
“You’ll get your check through the mail.”She taps her chin, eyes narrowing slightly.“No, wait—you forgot to email me your address, didn’t you?”
I drag in a breath and bow my head, feigning guilt.“It’s been a week.Time got away from me.”
Her sigh could flatten a man.“Can you email it to me by tomorrow?”she asks, voice hovering between fatigue and formality.“As I mentioned when we spoke on the phone—we cut checks on Mondays.”
I nod, pretending to think it over.“Why don’t you give me your address again?”I say lightly.“To be honest, I lost it.”
The sound she makes isn’t quite a groan, but it’s close.She flips a page on her clipboard, scribbles something quickly, and rips the sheet free.When she hands it to me, her nails brush my palm—brief, accidental—and I feel it far too much.
“If you applied yourself,” she says, her tone clipped and cool enough to sting, “you could be better.”
Better?
The word sits in my mouth like a dare.
