Page 2 of Every Shattered Note
The word burns.
Guilt roars through me because Eddie’s still here.He’s still trying when everyone else has written me off.He still believes there’s something left worth saving.Not the scandal.Not the headlines.Me.
“Salvage.”I let out a jagged laugh, tasting blood at the back of my throat.“You make me sound like a fucking shipwreck.”
Eddie doesn’t blink.He never does.“You are a shipwreck, Dex.”His tone is calm, firm, like he’s pointing out the sky and daring me to deny its color.
My hands drag down my face, palms pressing into my eyes until colors burst behind them.Anything to block out the truth I see reflected in him.Maybe the tabloids aren’t lying.Maybe they’re just telling the story I keep proving true—every scandal, every broken promise, every vow I swore I’d keep and broke the next morning.
“Fuck,” I mutter, voice scraping raw.My hands fall, and I stare into the dark behind my lids.“Maybe I’m not worth it, Eddie.”
The silence that follows is unbearable, stretching so thin I can hear the beat of my own pulse.For a second, I brace for him to agree.To say what everyone else already has.
Instead, his voice cuts through.“That’s the difference between you and me.You think you’re beyond saving.Iknowyou’re not.”
And that?That hurts more than every headline, every photograph, every rumor whispered behind my back.Because I want to believe him.I want to reach for the truth in his voice.I want to cling to it the way I once clung to music.
But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.
ChapterOne
Alyssa
The champagne flutes clink precariously as the waiter wobbles past, his tray tilting like he’s testing the limits of gravity.My lungs hitch until he disappears through the ballroom doors, the bubbles miraculously intact.If he drops one more tray tonight, I’m adding “acrobat” to the skill requirements for future hires.
On the surface, the ballroom is pure enchantment.Crystal chandeliers scatter light like spilled diamonds, ivory drapes fall from gilded cornices in perfect lines, and every table blooms under the glow of a hundred candles.The air hums with roses—rich, heady sweetness layered with the faint metallic tang of the vents overhead.This is the setting brides dream about—curated corners built for fantasy, every detail crafted to look eternal through the camera’s lens.
But for me, it’s a battlefield stitched together with silk and candlelight.
Magazines love to print glossy spreads of weddings—brides mid-laugh, cakes like monuments, flowers cascading from ceilings like waterfalls.They never print the duct tape holding up those waterfalls, the blisters hidden under heels, the planner smiling through a crisis while a bride insists her day is ruined because the roses turned up ivory instead of cream.
Tonight has been a string of those crises.A florist meltdown on the loading dock.A caterer calling from the freeway, forty minutes late.A bride sobbing over a “vanished” veil that turned out to be locked in the maid of honor’s car.That little scavenger hunt cost me twenty minutes, two frantic calls, and a panic attack I had to swallow whole.
Now she lingers near the mirrored doors, mascara smudged, her smile trembling at the edges like it might collapse at any second.I approach with a calm I’ve perfected after years of triage, even though my sneakers squeak across the floor like cartoon sound effects.Yes, I forgot my heels at home.No, I don’t regret it.
“Do I look like I’ve been crying?”she whispers, clutching my arm like I’m the last rope on the cliff.
I study her, tilting my head.I’ve been managing meltdowns since I was twelve—back then, it was homework crises, burnt toast, and getting three siblings out the door before Dad’s night shift ended.Some people are born to lead.Me?I was born to patch things together with duct tape and love until they hold.
“Only if raccoon chic is the vibe you’re going for,” I say lightly.
Her eyes widen in horror—until I grin and swipe the corner of her eye with a tissue.She exhales a shaky laugh, swatting at me with her bouquet.
“You’re evil.”
“Evil is what keeps weddings running,” I tell her, crouching to free the hem of her gown from her heel.I glance toward the door, catch the makeup artist hovering with brushes still in hand, and tilt my chin to summon her.“Let’s do a quick touch-up.Two minutes and no one will ever know.”
The bride’s shoulders lower, the rigid line of her body softening.The makeup artist swoops in, powdering cheeks, smoothing eyeliner.I stay close, murmuring encouragement while the bride keeps her eyes shut, as though afraid opening them will unravel her composure again.
When the artist steps back with a satisfied nod, I lean in.“Now relax.You’re perfect.He’ll only see you.”
And when the bride turns to the mirror, her lips curving into a smile that isn’t trembling anymore, I remember why I do this.Why I drag myself through disasters patched with duct tape and caffeine, why I keep stitching together holes no one else even notices.Because sometimes I get to reshape panic into joy.
Sometimes, I get to make it all look like magic.
I check my clipboard, scanning the next line of impending disasters.The ballroom hums quietly—servers aligning silverware, the photographer snapping filler shots.My pulse hasn’t slowed since noon, but that’s normal.You don’t notice the exhaustion until the last song fades and everyone’s gone.Then it hits like a fire extinguisher to the face.
The schedule says “band sound check, 6:30 PM.”It’s 6:47.
