Page 27 of Every Shattered Note
I Want to Hold Your Hand
Brown Eyed Girl
Everlong
It’s sentimental with just enough cheese to make people believe in forever.
Exactly what she needs.
Barret stops the recording, fingers still draped over the mixing board like he’s not ready to let go.“You good with this?”
“Yeah.”My throat’s dry, but I manage to nod.“We’ll run it again tomorrow, then I’ll take it solo Thursday.”
He watches me for a long beat, not buying the calm I’m selling.“You miss it.”
I exhale, the truth peeling off like old skin.“I miss when it meant something.Not when we were too fucked up to remember what we played, or who we disappointed.”
Barret just nods.I bet he has the same regrets, but also loves the music just like the rest of us.
I jot one last line on the margin of the playlist, just beneath the chicken scratch notes and alternate chords:
Remember—it’s not a stadium.It’s her office.Make this count.
Barret closes the door behind him with a quiet click, and the room exhales into stillness.I stay on the stool, elbows on my knees, head dipped low like a prayer I haven’t figured out the words for yet.
The studio glass throws my reflection back at me—tired eyes, jaw tight, hair tied back like I’m trying to contain something.Not quite the man who used to fill arenas.Not the one who stood barefoot on speaker stacks screaming lyrics into sold-out crowds.
Good.That guy had no business being there in the first place.
All I need is enough calm in my hands not to fuck it up, this upcoming Thursday.
I glance at the setlist again.My eyes land on the first song.
At Last.
And somehow, impossibly, my mouth tilts into a smile.That’s the first song that hooked her and will be probably be the one that’ll give me what I need from her.This sense of fulfillment.
ChapterEleven
Alyssa
February 21, 2001
“This guy is too pretty and too elegant to be a musician,” Jules murmurs beside me, her voice pitched just loud enough to be a problem.
We’re standing near the back of the Ravensworth’s smaller ballroom—a space that smells faintly of polish, nostalgia, and stale champagne.The carpet’s worn thin in places, and someone tried to disguise it with a borrowed Persian rug that’s seen too many parties.Still, this place is perfect for what we need it for.Let’s not forget that I’ve pulled miracles from worse spaces.And right now, I might need another one.
Jules nudges me with her elbow.“Look at him.He’s like a J.Crew ad.Even his hair has discipline.”
She’s not wrong.He looks well put together.Maybe too much so.
There’s a calm confidence in the way he moves, his sleeves rolled, collar open just enough to seem casual.His hair—dark blonde, slicked back like he’s got a plan for every strand—probably smells expensive.And his jawline ... yeah, I shouldn’t be noticing that.
Or his shoulders.Or how his shirt strains slightly when he reaches for the mic stand.
And now I’m wondering what’s under that shirt.
Bad Aly.Bad.Bad Aly.
