Page 32 of Every Shattered Note
This day seeps into my skin and refuses to leave—like the aftertaste of burnt coffee or the ringing that lingers after standing too close to the speakers.And the worst part?We haven’t even touched the prep for this weekend’s events.Not really.We’ve danced around logistics, survived auditions, but the details—the crucial, timeline-shattering details—still hang somewhere between denial and disaster.
When we finally make it home, Jules toes off her heels with a dramatic groan that could be considered for an Oscar and immediately flops onto the couch.She grabs the remote, rewinds a VHS tape already stuffed into the VCR, and hits play on something she’s been recording for the past couple of weeks but never had the time actually to watch.
“Finally,” she mutters as the grainy opening ofSecond Opinioncrackles on-screen.It’s one of those overly dramatic hospital shows where the doctors, residents, and even patients look like models.Everyone’s either dying beautifully or falling in love under fluorescent lighting.It’s ridiculous.Addictively so.
I barely look at the screen.Instead, I drag the clipboard from my tote.I flip through it—pages of notes, scribbled names, timelines half-crossed out and rescheduled twice.It’s like staring down a burning building with a firehose made of hope.
Then it hits me.
Friday.Whittmore Foundation Gala.
Love & Vinyl: TBC.
My blood runs cold.
“Shit.”The word hisses out of me before I can stop it.I flip back two pages.Then another.I scan the contracts and cross-reference the schedule.
No.
No, no, no.
I press a hand to my forehead.“We didn’t replace Love & Vinyl for Friday.”
Jules pauses the TV, slowly turning toward me like I just told her we left the baby on the roof.“What now?”
I flip through the clipboard faster, trying force the booking to change.I check the contract folder.Then the master timeline.And the backup email printouts.
No.No, no, no.
“They were supposed to headline the Whittmore Foundation Gala.The big one.Four hundred guests.Silent auction.Real champagne—actual Perrier-Jouët bottles.”My voice splinters.“We were supposed to finalize their setlist weeks ago, Jules.Weeks.”
I open my mouth, shut it, then add the part we’re both avoiding.“We don’t have a band.Not unless you can convince Josh to forgive Tommy—for one night, with divine intervention and possibly a bribe.”
That would be impossible.Think, Aly, think.
The panic keeps rising, catching in my throat like static.“We don’t have a band,” I repeat, like saying it will make it untrue.“Unless we show up with a CD player and some decent speakers, we’re screwed.No—even then, we’re done.”
Jules blinks, processing, then slowly nods.“Okay.Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
(I absolutely am.)
“This is a gala.The gala,” I say, my voice trembling even though I’m clenching my jaw to keep it still.“Art patrons.Philanthropists.CEOs with private jets and museum wings named after their dogs.People who drop five-figure checks on silent auctions because their Pomeranian got groomed on time for twelve straight months.If we pull this off, we’re not just booked for the year—we’re legitimized.”
Jules glances around our tiny apartment, where the molding peels slightly at the corners and the couch has a suspicious squeak that sounds vaguely like a whimper.“Legitimized sounds nice.Maybe even ...office space?”
“An office.A working fax line,” I mutter, staring down the clipboard like I can will it to rewrite itself.“Which is why I can’t just tell them Tommy and Josh had a blowout and Love & Vinyl imploded.People are expecting them.”
“We’ll find a solution.”
My stomach turns.“Not if we crash and burn in front of four hundred people.While someone from Northwest Society Events scribbles in her leather-bound notebook with a pen that costs more than our rent.”
Jules exhales through her nose.“You know who could save us.”
“Don’t,” I snap, already bracing for it.
She lifts both brows, smug and unbothered.“I’m just saying.You’re thinking it too.”
