Page 116 of Every Shattered Note
Aly,
My Aly.
You care about me.That means more than I can explain—honestly, I thought I was alone in that department.
I can’t wait to be there.
With you.
For you.
This has been the longest fucking month of my life.
And yeah, I know—it’s only the eighth.But time feels different without you in it.
Also ...you don’t have to keep reaching out.
You’re already here.
In every word I couldn’t say right.
In every song that won’t leave me alone.
(I swear, I could record an entire album with everything I’ve written these past few weeks.Maybe I will.)
If it ever stops hurting—if the grief finally lets up and we’re both still standing—I hope, it’s your hand I’m holding when I sing Prometheus.
—D
ChapterFifty-One
Dexter
No one’s surprised that the moment we arrived in Los Angeles, Eddie bought a house.
Does he need it?Probably not.But that’s not the point.It was never about need with him.It’s about control.About care.About making sure the people he loves don’t land somewhere temporary, somewhere that squeaks underfoot or smells like strangers.He didn’t want Cleo or Barret waking up in a rental house.He wanted permanence.Even if we’re only here for a little while.
When I grow up, I want to be like him.
Not rich.Not powerful.
Just ...protective in a way that feels like home.
The new house sits high above the Pacific—an architectural jawline cut into the cliffs of Malibu where glass meets air and silence costs a small fortune.It’s almost identical to the place he owns on that tiny island where we hide when the world turns to ash.Different view, same intent: sanctuary.
From the terrace, the ocean sprawls vast and black, endless in a way that makes you feel both small and untouchable.A strip of moonlight slices through the waves.
The air carries salt and jasmine, weaving into the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Inside, music hums low, threading through the walls like it belongs to the house.It’s one of Barret’s pieces—I’d bet my soul on it.Probably a draft he keeps replaying to figure out what it still needs.It floats like a thought he couldn’t bear to finish but couldn’t bring himself to silence.
The sound trails after me through the entryway, brushing down my spine like memory.It settles between my shoulder blades, where tension lives after too much scrutiny—where the camera’s red light used to burn, even after it blinked off.
I peel off my blazer.The fabric is damp at the collar from nerves or maybe sweat—I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore.Eddie shuts the door behind us, but I still feel that blinking red light seared into my retinas.My ears ring with the silence I left on stage.Sunlight spills through the tall windows.The living room carries voices—low, familiar, threaded with the hush that follows after something breaks and doesn’t quite mend.There’s presence here.Not comfort.Not yet.Just the quiet pulse of people who’ve made it through something together, sitting in the pause before anyone dares to name it.
Roderick’s on the floor, his long limbs folded awkwardly as he taps a soft rattle against the playmat.Arlo squeals, reaching for it with clumsy hands before switching course and shoving a plush giraffe into his mouth.My nephew babbles, drool pooling on his chin, utterly fascinated by the sound his own voice makes.Rod smiles and mirrors it—patient, soft, like this small, slobbery moment is the most important part of his day.Otis lies curled nearby, paws twitching in his sleep, like even the dog knows this house finally feels safe again.
Barret leans against the piano, hands poised above the keys without pressing down.He doesn’t play—just hovers like he’s afraid the notes might betray him.His fingers twitch once, then still.
