Page 118 of Every Shattered Note
I shrug one shoulder as if saying,But that would solve the problem.
Arlo squirms against me.I readjust him instinctively, letting him curl into the crook of my arm.His giraffe slips from my lap and lands between my feet.No one moves to pick it up.
“We’re cooking up something special for Malcom,” Eddie says, shifting gears like only he can.“Arthur Bradley.He’s good at finding things.”
The name sounds familiar but I can’t place it.
“And?”I ask, even though I already know where this is going.
“He’s digging into Malcom’s offshore accounts.A few suspicious donations.Some bribes he didn’t bury well enough.”He lifts both hands like a magician, revealing a trick.“It’s going to the cops.You don’t need to lift a finger.”
“Good,” I say, though my voice doesn’t quite land the way I want.“Because I’ve already lost enough sleep.”
I glance at Arlo.His lashes fan across his cheeks, and for a second, I envy how easily babies forgive the world.They just ...trust.Even after everything.
I lean my head back and close my eyes.
“I meant it, you know,” I say into the space between us.“What I said out there.I’m done bleeding for people who want to sell the wounds.”
Eddie hums in response, but doesn’t speak.He doesn’t have to.
Roderick rises from the floor and picks up the giraffe, brushing it off.
“You did good, kid,” Roderick says.
“Because he gave me a giraffe?”I arch an eyebrow.
“No, I meant you,” he states.
“I’m fucking trying.Still an addict and a?—”
“You’re a recovering addict,” he cuts in gently, but firmly.“And a recovering alcoholic.”
His voice doesn’t carry judgment—just weight.Just care.
“There’s a difference, Dex.Being in recovery means you’re doing the work.You’re not numbing yourself.You’re not destroying the people around you.You’re showing up, even when it costs you.”
I don’t answer right away.
“You need to give yourself credit for that.All these years?Staying sober?Choosing meetings even when it’s uncomfortable?That’s recovery.Wanting to go back to rehab doesn’t make you weak—it just means you’re aware.It means you’re still fighting.”
I drag a hand down my neck.His words are unexpected and probably something I needed to hear—again.
This is exactly what my therapist said when she asked if I’d be going back to Seattle after all this.I told her no, because Aly deserves someone who’s healed—not someone still bleeding out.
She deserves someone whole.
Not a man who still feels like he’s held together with duct tape and lies.
“So, when are we going back home?”Alec asks.“This new yoga place I’ve been going to sucks.It’s filled with pretentious people who just practice because it’s a thing.”
Eddie looks at me.“We need to finish a few things, but after that it’s really up to you.”
“You guys can leave if you need to,” I say, glancing at Arlo, who’s now fighting sleep with the determination of someone twice his age.His fist curls in my shirt like it’s giving him the strength to stay awake.“I’m sure he wants to go home.”
Roderick snorts softly.“He’s happiest when he’s surrounded by his uncles and Aunt Cleo.Everyone’s spoiling him, and Kit and I are loving the break.Someone else dealing with his teething for once.That’s luxury.”
“Told you last week,” Eddie says, nudging him with a half-smile, “if you ever need help, all you have to do is call.We’re happy to swing by and take him off your hands for a few hours.Or, you know, a couple of days.”
