Page 21 of Every Shattered Note
She swallows, wipes her hands on her skirt, and points at me.“So.What’s the plan?”
“Panic.”
She nods, dead serious.“Productive panic?”
“The best kind.”I blow out a breath.“I’m calling auditions.”
Jules’s eyes widen.“For all of them?”
“Yes.Every wedding that still wants them.”
“That’s, like ...eight?”
“I lost count around the galas and the baptism.”I rub my temples.“Why can’t parents admit that babies don’t need live music?”
Jules shrugs.“Because they’re rich and delusional?Also, holding auditions for that many clients is insane.”
“I’m not insane,” I correct.“I’m resourceful.”
She gives me a look that says, same thing.Of course, when she speaks is more logical, “We could at least move the dates for the ones without venues yet.”
“That’s actually smart,” I say, scribbling it down.“Good start.”
By ten-fifteen, I’ve had two coffees, one Tylenol, and a minor existential crisis.My voicemail light blinks like a distress beacon.
Every conversation sounds like a remix of the same problem:
“We can’t move the date.”
“We already paid the deposit.”
“My cousin’s band can play a waltz if you can get me someone for the rest of the party.”
“Can you just fix it?”
And I do.Because that’s my job.I fix things.I make disasters look like miracles.I’m about to give myself the whole speech on duct tape and caffeine but I stop myself because it’s not productive.Not under these circumstances.
That’s what they pay me for.To make the impossible look like it was always meant to be.
I stare at the glitter-coated battlefield of my desk, and wonder when this stopped being fun.I used to love the adrenaline—the rush of pulling beauty out of madness.But lately, it feels like I’m always one call away from everything collapsing.
And yet, somehow, I still can’t walk away.
I’m addicted to the possibility of it all—the rare moments when the chaos settles and something beautiful takes shape.The moment when a groom’s voice cracks during his vows, or a bride forgets to breathe before walking down the aisle.Those little fragments of truth.
Yes, that’s what keeps me here.I tell myself.
When the phone finally stops ringing, I allow myself a minute of silence.It lasts exactly eight seconds before I check my email.
And there it is—the little blinking icon that should not make me smile but does anyway.
One new message in my EchoZone account.
I tell myself I’m not opening it.I have vendors to call, contracts to revise, a musician-shaped hole to fill.But my hand moves before the rest of me agrees.
ChapterEight
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