Page 20 of Every Shattered Note
Alyssa
February 19, 2001
Mondays are supposed to be recovery days.
This one feels like divine punishment.
My desk-slash-dining-table-slash-conference-room looks like a fairy exploded mid-flight and decided to die here.There’s a coffee mug balanced on an order sheet, half a box of business cards wedged under the phone to keep it from sliding, and a glittering trail of ribbon shavings that makes it look like Tinkerbell met her end while prepping a centerpiece.Somewhere beneath the invoices and catering quotes is a to-do list that’s multiplying like rabbits in spring.
The phone rings again.Of course it does.
“Euphoria Events,” I answer, pinching the bridge of my nose.“Alyssa speaking.”
It’s Martha—the florist who swore she could get me coral peonies in February.She can’t.Now she’s trying to convince me that ranunculus in a “peony-adjacent hue” will do the trick.I have a bride who knows the Latin name for every flower in her bouquet.“Adjacent” isn’t going to cut it.
While Martha justifies horticultural betrayal, the fax machine screeches to life.I flinch.That sound feels like someone nagging me from another dimension.
“Hold on, Martha,” I say, pressing the mute button before my sanity evaporates.“Please don’t cry,” I whisper—to the universe, or to myself, hard to tell.One of us is definitely in need of divine intervention.
The fax spits out a single page.I grab it, smoothing the paper with the back of my hand.
OFFICIAL NOTICE: LOVE & VINYL—DISBANDED.
“Fuck,” I mutter right into the receiver.
There’s a pause on the other end.“Pardon?”
“Not you, Martha.Love & Vinyl.They broke up.It wasn’t a weekend break.”I groan in pain.My soul is already panicking.
“Oh,” she says, lowering her voice into gossip territory.“I heard Tommy slept with Josh’s girlfriend.”
I can’t help it—I laugh.Of course she knows.Martha can tell me what tulips are trending and who cheated on whom in Seattle’s wedding supplier scene.It’s impressive, really.
“Well,” I sigh, “so much for coral peonies.Let’s talk about those ranunculus again.Maybe I can sell this to the bride before she learns to spell ‘infidelity.’”
By nine-thirty, I’ve received seven voicemails and two faxes about Love & Vinyl.Every planner from Seattle to Portland has a copy of the press release:
Creative differences.New directions.Mutual respect.
Sure.Translation: someone cheated, someone threw a mic stand, and now nobody wants to play “Don’t Stop Believin’” together ever again.
Which leaves me with six—no, nine—weddings, three engagement parties, one anniversary gala, and a bar mitzvah.Every single one with “Love & Vinyl” printed in bold next to Entertainment.
And the clients who hadn’t confirmed yet?They’re about to call me in hysterics.
Who am I kidding?I’m the one who’s screwed.
“Jules,” I yell.
My best friend-slash-roommate-slash-partner-in-crime appears in the doorway, chewing a bagel like she’s bracing for combat.She’s still in her robe, hair piled high, looking way too calm for someone walking into my personal apocalypse.
“You look like you’ve been awake since the whole Y2K debacle,” she says, dropping onto the nearest chair.
“Love & Vinyl imploded.”I shove the fax at her like it’s a death certificate.“It’s confirmed.”
Her jaw freezes mid-chew.“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
