Page 37 of Every Shattered Note
It’s the cruelest truth.
Maybe that’s why I want her to sit across from me tonight.Just for an hour.Let her eat something greasy and laugh at something dumb and forget about being flawless.Forget about the foundation gala and the band that ditched her.
Forget about how close she probably is to burning out.
Because if she doesn’t stop, even just for a second, she will end up like the rest of us who never knew when to walk away.
The door creaks open, and a gust of damp February air trails behind her like it’s trying to hold her back.
She stands there for a second, just past the threshold—rain clinging to her lashes, fingertips brushing droplets off the sleeves of her purple raincoat.Her eyes scan the diner like it might bite.Like she’s already planning her exit before she even sits down.Her mouth presses into a line as if using it like armor.
At least she’s here—fuck.She’s really here.
Honestly, I wasn’t ready.
I don’t know what I expected.A polite excuse?A rain check?Radio silence?I was ninety-nine percent sure I’d be eating alone and going home smelling like fryer grease and regret.
But here she is—walking toward me like she’s daring herself with every step.Like one more wrong move might make her unravel.
I nod toward the booth bench across from me, trying to keep my face unreadable.She slides in, tugging off her coat like it’s lined with responsibility instead of fabric, folding it beside her with more care than anyone gives duct-taped vinyl and stale ketchup bottles.
“You came,” I say, because it’s all I’ve got.My throat’s too tight for anything else.
She shrugs.“Fries and a shake sounded better than the sad turkey sandwich we ordered.”
There’s a tilt to her lips like she’s trying to joke—but her voice is low, flat around the edges.Exhausted.She’s here, but her mind’s probably still chewing through timelines and vendor issues and whether or not she sent the right floral palette to the reception at the museum.
I raise my hand for the waitress.
Thankfully, she’s new—probably started this week.That’s a blessing in disguise, considering almost everyone around here knows me.Then again, now that I think about it, even Charles, the owner, didn’t blink when I walked in earlier.Just gave me a lazy wave like I was any other customer.
Maybe that’s the magic of the disguise.
It started because I lost my contacts during the whole cherry bomb incident, but the thick-rimmed glasses I’ve been wearing ever since?They’ve somehow shifted the way people look at me.Add a cap most days—or pull my hair back when I’m trying to appear remotely put together—and suddenly, no one clocks me as Dexter Vaughn.
It’s strange.Comforting, in a way.Like disappearing without having to run.
I guess what they say is true—people see what they want to see.And right now, I’m just some guy in a booth, in a city where no one gives a shit unless you’re interrupting their coffee.That still fits Ivy’s version of things: lay low, avoid headlines, don’t give the paparazzi a reason to remember I exist.
I gesture toward Aly.“Order whatever you want.They’ve got enough shake flavors to give you decision fatigue, and fries greasy enough to clog your arteries before midnight.”
She lifts a brow, the corners of her mouth twitching.“Look at you, living dangerously.”
“I try.”I glance at the menu like I don’t already know it by heart.“If the chocolate malt’s running, go for it.It’s the only one that doesn’t taste like heartbreak and freezer burn.”
She tilts her head.“What does heartbreak taste like?”
“Strawberry,” I deadpan.“Without question.”
A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth.Not a full one, not yet.But it’s there.Brief and beautiful.It doesn’t light up her face, not really, but it warms it.Like the pilot light under a too-old stove finally catching flame.
“I’ll take the chocolate malt then,” she tells the waitress.“And a cheeseburger, no onions.”
“Make it two,” I add.“Extra pickles on mine.”
The waitress nods and disappears behind the counter, and suddenly it’s just us again.Her across from me, elbows on the table, fingers lightly tapping against each other like she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands now that she’s not holding a clipboard.
“Rough day?”I ask.
