Page 3 of Every Shattered Note
I glance toward the stage.The band members—the drummer, a keyboardist, a bassist—stand in a loose cluster, tuning half-heartedly.But there’s a space where the guitarist should be.
“Please tell me he’s just late to warm up,” I say, approaching the drummer, who happens to be Jules’s friend.His eyes dart to the doorway and then back to me, guilt already forming.
“Nope,” he says.“Told you this was a bad idea.”
“Yeah, well, Love & Vinyl broke up on Monday and left me with exactly zero options.You try finding a wedding band on three days’ notice that doesn’t sound like karaoke night at a dive bar.”
He smirks.“Should’ve hired a DJ.”
“Don’t start with me.”
He chuckles under his breath, returning to his drumsticks.I pull out my phone and dial the guitarist’s number again, pacing toward the hallway.The ringing feels endless, each tone slicing through the carefully constructed calm I wear like armor.
Voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Alyssa from the Belmont wedding.You’re supposed to be here by now.Sound check started fifteen minutes ago.Please tell me you’re parking or running through the door.Call me back, okay?”
I hang up, jaw tight.The phone feels warm against my palm, absorbing my irritation.
“Everything all right?”a voice asks behind me.
I turn.Jules leans against the doorframe, dressed in her usual organized chaos—black jumpsuit, messy bun, clipboard hanging from her wrist.“You look like you’re about to throw that phone at someone’s head.”
“The guitarist isn’t here.”I glare at the phone one more time.
“Maybe he’s tuning his soul before the performance.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” I retort.
She laughs.“Dark.I like it.”
“I’m running on espresso and adrenaline, Jules.I’ve reached the part of the evening where murder feels productive.”I look at her.“Ready for the ceremony?”
She nods.“Yep.I’ll bring the children for the dinner at seven-thirty.”
“They’re not children.”
She snorts.“Please.I have to remind them to get in line keep their hands to themselves and not run through the hallways.”She smirks.“Just like I did with my kindergarteners before I left that job.”
I’d love to say she’s wrong, but she does have a point.One of the things that she brings to this partnership is the calm of a teacher who knows how to keep rowdy guests in line.Not that we agreed to start this business because of that, but it helps, right?
“Take deep breaths before you check the list.”
We both fall quiet, listening to the low hum of last-minute preparations—the scrape of chairs, the murmur of waiters rehearsing service cues, the faint hiss of champagne being poured.
For a moment, I let myself breathe.The air tastes faintly of roses and something metallic from the vents overhead.My reflection wavers in the glass doors—tired eyes, lipstick fading, dark hair escaping its bun.Every wedding takes a piece of me, and I keep giving it freely, like it’s the price of belonging somewhere.
I’m halfway to the lobby with revenge plotted in my head—the sort of revenge that involves finding a missing musician and making him explain himself in uncomfortable detail—when a shape moves through the revolving door and I stop.He’s carrying a guitar case that’s clearly been around for decades.If I didn’t know better I’d think it’s been around the world and back: stickers peeling at the edges, a dent that looks like it was part of a big fight—or war.Scuff marks arranged like tattoos.Rain stitches his jacket into darker lines.A few strands of hair cling to his forehead.
He’s taller than I expected.Taller than any refusal I was planning to hand out.
“You must be Rafe,” I say approaching him.My voice is clipped with professional courtesy.Underneath it, the relief and irritation are doing a slow, awkward tango.
He looks at me properly, and for a ridiculous second, I pretend my clipboard is a shield.There’s something in his eyes—stormy, like a city that’s seen its share of bad nights and good songs—and behind the rain-scratched glasses they look too awake for this hour.Soulful would be a bookstore label.Good thing that I don’t have time for bookstore labels.
“You have other clothes, right?”I ask because I’m a planner, and planners are the human equivalent of extra batteries.
He blinks, glances down at his soaking jacket, then around the lobby like he’s checking for a costume change station.“I mean, obviously.”
