Page 92 of Every Shattered Note
The hum of the plane becomes a heartbeat I can’t shut off.
I tell myself he’ll call.That this isn’t the end.That he meant it.
But deep down, beneath the hope I’m clinging to, there’s something else.
A knowing.
The same knowing that’s lived in me since I was a girl—that people leave, even when they don’t mean to.
The sky swallows us whole as we rise above the clouds, and I close my eyes.
He promised he’d come back.
But somewhere between the clouds and the silence, I know he won’t.
ChapterThirty-Five
Alyssa
This is my life—what I’ve lived since I was born—and yet, it feels dull.
The clouds look almost identical to the ones I left behind.That familiar gray stretches so low it feels like the city itself forgot how to breathe.Seattle smells like coffee and rain and nostalgia that stings if you let it linger too long in your lungs.
The jet touched down just after eleven.I don’t remember the landing—only the soft percussion of rain against the window and the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to my wrist.I fell asleep with my hand pressed to it, afraid that if I moved too much, I’d lose the last piece of him still tethered to me.
Now I’m standing in the arrivals hall, surrounded by people whose lives seem to be waiting for someone.Mine just ...isn’t.The tiled floor gleams under the pale light, the echo of rolling luggage filling the air.Then a sleek black car pulls up to the curb, glossy enough to reflect the rain-smeared lights outside.
“You must be Aly.”
The driver’s voice is warm, casual, carrying a confidence that belongs to someone who’s seen too much and learned when to keep quiet.
He steps out—a tall man with dark hair curling just enough at the edges to look like he’s been running fingers through it all day.His stubble frames a face that’s both kind and tired.The worn leather jacket fits him like a second skin, and when he smiles, there’s a trace of something world-weary in it—like he’s flown too many red-eyes and still hasn’t caught up with himself.
“Hi, yes.I am.You look familiar,” I say, squinting.
He gives a small, knowing smile.“The name’s Alec.Dex asked me to make sure you got home safely.”
I try not to gape.Of course it’s Alec—the former drummer from Dead Moth Parade.“I could’ve taken a cab.”
He snorts.“Sure.But a cab driver wouldn’t be able to let him know that you made it back alive.We don’t want him to lose his shit—more than he’s already losing it.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache.I don’t know how to respond—whether to tell him I’ve always managed to take care of myself, or admit that part of me wanted someone to show up, even if I didn’t ask.
He waves to someone behind me—one of the flight crew—and tells them something about tomorrow’s meal and probably a baby teething.Then turns to me and says to me, “Come on, the car’s warm.”
As we pull away from the terminal, the rain blurs the city lights into streaks of gold and crimson.For a moment, the rhythm of the windshield wipers is the only sound.
“Where are you heading tomorrow?”I ask.
“L.A.,” he says, and the word comes out like a groan.
“It sounds like it pains you.”
He smirks but doesn’t deny it.“The city’s beautiful, but my worst memories live there.”
“Then why go back?”
His fingers tap the steering wheel.“Because that’s what you do for family.The last time this happened, Dex fell through the cracks.We can’t let that happen again.When one of us goes down, we all tumble right behind him.It’s a cycle we have to break.‘Nip it in the bud,’ as Eddie says.”
