Page 94 of Every Shattered Note
Dexter Vaughn.
They use an old picture—his hair longer, a leather jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, eyes half-lidded as if he’s caught between sleep and surrender.He’s probably high, which tells me that this guy is not the guy I know.This guy is the one who’s been trapped in this gossip mill.
“...rumors suggest that newly uncovered police files may implicate the musician’s son ...”
My stomach twists.The mug slips from my hand, hits the floor, and shatters.Coffee seeps across the tiles like spilled truth.
Jules jumps up.“Aly?”
But I can’t hear her.My mind is somewhere else—on that tarmac, in that silence between us when he pulled away.
The reporter continues, her voice smooth and practiced.“Neither the Vaughn family nor their representatives have issued a statement at this time.Sources close to the musician suggest that he has left the country.”
Left.The word hits harder than it should.
I crouch down, gathering the shards, but my fingers tremble.The pieces don’t fit together the way they used to.Jules kneels beside me, takes them gently from my hands, and tosses them into the trash.
“Talk to me,” she says softly.
I swallow hard.“They’re saying his name.”
She glances at the screen, then back at me.“You knew this might happen.”
“Not like this.”My voice cracks.“Not—publicly.Not with that tone, like they already decided he’s guilty of something he didn’t even do.”
Jules touches my arm.“He’ll call.”
“No, he won’t.”I stare at the muted image on the TV—Dexter frozen mid-performance, guitar slung low, a spotlight cutting through the smoke.“He’s going to hide.It’s what he does when the world closes in.”
The silence stretches between us.I press my palms against my knees, trying to find air that doesn’t hurt.
“That music was the only way he could scream without being punished for it.I didn’t realize how much he meant that until now.”
Jules hands me a towel to wipe my hands, but I barely register the gesture.
I should have gone with him,I want to say. But then I remember that I shouldn’t.I won’t lose myself chasing someone who doesn’t know how to be found.I’ll let him fight his demons first.
I know I’m right.But knowing doesn’t stop the ache.
Later, after Jules leaves to run an errand, I sit by the window.The rain has turned to soft and relentless mist.My reflection looks pale, almost ghostlike against the city lights.
I pick up the phone more than once, thumb hovering over the numbers I memorized during the flight.But what would I even say?That I miss him?That I’m scared?That part of me still feels him everywhere—the scent of his cologne, the sound of his laugh buried in my head?
I end up writing instead.A letter.Not an email—just ink and paper, like something from another lifetime.
Dex,
You said you needed to go.Do this on your own.
I get that.I really do.
But I can’t stop replaying the way you looked when you said goodbye—like you’d already decided it was easier to disappear than to try.Like staying would’ve cost you something you weren’t ready to give.
I hope you’re eating.I hope you’re sleeping.I hope someone’s reminding you that you’re still more than the headlines, more than what they’ll twist your name into when they run out of truth to sell.
I stare at the paper, unsure how to end it.
Love?
