Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-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.”
I watch the rain slide down the glass, each drop tracing an invisible map back to where everything started.
“I wish I could help,” I murmur.
“You could,” Alec says simply. “Come with us.”
“My business would fall apart. My best friend and everyone who depends on me . . . they’d be stranded.”
He glances at me, eyes softened by something close to understanding. “Then make sure he hears your voice. Call him. Write. Send a message, even if it’s just one line. People have a way of disappearing on him, and every time they do, it leaves another crack.”
“You talk like you’ve been there.”
“I have,” he admits, his tone dropping low. “He doesn’t believe much in himself. Puts too much importance on what everyone else thinks. It’s like he’s been living on borrowed confidence.”
My throat feels dry. “He said he was coming back, but acted as if he wasn’t.”
“He’s scared,” Alec replies. “When you’ve spent years building walls out of stage lights and applause, it’s hard to walk out into the dark and trust someone’s going to be there.
But you can’t fix that for him. You just have to decide if you’re willing to wait while he figures out how to stand on his own. ”
I stare at my hands. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
He exhales, the sound almost like a sigh. “Then start with this—don’t lose yourself in trying to save him. I’ve seen what that does. You can’t love someone back to life if you stop living your own.”
The silence that follows feels like a truth neither of us wants to look at too closely.
When we finally reach my building, Jules is already waiting under the awning—red curls peeking from beneath a beanie, oversized sweater swallowing her frame. She’s holding two cups of coffee, wearing that practiced expression she saves for me—half concern, half don’t-make-me-say-I-told-you-so.
Alec steps out, grabs my suitcase, and sets it by the curb. “Call if you need anything,” he says, and it sounds less like an offer and more like a quiet order.
“Make sure he’s okay,” I tell him, my voice thinner than I intend.
He nods. “Always.”
Jules doesn’t ask questions. She just wraps an arm around me, warm and solid. “You look like you need pancakes and sleep,” she murmurs. “In that order.”
I nod. It’s easier than explaining the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t fade with rest.
My apartment feels smaller, almost unfamiliar. The air smells faintly of dust and lavender candles. The answering machine blinks red like it’s been waiting to be acknowledged, and the plants by the window are drooping in quiet protest.
I drop my bag and head straight for the shower.
Hot water, lavender soap, silence. The steam curls around me, and for a moment I let my eyes close, pretending he’s behind me—Dex, with that teasing half-smile and voice that always found a way to slip under my skin.
But it’s just me. Just the sound of water and the ache in my chest that refuses to leave.
When I emerge, Jules has already taken over the kitchen. Pancakes. Blueberries. Coffee. She doesn’t push. She talks about everything and nothing—the leaky faucet, the neighbor’s cat, how she thinks the landlord’s been flirting with her again.
I nod at the right times. Smile when I can manage it. But my thoughts keep drifting back to the plane, to the quiet hum of the engines and the way he didn’t say goodbye.
By the time I finish eating, the rain has softened into a whisper against the windows. The evening news murmurs from the TV, just noise—until one word cuts through.
Vaughn.
The sound freezes me mid-sip. My cup trembles slightly as the screen flashes to an old photograph: a hotel facade, yellow police tape fluttering in the wind. Then the headline appears.
THE VAUGHN FILES: NEW ALLEGATIONS SURFACE IN 1983 DEATH
My pulse skitters. I can’t move.
The footage rolls—grainy clips of reporters outside a courthouse, flashes of cameras, a voiceover that feels too detached to match the gravity of what’s being said.
Dexter’s father. The hotel. Words like ‘cover-up’ and ‘paid witness’ blur together until all I can hear is the dull thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
And then his name.
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?
Would that be too much?
Too soon?
It’s strange—how fast someone can take root under your skin. How you can meet a person and just know something in you recognizes them, like you’ve been searching without realizing it?
Maybe it isn’t love. Maybe it’s something different I’ve never encountered in my life.
In the end, I fold the page carefully, pressing the crease flat. I won’t send it.
It isn’t for him.
It’s for me—to remind myself that what I felt was real, even if he’s gone.
Outside, the city hums quietly. Someone laughs in the hallway, a car door slams, the elevator dings. Ordinary sounds. Life is going on, even when mine feels like it’s been paused mid-breath.
When I finally crawl into bed, the sheets smell faintly of rain and detergent and a life I’m not sure belongs to me anymore.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face—the way he looked at me before I boarded the plane. Half apology, half confession. Like he wanted to say something that mattered, but couldn’t find the words in time.
So, I lie in the dark, listening to the rain whisper against the glass, waiting for a call that won’t come.
And still, somewhere deep inside me, a voice insists he’ll find a way back.
Because maybe, for once, love won’t be the thing that leaves.