Local Vermont Gas Station Vandalized Following Viral Shooting Story
I click it before I can stop myself.
The article is short. Just a paragraph about broken windows and spray-painted walls. No one hurt. Just damage. A message from the public, blaming the man who pulled the trigger on me.
I stare at the screen, nausea curling slow in my gut.
Because that wasn’t supposed to happen.
The truth got out, and the world did what it always does—picked a villain and lit a match. But the man behind that counter wasn’t evil. Just scared. A cornered animal. A father trying to protect what little he had left.
And now he’s paying for it.
I lock my phone and slide it into my pocket, pushing aside the sting buzzing in my chest.
I need to make it right with them.
The check comes, and we leave most of the food behind, too caught up in each other to care. Outside, the night’s backdrop settles around us. Our steps fall in rhythm, the shuffle of boots on pavement and the hum of passing cars filling the comfortable silence.
The air’s cooled. The kind of LA night that tries to pretend it has seasons. A breeze tugs at the hem of her jacket as she slows near the curb.
Then she tugs my sleeve, pulling me off course. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
Taking my hand, she drags me over to a worn wooden bench tucked beneath a crooked streetlamp, a little ways from the restaurant. It overlooks a hill, half obscured by trees, the city glowing in patches beneath us. The moon is round and bright, the sky dusted with stars.
We sit.
“The moon is full tonight,” she whispers, pressing her temple to my shoulder.
I spare it a quick glance. “Yeah.”
My eyes close as I wrap an arm around her and let myself sink. The noise falls away. The fresh air fills my lungs, mingling with a trace of her. Warm, soft, feminine.
Mine.
God, the way I lived for these moments. Songwriting with her beneath a honey moon. Pouring our souls into lyrics and strings. Letting the night hold us when the world felt too loud.
Back when it was just us, a guitar, and whatever pain we hadn’t put into words yet.
I press a kiss to her hair, the weight of her against me grounding somethingthat’s been slipping for days. “You remember that night in Philly?” I murmur. “You were barefoot and drenched, crouched under that willow tree after the show, scribbling lyrics before they slipped away. The paper was soaked through, ink bleeding all over your hands. You said the universe was trying to drown your muse.”
She chuckles. “It was.”
“You still got a song out of it.”
“My favorite one yet.”
New moon rising
Shadows on the run
I feel the world restart beneath a different sun
Smiling softly, I fix my eyes on the horizon. “Not the last though.”
I hold her tighter, letting the moonlight stretch over us. If there’s a quiet left in this life, I’ll find it here. In her, in the dark, in the music we haven’t written yet.
