Page 20 of Strings Attached
I hide my smile in my coffee cup. There’s something about this town that makes everything feel like a story waiting to happen. Even now, watching Emma with her friends, I can see her future unfolding like sheet music—full of possibility and promise.
A warm breeze carries the scent of fresh baked goods from Main Street and mingles with the sweetness of Iris’ chrysanthemums. A group of children toss a baseball around and wave at Tom. Their laughter rings under the cloudy sky as a wind picks up fallen, brown magnolia and maple leaves, tumbling them across the clearing. My fingers itch to pick up Giuseppe, to capture this moment in music.
Not with the desire to write something that would match the polished pieces Jules keeps sending, but something real. Something that tastes like cinnamon and feels like belonging.
Speaking of Jules… My useless phone is like a weight in my pocket. It’s filled with emails—messages from Jules asking for updates and complaining about me gallivanting off to a smalltown with no cell service, just like he’d expected. Then there are the messages from our tour manager, fans reaching out, interview requests piling up. And I’ve answered none of them.
My stomach twists. Later. I swear to myself I’ll deal with it later.
“All right everyone!” Rachel claps her hands. “Let’s run through the music once before lunch.”
The kids file into chairs or position themselves behind music stands, some adjusting their instruments, others fumbling with their sheet music.
Emma takes her spot for the violin solo, tucking the instrument under her chin. The opening floats out perfectly, her bow gliding effortlessly. The sound is clear and resonant, a stark contrast to the hesitant playing and occasional jarring notes from other students. But then—a fumble. Emma’s bow skids across the strings and the wind picks up, sending sheet music scattering and flowers tumbling. Something shifts in the air, like pressure building before a storm.
I take a step toward Emma, but Dean’s already there, crouching beside her chair. His voice carries just enough for me to catch the words.
“Overwhelmed?”
She bats back tears and bows her head. “I’m not going to be able to do this. Play at the Hoopla, much less go to Juilliard. I’ll never get it.”
I expect Dean’s usual stern council member response. Instead, his voice softens into something that makes my heart do complicated things in my chest.
“Someone once gave me advice about what the difference between a good musician and a great one is.”
She sniffles and looks up. “What’s that?”
“A good musician practices until they get it right. Great ones practice until they can’t get it wrong. That’s true for… otherthings as well. At least, that’s what an annoying perfectionist of a sister used to tell me.”
Emma’s laugh comes out watery but real. “You have a sister?”
“Once upon a time.” Something flickers across his face and I remember the black-and-white print in his office, pointed where only visitors can see it, nowhere within his own line of sight. Dean couldn’t have been more than eight in the picture. His younger sister, with hair just as dark as his, rests her head on his shoulder, her toothless grin wide and full of mischief. “My sister was a lot like you—too much talent to contain sometimes.”
The tenderness in his voice hits me like a physical thing. I’ve seen Dean frustrated, amused, even almost playful on rare occasions. But this—this unguarded moment—feels more intimate than any of our almost-kisses.
Which is exactly why I need to stop watching him like he’s a puzzle I want to solve. Stop noticing how his broad shoulders fill out his jacket, how the curve of his jaw catches the light just so, or how his eyes darken when he’s deep in thought.
I have a career to save, an album to finish, a life waiting in cities with names that taste like ambition. I don’t have time to join a cult, charming or otherwise. Anyway, I’ll leave Magnolia Cove in a few months.
And maybe most importantly, I don't need to complicate Alex’s life here. She’s happy and at ease. Her sister dating the mostdifficultguy in town would only stir up things. I can’t risk…
Emma’s violin sings out again, steady and sure this time. The wind settles. Tom and Iris throw leaves at each other and laugh. Then Tom ducks behind hay bales to avoid the next round.
Dean stands and our eyes meet. The look he gives me feels like recognition, like seeing and being seen, like…
No. Absolutely not.
I turn away first and focus on Grammie Rae who’s now muttering something about how ‘herding cats would be easierthan organizing this festival’ and how she’s ‘too blessed to be stressed, but current circumstances are making me reconsider that.’
I’m just caught up in the romance of a small-town life, in the way everything here feels touched by some kind of everyday magic.
But I know better than anyone—magic isn’t real, and some songs are meant to stay unfinished.
“Dessert at Sinclair’s?” Rachel appears at my elbow, her eyes bright. “Alex is testing some new fall recipes and the whole gang’s coming. We’re extremely qualified and helpful when it comes to taste-testing. It’s basically our favorite activity.”
The weight of my phone tugs against me again. Jules’ last email burns like an accusation against my hip.This is exactly what I expected to happen. When you’re done falling off the face of the earth, could you message me back?
The compositions for our albums still sit untouched in my room, his careful notations awaiting my response. His career partially rides on this collaboration, on the trust he placed in me as his partner.
