Page 42 of Strings Attached
The ocean’s roar almost drowns my thoughts as I watch my father examine my bookshelves without seeing them, one hand pressed against his mouth. Mother’s quiet sniffling from the kitchen table makes everything worse.
“Dean,” she starts, voice trembling, “was that young woman… was she… I mean is she…”
“Yes, Mom. She’s non-magical.”
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. My father drops his hand. “Dean. Son.” He shakes his head slowly. “We love you, and we’re so proud of everything you’ve done here in Magnolia Cove, but a non-magical woman, son? Is she even connected to the community?”
I suck a breath in over my teeth. My fingers itch to reach for a mint, but I refuse to show that tell. Not now. Not during this conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. “Only through her sister who is marrying a local.”
“She’s marrying a witch or a warlock?”
“No.”
The question grates against my nerves. As if he doesn’t already know. As if thirty-five years on the National Council hasn’t taught him exactly how rare—how impossible—these connections are. He’s watched enough powerful magic users fall from grace over human entanglements to fill a library of cautionary tales. And here I am, Head Warlock of Magnolia Cove somehow following the same worn path to ruin.
His disappointment settles around my shoulders like a cloak. Council members don’t fraternize with non-magical people. We definitely don’t fall in love with them. These are the rules that have kept our world safe, our magic protected. Rules I helped write. Rules I’m breaking every time I let Missy slip past my defenses.
“We came here”—Mom chokes out—“to try to convince you to come to Nell’s wedding only to find you repeating the same choices that tore our family apart.”
“We supported Nell too, remember?” Dad’s laugh holds no humor. “Thought we were being progressive. Had her boyfriend over for Sunday dinners.”
Mom nods and dabs at her eyes. “And look where that got us. Ten years of barely seeing our son. A decade for our daughter to heal from the scars it left.”
“I know well that’s my fault.” A headache builds in my temple, causing the vein there to throb. Old guilt rises like high tide, familiar as magic, bitter as mint-flavored regret. Ten years of carefully maintained distance, of watching my family fracture like ward lines under too much pressure. Of being the one who made the hard choice, who did what needed to be done, who chose duty over love.
I flex my fingers, fighting the urge to reinforce the wards around the cottage—my knee-jerk reaction to any turbulence.As if magical barriers could protect any of us from the consequences of our choices. As if they ever had.
My parents both blink at me. Dad’s face softens some. “We don’t blame you, Dean.”
“You don’t have to. I blame myself.” I take a breath only to realize that I’ve unconsciously reached for memory magic, my power responding to the memories too intently. The taste of mint—sharp and cold like the first frost of winter—fills my mouth. “I know how much I hurt Nell. Why do you think I’m not planning to attend her wedding? Because I'm selfish? Because I don’t care?” My laugh comes out rough as sea spray. “It’s because I won’t risk casting shadows on the day she deserves nothing but light.”
My father frowns. “She wants you there, son.”
“She hasn’t told me that.”
Mom crumples her tissue. “You’re both too stubborn. Always have been.”
“At the moment,”—Dad cuts in—“that’s not the most pressing issue.” His voice hardens. “This woman—this Missy—someone without magic, Dean? You, of anyone, know that people like us can’t date normal humans. We thought you’d have learned that from everything that happened with Nell.”
“I did.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I mean, I have. Missy is different.”
Mom rises. “How? How is she different?”
The words I plan to speak die in my throat. Because Missy is probably leaving next week. Because I’ve turned her into a security risk by showing her our world. Because my heart says she’s different, but my heart’s an idiot that should have learned its lesson a decade ago.
The ocean’s rhythmic rush fills the silence, steady as a heartbeat, relentless as guilt. A decade of carefully maintained control threatens to crumble beneath the weight of theirexpectations, their fears, their love. The same love that made them welcome Charlie to Sunday dinners, that made them believe in second chances, that made the eventual fallout cut so much deeper. Some patterns repeat like tides against the shore, wearing away at resolve until nothing remains but bare rock and bitter truth.
“If it means so much to you, I’ll attend the wedding.” After all, I’ve had a decade to perfect the art of staying on the edges. I can keep to the shadows, nod at the right times, and slip away before anyone notices.
Mom cries again. Dad closes the space between us and settles a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I knew you’d do the right thing, son. You always do.”
His eyes bore into me, dark and knowing as storm clouds. The weight of unspoken meaning hangs between us—because this isn’t just about Nell’s wedding. This is about Missy. About duty. About the choices a Head Warlock must make to protect his community. About how some patterns shouldn’t be repeated, no matter what the heart says.
The praise settles like chains around my shoulders. Always doing the right thing. Always protecting everyone else. Always sacrificing what I want for what needs to be done.
The ocean’s roar fills my cottage, making my headache throb even more intensely. Outside, waves crash against the shore—relentless, inevitable, wearing away at stone until nothing remains but sand and salt and surrender.
Missy
