Page 50 of Strings Attached
“She has a contract…”
“Because you gave her no reason to stay!” Nell pounds the table with her fist, rattling the china. “God, you really are as stubborn and bullheaded as I am.”
“Mom and Dad would never?—”
“Let me work on Mom and Dad.” Nell's smile turns wicked. “Go get her. Before she leaves thinking she has to sacrifice her happiness for yours.”
The server drops by with fresh cups of tea and takes away the one I barely touched. My parents' disapproval weighs heavier than a boulder, but something nags at my thoughts. I’ve bent rules for Alex and Missy, made exceptions I’d never consider for other humans. Because somehow, deep in my bones where magic lives, I knew they were different. This Resonant business—it explains everything.
The way the wards sing when Missy plays, how her music weaves through magical currents like it belongs there, how Alex sensed magic from the beginning.
I can hear Grammie Rae’s voice in my mind.The magic knows who it wants.At least she isn’t here for this conversation.She’d probably elbow me again and cackle loudly enough to draw half the cafe’s attention.
“No.” The word comes out stronger than I expected, carrying the weight of decision. It’s Head Warlock Dean Markham’s voice as I’ve never heard it before. “I’m going to convince Mom and Dad myself. You’re right, Nell. I should have fought. Should have the hard conversations instead of letting my pride convince me that pushing everyone away was noble.”
Nell’s grin turns as fierce as flames. “Hell yes! That’s the brother I remember.” She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her smile softening as she looks at me. “Oh, and when I’m in the Seychelles, I’ll actually send you a postcard this time—so you’ll know it’s from me.”
“I’d rather visit.” The words make her eyebrows jump up. “Once you’re back. If that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay.” Her eyes are shimmering again but then they glisten with mischief instead. “And I hope to get to meet this Missy of yours then too.”
Hope blooms in my chest like learning how to manage magic. “I hope so too.”
Some patterns demand to be broken. Some songs refuse to end until every note finds its rightful place. And something deep in my bones knows mine and Missy’s song isn’t over yet.
Missy
The Hungry Gull’s neon signs hum softly, casting their glow into the darkening world. Laughter and conversation fill the air as Hazel weaves through the red vinyl booths, passing out slices of cherry pie so good people are licking their plates clean, and coffee cups that remain mostly untouched. Ethan grimaces as Hazel sets a mug before him, but I take a long sip from mine—sometimes I like to remind myself of the taste of terrible midnight airport coffee.
I’m wedged into a booth across from Alex, watching Tom attempt to build a tower out of coffee creamers while Rachel shares stories about band class that morning.
“And then,” Rachel wheezes through laughter, her coffee untouched and cooling aside Tom’s increasingly precarious creamer tower, “Mikey decided his saxophone needed morepizzazzand tried his hand at unauthorized magic. The next thing I know, cherry blossoms are shooting out of every instrument in the room!” Her eyes widen. “Especially the tubas!”
“Oh my god,” Zoe throws her head back and roars with laughter. “I always admire a good rebellion. Band kids for life, am I right?”
“Heck yeah!” Tom reaches across the table to high-five her with such enthusiasm that his creamer tower collapses. The tiny containers scatter across the red vinyl like dominos, and he lets out a groan that would do any defeated architect proud.
Rachel continues without even acknowledging the disaster. “And then poor Emma starts sneezing like she’s providing percussion for the entire orchestra. Turns out she’s allergic to cherry blossoms.”
“That kid is going to be in so much trouble,” Ethan says, but his eyes are soft with amusement.
Rachel’s grin turns conspiratorial as she leans forward. “Nah, I didn’t write him up.” She winks at Zoe. “Band kids for life, right? We stick together.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at their easy camaraderie, at the way their shared history weaves through their words like a familiar refrain. This is what I’ve been missing on tour—not just a place to belong, but people who understand that belonging isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being real, about making mistakes and having others catch you when you fall.
A shadow passes over the warmth of the moment, like a cloud moving in front of the sun. Two issues still loom before me. The first is practical but daunting—I have a decent nest egg from touring, enough to buy a small place here and get settled, but money has a way of getting spent. Without a steady income, my future looks less than secure.
But the second issue… my fingers find the rim of my coffee cup and trace its circumference. Dean. Living in the town he essentially conducts while trying to avoid him is going to be like attempting to play a duet with someone you can’t look at. Impossible and painful and probably destined for disaster.
“We’re out of sugar.” Violet levels this at Tom as though his creamer stack is to blame for the critical shortage in sweetener.
Tom responds by sticking out his tongue. Violet mirrors the gesture immediately. Laughter ripples through the group and I smile.
“I’ll grab some,” I say as I slide out of the booth.
Rachel joins me. “Actually, I’ve wanted to talk with you one-on-one if I could grab you for a minute.”
“Sure, of course.” We make it to the condiment station tucked against the far wall stacked with ketchup, maple syrup, and the desired sugar packets.
