Page 9 of Strings Attached
Some doors are better left unopened. Some songs better left unplayed.
I clear my throat and straighten the still-blank forms that don’t need straightening.
“Six months,” she whispers, breaking the quiet. “My sabbatical is for six months.”
I scribble the number down. Ask a few more to-the-point questions. Then I rise. “Your application will need council review. I’ll contact you with their decision.”
She stands as well and smooths her dress. “Thank you, Dean.” The smirk slides back onto her lips. “I look forward to giving you more opportunities to practice that scowl.”
I offer her a curt nod and she gathers her bags and leaves, clicking the door shut behind her. I’m certain she’s going to give me plenty of opportunities, because every moment in her presence is an exercise in restraint. It’s taking all my energy not to lean closer when she speaks, not track the graceful arch of her neck when her hair spills away from it, not let my power reach for her like a flower turning toward the sun.
I wait until her footsteps fade before moving to the window. Outside she reunites with Alex who waited for her. They embrace then head toward town. Something within me wants to ask her to return, wants to keep hearing her voice, move my chair to sit beside hers, hope we might touch.
“No.” I’m not in a habit of speaking aloud to myself, but this moment feels like it requires the weight of sound. “Absolutely not.”
I pull the blinds shut and return to my desk. I’m not giving in to attraction for a non-magical human—or anyone, for that matter. Love leads to heartbreak. To the bitter taste of necessary cruelty. To a sister who never forgives you for doing what had to be done.
I fish the wedding invitation out. The cream color is dull in the room’s dim light. Nell’s name gleams up at me. Accusing me.
I reach for another mint. Pop it in my mouth. Roll it between my teeth.
Missy’s honey-warm eyes linger in my memory, refusing dismissal. The way magic has an aftertaste so that you have to keep remembering it long after the moment has passed.
The form sits before me, waiting for decisions that shouldn’t be this difficult. Everyone on the council likes and trusts Alex and Ethan. This interview was a formality. But the final decision rests on me.
Six months.
Six months of having her in Magnolia Cove, of crossing paths with her in the streets, of being the one called if things go wrong and she realizes too much. Six months of fighting this pull like gravity, like magic, like fate.
I reach for my pen and let it dangle above the paper. I already know how the council will vote. But they still need my signature.
A moment passes. Nell’s name stares at me. I close my eyes and remember Missy’s laugh, the electricity between us.
With a sigh, I open my eyes again, and let my signature glide across the page.
Missy
The scent of garlic and herbs fills Alex’s cottage so thoroughly I’m sure I’ll still breathe it while I sleep tonight. It reminds me of living in our apartment together, how it always smelled like gourmet restaurant leftovers or some new recipe Alex tried.
I walk toward the cutting board where a pile of washed leeks sit and eye the knife. I’ve never been much of a chef, but I’ve watched Alex enough. I think.
Before I can make that potentially reckless decision she swoops up beside me and gives me a gentle nudge. “You’re my guest. Go relax.”
I hover anyway, watching her efficient movements. There’s a new confidence in how she handles the knife, a sureness I don’t remember from our cramped apartment kitchen when dinner was whatever we could cobble together between her jobs and my practice sessions.
Now she moves like she has all the time in the world. Her once permanently furrowed brow is relaxed, and she sips at a glass of wine as she glides between the stove and the cutting board.
“At least let me set the table?” I ask.
“Already done.” Ethan appears with a stack of fresh towels in hand. He drops a kiss on Alex’s temple as he passes. They move around each other with the grace of dancers who’ve memorized their partner’s rhythms.
The kitchen is compact. With me in it, I feel constantly in the way. But Ethan and Alex navigate the space like it was built for them, their movements a duet I’m not part of. It’s beautiful to watch—my sister who used to rush through life with the frantic energy of someone always running late, now moving with this serene confidence. The Alex who counted every penny for my tuition would never have hummed along to the record Ethan started in the living room while she lazily chopped vegetables. She wouldn’t have had time for it.
I hover to the side, my hands empty. I press them together as if that will make them less awkward and lacking.
“You can open the wine,” Ethan suggests gently, as if he can read my thoughts. Then he smirks as he raises his voice to include Alex. “Tom’s bringing his ‘special’ vintage and we’ll need backup options.”
Alex snorts a laugh as she scrapes the contents of her cutting board into a sizzling pan. I accept the bottles and head toward the table. Wedding magazines are stacked near the couch, a glaring reminder of everything Alex should be focusing on—planning her wedding, juggling work deadlines, managing her restaurant—anything but hosting me.
