Page 1 of Strings Attached
Missy
All I want is to feel a little magic for once in my life.
The thought surprises the breath from me as I lift my cello and move across the stage. Applause still echoes from the crowd from the previous piece. Beside me, Jules walks with a wild grin, his violin already lifted to his shoulder.
He lives for this moment—the technically challenging finale, the flood of lights cascading from above, sweat trailing down our spines, and thousands of eyes fixed on us like a collective spotlight.
Jules glances my way. Waiting for me to begin. He cocks a golden eyebrow, offering a steadying grin. I nod, draw in a breath, and sink into the chair, bow poised across the strings.
I’ve practiced Kodály’s Duo for Violin and Cello until I’ve perfected it. The audience disappears and the golden hues of the iconic Berlin Philharmonic fade. All that’s left is the music. My body moving in time with it. My arms and shoulders diving into the song.
When it’s over, the audience explodes with applause. I stand to my feet, ensconced by the roaring ovation. Jules walks over tome and throws an arm around my shoulder. It’s a casual enough interaction that we’ve had people speculate if we’re dating.
We’re not.
Though not because Jules would object.
Camera shutters click as the applause seems to go on for lifetimes. This is my moment—the one I’ve fought for my entire life. I’m the principal cellist on a prestigious tour on her final night playing in an iconic performance hall I’d only ever dreamed of visiting.
And I’m completely and utterly miserable.
Because this was supposed to be it. The dream. The moment everything would click into place and I’d finally feel whole, fulfilled,enough. But instead, I feel stretched thin. Like I’ve been running on empty through cities that blur together, chased by deadlines, praise, and a spotlight that’s too hot and too bright. The music still matters—but somewhere along the way, I lost the part of myself that used to come alive when I played.
Finally, we exit the stage. As soon as the soundproof door closes, blissful quiet surrounds. A heater hums and stage crew speak in low muffled voices in the distance.
My cello tugs at my shoulder, a weight that has grown into a stone as the performance adrenaline washes from my body. I need to find a drink of water and get out of these clothes.
“Darling, that was your best performance yet.” Jules slings his violin case across his shoulder and swipes his bangs from his forehead. He ends every performance looking like an Olympian, while sweat-dampened hair plasters to my forehead and I’m red-cheeked and breathless.
“You performed beautifully as always.” I assume he did, anyway. I have a bad habit of dissociating while on stage. Something about the pressure to be perfect, to never miss a note, turns performance into survival. There’s no one that worries over Jules’ performance like Jules, though. Consideringhis cocky grin has remained firmly in place, I’m certain his assessment is true.
“Sinclair, Bouchard.” Our stage manager calls from down the hall, headset still in place. “You two were on fire!”
“Thanks, David,” Jules answers for both of us. While I’m a wilted flower after performances, Jules is ready to hit the town. But I’m wrecked. Every show feels like I’m holding my breath for ninety minutes straight—trying not to falter, not to disappoint, not to let the critics find a single crack. By the time we take our bows, all I want is silence. To disappear into my dressing room, peel off the costume of confidence, and collapse into sleep that never quite feels restful.
“Ah, the final performance.” Jules sighs and tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants, stretching his velvet blazer across his shoulders. He glances up at the ceilings—plain and unremarkable backstage—but his eyes are dreamy. He looks exactly how I thought I would feel when we finally made it to this iconic performance hall. Instead, I’m just tired. Jules smiles again, this time softer. “What would I have to do to convince you to go out with me tonight to celebrate?”
“If I don’t remove these torture devices masquerading as shoes in the next five minutes, I might actually die. Which would be terribly inconvenient for our record label.”
He chuckles but his gaze skims down me, slowly, before it lands on my feet. Then he drags his emerald eyes back up to meet mine. “At least let me bring champagne to your room. We should mark the occasion properly. After all, it’s our last performance together for a while unless you’ve reconsidered Vienna.”
I take a slow breath. The air backstage is cool and almost metallic, filled with the waxy smells of polished wood and freshly applied rosin. “I haven’t. But I need a break, Jules. I’m taking a sabbatical.”
He shifts his violin case. “A break without your favorite duet partner?” His voice is light, but a wrinkle has formed between his brows. “What about the album?”
I reach out and clasp his hand which causes the tension in his shoulders to ease. “It’s not about us or the album. I’ll continue composing and we can coordinate virtually. We live in a global world, don’t we? I just need a chance to breathe.”
“You breathe when you play,” he whispers, then his voice rises in volume again. “You breathe when we make music. You’ve said that yourself.”
I had. Music had once been like breathing to me. When we started this tour nine months ago—it somehow got extended by three months and I’d somehow agreed—I’d practically pranced into every music hall with stage lights dancing in my eyes.
But I’m exhausted now.
“I want a chance to visit my sister.”
“Wait, you’re planning to take your sabbatical inMaple Grove?”
“Magnolia Cove.” I heft my cello and walk down the hall. “You know the name.”
