Page 2 of Strings Attached
He hustles after me, and we weave past stage crew in their all black outfits. “Of course I remember Magnolia Cove. The place you disappeared to for a week last summer and had zero cell reception.”
I reach my changing room but turn to face him, the cool metal of the door handle grounding me. “Exactly. When I say I need to breathe, that’s what I mean. I want to see my sister and I want to take a break in a place where I can hear music again—real music. Not the roar of an audience or the endless echo of a critic’s verdict.”
Jules actually appears baffled for a minute, his brow furrowing in a comical way. It’s strange to see him like that. He’s usually the picture of confidence—pressed collars, perfectposture, and a quip ready on his lips. “That roar means we’ve done something extraordinary, Missy. Together, we’re… we’re two of the most precise, technically proficient performers out there. Do you know how rare that is? To find the connection we have.”
My fingers drop from the handle. I know he’s right. For all the differences in our personalities, there’s no musician who matches me the way Jules does—not in precision, not in technical execution, not in our shared enthusiasm for complex pieces.
Neither of us is successful on our own. The tour presented us as a pair. Raised us both to stardom as a pair. If I step down from performing even for a season, I’m stepping back Jules’ career as well.
“I know. I just need a chance to refill the creative well.”
“Do you remember that night in Rome? When we played until sunrise?” I close my eyes because I do remember. It was a few months into the tour, when we realized what a force we were together. We played across the river from the Temple of Aesculapius until orange swept the sky and reflected in the water. My muscles trembled from exhaustion and my fingers burned, but when I lifted my face to meet Jules’ intense expression, I knew I’d found my musical partner. “That’s who you are. Margaret Sinclair, cellist extraordinaire. You’re not meant for small towns and wedding gigs.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We can still finish the album and?—”
“This isn’t about the album.” He kicks back a foot, knocking nine hundred dollar shoes against the wall. “This is about you running from everything you’ve built—everything we’ve built. I know you’ve felt overwhelmed with the rapid rise in celebrity and the demanding schedule. But Missy you were born for this.”
“I’m not running away.” The fluorescent light overhead flickers. “I just need a break.”
“Since when do you need a break? You live for this.Welive for this.”
“I’m not asking you to understand.” I click open the dressing room door. “And I’m not quitting or running away. I just… need this.”
Something in my voice must finally reach him because his head tilts to the side, and he chews his lip—a nervous habit I’ve seen in countless rehearsals.
“Six months,” he says finally. “And we’ll work on the album virtually during that time?”
“Of course we will, Jules. The album is brilliant and maybe you can even come visit me.”
He scowls but his eyes sparkle. “What is the nightlife like?”
“Non-existent.” At his lips flattening, I laugh. “You never know, you might love it. It’s the kind of place that grows on you.”
After all, it grew on Alex. One day my sister was rising to the top of her career, writing for a prestigious food magazine, considering a senior editing position in New York City. Next she’s quitting it all in order to move to an island of five thousand people and minimal internet service. And she’s never been happier.
“Not likely, darling.” Jules leans against the doorframe and looks down at me. “Forgive me for being so insistent. I just don’t want to see you squander a talent like yours, plus I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. Who else is going to critique—in three different languages—the bargain-bin shoes I buy?”
He scoffs. “Perhaps if you bought quality shoes, you wouldn’t describe them as torture devices.”
I chuckle and realize how close we’re standing. His eyes are warm in the glowing light from my dressing room, his hair curling perfectly against his forehead. He looks like a prince whostepped out of a storybook. But somehow I’ve never wanted to ride into the sunset with him. Maybe it’s like the shoes. I’m not used to having the income to purchase expensive clothing, yet. Instead, I’ve tucked away most of my salary this year. But maybe in a few years I’ll get there. Maybe the idea of Jules as more than just a musical partner will warm to me in the same way.
I set my cello down and wrap my arms around him. He sighs into the back of my neck and pulls me tight.
“I really will miss you, Jules.”
When we pull back, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I freeze and can’t decide if I want to jerk away or lean closer. Before I can choose, Jules gives a careless shrug and walks down the hall. “Keep your phone somewhere with internet connectivity if you’ve ever cared about me.”
“I will.”
Then he’s gone, and I step into the dressing room and shut the door. The bulbs on the vanity cast soft, golden rings of light over everything. I drag myself across the carpeted floors and drop onto the stool. On the table sits a stack of pictures—large prints of Jules and me on stage, smiling at each other like we’re the sun and moon, holding each other in perfect orbit.
There’s at least forty of them, and they all need signatures. I groan but my phone that sits propped against the mirror buzzes. Alex’s name pops up alongside an emoji of a croissant and a pencil.
I let it ring for a minute. Take a deep, grounding breath.
Because if there’s anything I won’t do, it's show my misery to my sister. She sacrificed too much to get me where I’m at. She’s always downplayed it, but I know she gave up most of her twenties getting me through college debt-free. Now I’m making six figures following the dream she sacrificed to make happen. I refuse to express anything but deep gratitude and to be anything other than Alex’s playful, happy younger sister.
