Page 46 of Strings Attached
A memory rises unbidden—a night at the lighthouse, stars scattered across the sky outside the windows like diamonds. The moon hung low and full, painting silver across the weathered floorboard, and magic hummed in the air like a note held just beyond hearing.
Music poured through me that night—wild and wonderful, scraped raw from the deepest chambers of my heart. At some point Dean stopped playing his guitar, leaving space for me to flow into the song. It wasn’t a pristine arrangement Jules had arranged or some classic, technical piece I’d practiced with Emma. No. This was something primal, something that existed in the space between magic and music, between heartbeat and harmony. Dean just happened to be there, a quiet presence that made it safe to be imperfect, to let the melody stumble and soar and break apart and reconstruct itself.
The tears start again, but different this time—not for what I’ve lost, but for what I’d found in those moments when I remembered how to play for the joy of it. For the way Dean’s presence gave me permission to rediscover the part of myself I’d burned beneath years of perfect performances and others’ expectations.
“That’s what I thought,” Alex says softly. She picks a sprinkle out of my hair then settles her fingers on my cheek. “So maybe the real question isn’t about Dean, or Jules, or your career. Maybe it’s about figuring out what you really want.”
“I don’t want to leave.” The sob bursts from me against her shoulder. “I don’t want to tour. I don’t want to be perfect anymore.”
Her arms tighten around me. In the background Ella croons about love and loss and finding your way home. Alex’s voice is soft but sure as she strokes my hair.
“Then don’t.”
The recording booth at Rachel’s studio feels smaller than usual, its familiar warmth replaced by a static charge of anticipation. Jules is already here, sheet music spread across multiple stands.
I clutch the unsigned contract in one hand, Giuseppe’s case in the other. Both feel impossibly heavy. One holds the future I always said yes to. The other—the scratched case and everything it’s come to mean—feels closer to the truth I’ve been trying not to name.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Because this time, I won’t smile and nod. I won’t swallow my feelings or smooth over the hard edges.
This time, I’m going to say what I want.
Even if it changes everything.
“Missy!” Jules’ smile is genuine, if distracted as he shuffles through the papers. “Perfect timing. I’ve been working on the third movement, and I think if we adjust the tempo?—”
“I’m not signing the contract.”
The words fall between us like a bowling ball crashing into a piano, all clanking chords and splintering wood. Jules’ hands still over the sheet music, his shoulders tensing in his perfectly tailored jacket.
“I don’t understand.” His brow furrows. “If it’s about the timing, we can be flexible. I know I showed up unexpectedly?—”
“It’s not that.” I set the contract on a stand, careful not to disturb his organized chaos of papers. “I’ve been unfair to you, Jules. While I’ll finish recording this album, I know I didn’t contribute my share. We should renegotiate your percentage?—”
“Absolutely not.” He straightens until he’s his usual elegant lines and practiced poise. “You inspired half of these pieces and gave suggestions that perfected the other half. The way you interpret music, how you?—”
“Please.” My voice catches. “Let me finish.”
Something in my tone makes him pause. Maybe he hears the difference in my voice. I’ve been glad to go with his flow for years. But somehow I discovered a turn in the river—stumbled over him and sneezed in his face, to be specific. And maybe I didn’t know my truth yet. But I was figuring it out, and I knew, at least, that it didn’t follow Jules’ path.
“This isn’t right for me anymore.” I run my fingers over Giuseppe’s case, drawing strength from its familiar texture. “Even if it was my dream. It turns out what I actually want is… different.”
Jules looks like I just told him he’d have to buy his next performance suit off the rack. “What exactly are you planning to do?”
“I don’t know.” A laugh bubbles up, surprising me by the lightness of it. “Wait tables if I have to.”
“You—Margaret Sinclair—are going to wait tables?”
I laugh. “You know I wasn’t alwaysMargaret Sinclair. I was once a kid with a hand-me-down cello and brown bag lunches.”
“You’re giving up music?” I’ve never seen Jules so distraught. He looks like I just told him I’d become a queen and my first decree was burning all string instruments.
“No, never. I’m going to play music that matters to me now, though.”
“And what music is that?”
The question hangs in the air like a held breath. Instead of answering, I open Giuseppe’s case. The familiar ritual of preparation—positioning, tightening the bow, checking the strings—steadies my hands.
