Page 52 of Strings Attached
“Yes.”
I’ve said yes hundreds of times in my life. Yes to Juilliard, where perfect technique was practically a requirement for entry. Yes to endless tours that left my soul as empty as the concert halls after the crowds departed. Yes to Jules and our album, to encore performances that felt like echoes of something I’d lost along the way. Each yes had been a step farther from myself, a note played precisely but without heart.
But this yes resonates through me like the first time I truly heard music—not just with my ears but with my whole being. It’s yes to morning light streaming through lighthouse windows, to magic dancing in the air when we play together. Yes to a small town where imperfect notes create the most beautiful melodies. Yes to Dean Markham, who guards his heart as carefully as he guards his town, yet stands before me offering both without reservation.
This yes feels like coming home to a song I’ve always known but never quite managed to play. Until now.
When our lips meet, it’s nothing like our desperate kisses in the lighthouse or our careful stolen ones at the studio. This kiss tastes like possibility, like the first notes of a composition we’ll spend years together writing. His arms wrap around me, solid and sure, and then he dips me low, kissing me like he means it, like the world has fallen away. The diner erupts in cheers and applause and what sounds suspiciously like Tom whistling through his fingers.
When I’m back fully on my feet, I drink in the sight of Dean Markham—stern Head Warlock, secret musician, and now, impossibly, mine—looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
The cheers last so long that heat creeps up my neck and even Dean’s cheeks are flushed. But there’s something magical about it too—about letting the whole town witness the crumbling of the careful walls we’ve built.
Dean’s fingers find mine and he speaks to me like we’re entirely alone, not standing before a crowded diner. “I spent so long thinking I had to choose between duty and desire.”
I chuckle. “Me too. Has your stance changed any now?”
He brushes hair back that doesn’t need to be fixed and smiles. “Now I understand some things are meant to harmonize.”
Around us, the diner slowly returns to its familiar rhythm. Hazel resumes her coffee rounds, the gentle clink of cups keeping time with quiet conversations. Tom rebuilds his creamer tower, Zoe and Rachel fall into some passionate debate, and Alex just winks at me before taking her seat.
And here, in the heart of it all, Dean and I are creating our own symphony—one made of lighthouse secrets and unspoken magic, of broken rules and mended hearts.
Some songs, after all, last forever. And ours is just beginning.
Epilogue: In Perfect Key
Missy
The cobblestones of Main Street look almost dreamlike in twilight’s watercolor hues tonight. Dean’s hand is warm in mine as we walk. Magic shimmers in the air, easy to see now that I know what to look for. It’s like starlight caught in amber, like music made tangible.
Dean explained about Resonants—humans with natural magical attunement—his eyes lighting up as he spoke. He’s been adorably enthusiastic about researching it, requesting studies from other communities. I let him explain the theories, but honestly? I don’t need scientific explanations or magical theorems to understand what I know in my soul. I’m supposed to be here. I knew it before and this theory only confirms it.
“Hi Missy! Hi Dean!” Iris waves as she passes, her arms full of late-blooming chrysanthemums that seem to dance with each step she takes.
Dean startles slightly at the casual greeting, and I can’t help but laugh though I do my best to muffle it. He’s still adjusting to this—to being seen as more than just the stern Head Warlock,to belonging rather than standing apart. The transformation reminds me of watching a tightly wound string slowly release its tension and finding its natural resonance.
“You’ll get used to it,” I whisper and squeeze his hand.
His smile comes easier these days, and he almost sounds not-cranky when he says, “I suppose I will.”
And he will. Just like I’m getting used to this new life I’ve chosen—running the summer music program, composing without pressure, loving freely. Even our upcoming visit to his family feels more like anticipation than anxiety. The melodies that once felt trapped beneath technical perfection now flow freely, filling my mind with possibilities. I haven’t told Jules yet, but I’ve decided to record an album. And I’m just corny enough to title itCello Magic.
A chill whispers through the ocean’s breeze, carrying winter’s first promise. Dean pulls me closer as we approach the Whimsical Whisk, its window glowing with warmth despite theClosedsign. Inside, familiar voices and laughter spill out like music.
The bell chimes as we enter, and I’m immediately wrapped in Alex’s embrace. Dean is absorbed into the fray by Ethan who’s been making a real effort to include him. The whole book club has gathered for wedding cake tasting. Tom and Violet argue playfully over flavor combinations, Rachel and Grant listen stoically as Zoe presents each option with theatrical flair, and Mia smirks at her wife and shakes her head. Rhianna and Eli, who I’ve yet to meet, have returned from their latest adventure, their faces sun-kissed and happy.
“So this is the woman who melted our resident grumpy warlock.” The woman who has to be Rhianna with her curls knotted back with a pencil and a pin on her cardigan that says ‘shelf care is self-care’grins at me as she extends her hand.“Rhianna, by the way. I have to say I’m impressed. We were taking bets on whether he even knew how to smile.”
“Told you he was dateable,” Alex says with a smirk.
“Isn’t it cheating if you talked your sister into it?” Rhianna crosses her arms and turns on my sister.
Alex rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “As if anyone could talk Missy into anything.”
The truth of those words settles into my chest. There was a time when that wasn’t true—when I’d shaped myself to others’ expectations like a melody conforming to someone else’s arrangement. But now I know my own voice, understand my own rhythms.
Dean approaches then, his posture still carrying that careful control, though it softens when he meets my eyes. “Rhianna.”
