Chapter 22 Missy
Missy
The Hungry Gull’s neon signs hum softly, casting their glow into the darkening world.
Laughter and conversation fill the air as Hazel weaves through the red vinyl booths, passing out slices of cherry pie so good people are licking their plates clean, and coffee cups that remain mostly untouched.
Ethan grimaces as Hazel sets a mug before him, but I take a long sip from mine—sometimes I like to remind myself of the taste of terrible midnight airport coffee.
I’m wedged into a booth across from Alex, watching Tom attempt to build a tower out of coffee creamers while Rachel shares stories about band class that morning.
“And then,” Rachel wheezes through laughter, her coffee untouched and cooling aside Tom’s increasingly precarious creamer tower, “Mikey decided his saxophone needed more pizzazz and tried his hand at unauthorized magic. The next thing I know, cherry blossoms are shooting out of every instrument in the room!” Her eyes widen. “Especially the tubas!”
“Oh my god,” Zoe throws her head back and roars with laughter. “I always admire a good rebellion. Band kids for life, am I right?”
“Heck yeah!” Tom reaches across the table to high-five her with such enthusiasm that his creamer tower collapses. The tiny containers scatter across the red vinyl like dominos, and he lets out a groan that would do any defeated architect proud.
Rachel continues without even acknowledging the disaster. “And then poor Emma starts sneezing like she’s providing percussion for the entire orchestra. Turns out she’s allergic to cherry blossoms.”
“That kid is going to be in so much trouble,” Ethan says, but his eyes are soft with amusement.
Rachel’s grin turns conspiratorial as she leans forward. “Nah, I didn’t write him up.” She winks at Zoe. “Band kids for life, right? We stick together.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at their easy camaraderie, at the way their shared history weaves through their words like a familiar refrain.
This is what I’ve been missing on tour—not just a place to belong, but people who understand that belonging isn’t about being perfect.
It’s about being real, about making mistakes and having others catch you when you fall.
A shadow passes over the warmth of the moment, like a cloud moving in front of the sun.
Two issues still loom before me. The first is practical but daunting—I have a decent nest egg from touring, enough to buy a small place here and get settled, but money has a way of getting spent.
Without a steady income, my future looks less than secure.
But the second issue… my fingers find the rim of my coffee cup and trace its circumference.
Dean. Living in the town he essentially conducts while trying to avoid him is going to be like attempting to play a duet with someone you can’t look at.
Impossible and painful and probably destined for disaster.
“We’re out of sugar.” Violet levels this at Tom as though his creamer stack is to blame for the critical shortage in sweetener.
Tom responds by sticking out his tongue. Violet mirrors the gesture immediately. Laughter ripples through the group and I smile.
“I’ll grab some,” I say as I slide out of the booth.
Rachel joins me. “Actually, I’ve wanted to talk with you one-on-one if I could grab you for a minute.”
“Sure, of course.” We make it to the condiment station tucked against the far wall stacked with ketchup, maple syrup, and the desired sugar packets.
Rachel leans against the wall. “Alex was discussing you moving here, and I had an idea. Grant and I are stretched thin between my teaching and leading the music program and his ice cream empire…” She chuckles. “We could really use someone to run the summer music camp for us.”
I straighten, something like hope thrumming beneath my ribs. “I’m all ears. And desperately in want of a job that doesn’t involve playing wedding marches for tourists at the bed-and-breakfast.”
Rachel grins. “I thought you’d be the perfect fit. Someone passionate, someone who really understands both the technical side and the heart of music. Someone who can nurture young talent while keeping the magic of music alive.”
The more she speaks the faster my heart beats and I’m clutching sugar packets so tight I’m going to crush them, spilling crystals over the peeling linoleum.
This job is perfect for me. Winter would be mine for composition, those long quiet months when the island wraps itself in stillness and possibility.
I could pour my soul into creating without the pressure of performance deadlines or critics’ expectations.
Spring would bloom with preparation, and summer…
summer would be for sharing music’s magic with young minds, watching talent unfold.
“Oh my god, that would be amazing.”
“Really?” Rachel grabs my hands and now we’re both crushing the sugar.
“Yes, I’d really, really love to.”
“That’s so great! I can’t wait to tell Grant.” She snorts. “He’s hoping we might actually get a vacation in one of these days.”
I open my mouth but before I can respond, the first notes of a guitar cut through the diner’s chatter. The sound is achingly familiar—not a precise classical arrangement, but something rawer, more honest.
My heart recognizes the melody before my mind catches up. “Beyond the Sea.” I turn slowly, already knowing from the sound who I’m going to find but needing to see him, anyway.
Dean stands just inside the doorway, his black leather jacket a stark contrast to the diner’s cheerful colors.
His fingers move over guitar strings with careful grace, and when he sings, his voice echoes through the quiet.
Quiet because the entire diner has fallen silent, watching their stern, distant Head Warlock transform—like a caterpillar emerging as a butterfly, something almost unrecognizable and utterly impossible to ignore.
Zoe’s mouth hangs open, Tom’s coffee cup is frozen halfway to his lips, and even Alex’s eyes are wide.
Hazel, who’s seen five decades of drama unfold in this diner, has stopped wiping down the counter to stare.
This is Dean as they’ve never seen him—vulnerable, his carefully maintained facade falling away note by note.
His eyes find mine across the distance, and the world narrows to this moment—this impossible, beautiful collision of everything I thought I had to choose between. Magic and music. Duty and desire. Perfect and real.
When he reaches me, the last notes hang in the utter silence of the diner. “Dean?”
“Missy.” He swallows hard, glancing around at our frozen audience before focusing entirely on me.
Gone is the careful control, the stern facade.
This is Dean stripped to his essence, as vulnerable as a song played in darkness echoing off lighthouse walls.
“I’ve been prideful and foolish. I wanted to protect you from everything—judgment, my own fears, and the complications of being with someone like me.
But I’m tired of letting fear orchestrate my life. I’m in love with you, Missy Sinclair.”
A gasp escapes me, the sound almost lost in the profound silence of the diner. Someone—probably Grammie Rae—whispers, “Finally!” followed by several sharp shushes.
“What about your family?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.
“I spoke with them. They understand—enough at least.” A smile tugs at his mouth.
“I’ve thought a lot about what you said, and I’ve decided I like records, even if the melody doesn’t perfectly capture the moment.
Some songs do last forever. And this?” He gestures between us.
“It’s the most important melody I’ve ever known. ”
My heart thunders, keeping time with hope and possibility. Dean continues, words tumbling out faster now. “I know you’re leaving for the tour, but we can make it work if you want that. I can wait, I can—”
“I’m not.” I take a step closer to him. We’re like actors on a stage, but for the first time in my life, I’m not performing.
The familiar weight of an audience’s attention rests on my shoulders, but this moment strips away every practiced smile, every polished gesture I’ve spent years perfecting.
This is just me and Dean, creating something raw and real in the space between heartbeats.
It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever done, because it isn’t a performance at all—it’s simple truth, set to the melody of my racing heart.
“I’m not going on tour. I didn’t sign the contract. ”
“You’re not leaving?” His voice breaks on the last word.
“I’m staying here.” I step closer still, close enough to see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes.
“Actually, I just agreed to run the summer music camp. I was plotting how to avoid running into you and making things awkward.” A small laugh escapes me, genuine and breathless.
“But Magnolia Cove is a pretty small town. It might be easier if I didn’t need to do that after all. ”
He grins, and judging by the raised eyebrows around us, I’m pretty sure people are just as stunned by that as they were by him singing and playing the guitar. But my attention snaps back to him as he speaks, his voice light as a feather. “You’re staying here?”
I smile, my voice soft but sure. “I’m staying. For good. For me.” My fingers find the edge of his leather jacket, anchoring myself to this moment. “And maybe, if you want, for us.”
Dean’s free hand comes up to cup my cheek, his touch reverent as though he’s handling something precious and rare. The calluses on his fingertips from years of secret guitar playing graze my skin, and the sensation sends a shiver through me. “I want that more than anything.”
Around us, the diner holds its collective breath.
The neon signs cast their gentle glow, painting Dean’s dark eyes with hints of electric blue, and in them I see every possibility I’d been afraid to hope for.
This is what Alex sees when she looks at Ethan, I realize.
Not perfection, but something better—something real.
“Well?” Grammie Rae’s voice cuts through the silence. “Are you two going to kiss already or do we have to wait another six months?”
Laughter ripples through the crowd, breaking the spell of silence. Dean’s ears turn pink, but his smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows wider, more certain. His guitar shifts to his back as he pulls me closer.
“What do you say?” he breathes against my lips.
“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.