Marigold
Jamie and I agree to meet Wednesday at sevenp.m., which means I spend most of the intervening days in a slow-simmering state of dread, imagining all the ways this could possibly go wrong.
Which it will, without question. I saw the look on his face when I told him about Celia’s plan. It was like I’d just asked him to babysit my pet cockroach.
I’m never early for anything, but come 6:45, I’m sitting in the practice room staring at the door like someone who doesn’t have much of a life. And maybe I don’t. But is it really better to spend that extra fifteen minutes wandering around the cafeteria buying snacks I’m not hungry enough to eat? Because that was the only alternative my dumb brain could come up with.
He shows up at 7:03. Which I know because I, like a loser, have been staring at the clock the whole time.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”
What an anticlimactic greeting. I don’t know what I was expecting.
I try to ignore the way he looks in those jeans—all boy-next-door Americana but somehow hot. I’ve spent way too many nights imagining how those well-muscled thighs would feel if I couldtouch them, dig my thumbs in against his quads and tug the kind of sharp bite against his skin that would show him just how much I despise him,really.
That’s the other problem with Jamie Larson. As much as I hate him sometimes—most of the time—I’ve had a raging crush on him since our first month at Parker. I fell in love with the way he played Schumann—played like he was never going to play again, like he was bleeding himself out over those keys. I’ve never heard him play like that since.
After that, some part of him lived under my skin. Even when he decided to dislike me. Even when he beat me at competitions. Even when I decided to dislike him right back.
There’s something both enraging and enthralling about having a huge, humiliating crush on someone who would rather you didn’t exist.
“You’re late,” I say, even though three minutes is nothing, even though in New York, subway and traffic delays mean nobody expects anything to start on time. I say it just because I like the apoplectic vein that throbs in his temple as he tries to decide whether it’s worth arguing back.
“You could have started without me.”
“What’s the point? We’re here to playtogether.I already know my part of the piece. Jury’s out on your half.”
“I know my half,” he grinds out.
“Well, now you get a chance to prove it.” I tilt my head to the piano. “Are you ready to get started?” I say, thanking god that I have a moderately good poker face to hide the satisfaction I feel watching his jaw twitch.
“Sure. Yeah. Let’s go, then.”
I give him first dibs at the piano and settle in on one of the chairs, a copy of the same sheet music propped up on my thighs. I try to mark down the places I notice mistakes—but, of course,those don’t really exist. So halfway through, I give up on my bitter stewing and decide to circle the measures where it feels like Jamie is disconnected from the music. I notice more and more the longer he goes on. I can’t tell exactly why it’s happening, but I feel it all the same. Maybe it’s something in his face, his expression wooden as he stares across at the sheet music. Or maybe it’s his posture, his wrists held a little too stiff and his back too straight. Often when people get really into the music, you see them weaving over the keyboard, listing forward like they wish they could sink into the ivory.
Jamie does none of that. He just plays, plain and straightforward.
I tell him this when he’s done, but from the flatness of his gaze as he looks back at me, it feels like my point doesn’t really land.
When he speaks, he basically confirms my suspicion. “So, you want me to do some kind of interpretive dance while I’m playing.”
I feel heat rising from my throat. “No. I mean—well. Sure, if you like. I just want to see that youcareabout the music. It doesn’t sound like you do, at least not right now. But maybe this is one—that is, you could try it. That’s all.”
He makes a rough, irritated sound and spins on the bench to try again, from the Adagio. Watching him sway over the keys, it really does seem comical. Too dramatic, maybe, or just too obvious that he thinks all of this is immensely silly. I make him stop early.
“Not like that?” he asks with his brows arching.
“No. Not like that. You look stupid.”
“Thanks.”
I roll my eyes. “You clearly think so, too. It’s so obvious you feel like an idiot up there. It’s embarrassing.”
“For me or for you?”
“Both.”
I get the feeling he wants to rip my throat out, but is too Midwest to actually do it.
