Across the two pianos, Jamie Larson watches me with furious eyes.
The applause registers a moment later: just as loud as what Jamie got. Maybe even louder. In the front row, Cessy screeches and jumps up and down like she’s at a Blackpink concert, and I laugh before I can stop myself, folding into an elaborate bow without standing up.
Even Celia is smiling.
“Moment of truth,” she says. “Who is the crowd favorite?”
She holds out a hand toward Jamie, and the audience claps. Then toward me. The clapping is even louder.
Take that, insect hands.
That’s the thing about us. Jamie is perfect. He never misses a note. His dynamics are impeccable, rising and falling without hesitation.
But my music makes peoplefeelsomething.
And that’s worth more.
I think.
Cessy grabs me the second I step offstage, yanking me into a rough embrace. “You killed it,” she half-shouts against my ear, ignoring the way I flinch—it might be loud in here, but notthatloud. “Little fucker didn’t know what hit him!”
“Little fucker didn’t miss a note,” a familiar voice says, and Cessy and I both wheel around to find Jamie Larson himself staring us down with those sea-cold eyes of his.
“Sorry,” I start to say, but Cessy is two steps ahead as always.
“It’s not all about the notes. Goldie plays like she actually means something by it. That counts for more.”
“It doesn’t,” Jamie says.
He’s not wrong.
But he’s the last person who gets to say it.
I’ve known him since our first day at Parker three years ago, when we were both anxious little freshmen. Or, well, I was an anxious little freshman. Jamie Larson walked out of the womb a cocky asshole, and he only got worse once the accolades started rolling in. Sure, maybe I liked him before our big falling-out toward the end of freshman year…but that was freshman year. Now he’s a senior and an asshole.
Still. It’s not helpful that he was also born stupid-hot, all burnished bronze hair and razor-cut jawline.
“Guess the student population of the Parker piano performance department disagrees,” I say with the kind of whimsical devil-may-care tone of voice that is the polar opposite of the way I actually feel, and I wink at him.
The frisson of disgust that washes over his face is worth it. I win.
“We’ll see what the judges think at Stockholm, won’t we?” Jamie murmurs, and just like that, he slides the knife in.
Shit.
“You’re playing at Stockholm?” I manage to say without sounding too horrified. I think.
The Stockholm International Piano Competition is one of the most important, most famous competitions out there. I attended the qualifying round over the summer—out of over 180 pianists, I was one of seventy-five chosen to perform at the main competition in January. Jamie hadn’t attended. He wasn’t in the running. What’s more, I had pored over the qualifying results a thousand times—so even if I’d somehow blacked out Jamie’s presence in Sweden all summer, if he’d gotten through, I would know about it.
So why the hell is this man standing in front of me saying he’s going to Stockholm this winter?
The grin that cuts across Jamie’s face now is lethal. “Oh, yes. Iwon third at the Chopin Young Pianists Competition when I was in high school. It’s a qualifying competition, so I got in automatically. Or did you forget?”
Yes. Yes, I did forget.
“I’m not a lexicon of Jamie Larson trivia,” I snap, but from the amused look he gives me, it’s clear he knows he got me.
Jamie shrugs his satchel of sheet music a little higher up his shoulder, his gaze skimming from me to Cessy and back again. I’m not imagining that extra glint of animosity in his eye when he looks at me in particular. He hates me.
