“Listen,” I said, because putting this off even longer was not gonna help my nerves, “I was wondering…do you want to go and get a coffee sometime?”
I had to force myself to bite backNo pressure, only if you want, haha awkward laugh hahaand just let the question stand on its own.
I’d already been over this a million times at this point, but all my old worries surged up again in the seconds of silence that punctuated my words.What if I’m ruining what could be the start of a friendship? What if she secretly detests me? What if she says yes, and we date, but then it ends badly, and we have to spend the next three years avoiding each other in a department of just eighty emotionally incestuous students?
But Marigold smiled, a grin that lit up her entire face. “I thought you’d never ask.”
We made plans to meet up that weekend at a little café a few blocks from Parker. It was tiny and didn’t have Wi-Fi, but it did have mood lighting and coffee beans piled up in little wooden barrels, so it wasaesthetic.
But I sat there for ten minutes…fifteen…I got up and ordered myself a cappuccino while I waited. Fifteen minutes turnedinto twenty. I texted Marigold what I hoped was a very chill, not-pushy inquiry, and got no response—not even the little ellipsis to say she was typing.
Thirty minutes. Thirty-five. I played so much Tetris on my phone that I never wanted to see an L-block ever again. Forty-five.
I waited for an hour, and she never showed up, never even bothered texting me back until another hour after that with some bullshit excuse.Social contracts,I couldn’t help thinking. That’s what I’d been taught by all those therapists. We all exist in a web of unspoken social contracts. And I might not be the best at understanding what all those contractsareall the time, but even I didn’t need this spelled out for me.
There’s a social contract that you don’t make an agreement, then ditch on it. You don’t say you’ll meet someone, then never show up. Definitely not without an excuse ahead of time.
And maybe I would have been able to let it go, if it was just the ghosting thing. Not immediately, obviously, but if she had a good explanation. If she’d bothered to make it make sense. If she hadn’t…well, if she hadn’t doubled down later on and made it worse.
So…
Fuck it.
Fuckit. If this was how it was gonna be, then…fine. Part of the social contract was picking up the hints that other people were putting down, and this wasn’t a hint, it was a goddamn billboard.
So fuck it.
Present Day
Only one exam left to go before winter break, and it’s the duet with Marigold, which means I’ve spent enough time with her over thepast week that she probably wishes she’d never have to see my face again. (Although that might also be her default setting.)
We’re making progress, though. The piece is really coming together now—it doesn’t feel as much like we’re two instruments fighting for dominance. We’re figuring out a careful dance, one delicate enough that it feels sometimes like the slightest breeze could topple it. I find myself biting my tongue more than usual around her, like a single snappish word might cause the whole thing to shatter.
I wonder how it looks to anyone else, the two of us trailing after each other the past few weeks, all but inseparable. I’ve seen more of Marigold Gensler in the last fourteen days than I have my own roommate, although that might be because Ken’s got a new girlfriend sucking up all his time.
“Are you going home for Christmas?” Marigold asks me as we ascend the elevator together from the practice rooms up to street level. It had seemed stupid and petty to take the stairs just to avoid her.
“Nah,” I say. “I’ve gotta stay here and get ready for Stockholm.”
“Don’t they have pianos in Iowa?”
I shrug. Because the answer is obviouslyNo, Marigold, I spontaneously manifested piano abilities when I arrived at Parker after never touching a keyboard before in my life,but also because she isn’t entitled to the truth.
The elevator spits us out into the lobby, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket right as we’re about to head outside. It’s my mom, on FaceTime, because once boomers discovered that particular technology, it’s like they forgot that not every situation demands a view of your kid’s face in 1080p.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey.” As always, my mother looks harried, all under-eye circles and hastily applied lipstick. “How are exams going?”
I’m acutely aware of Marigold lurking just off-screen where mymother can’t see, pretending she isn’t listening in. It’s like having an overpowering itch that I can’t scratch.
“Fine. You know. Busy. How are you? How are Aunt Kim and Uncle Mike?” I hope she doesn’t notice the way I keep glancing off to the side, self-conscious. Telling myselfAct normalis very much having the opposite effect.
Thank god, Marigold’s dad chooses that moment to save me. I recognize him from past student showcase events, but also—maybe more important—from his principal violinist position at the Phil. I swear the man ages by five years every time I see him.
“Hi, sweetie,” he says to Marigold. “I parked a block down.” He turns a smile onto me, apparently oblivious to the fact that I’m on the phone. “Jamie Larson! It’s been so long. Are you headed back to the dorms?”
“Just a second,” I mumble to my mother as I lower my phone. “Uh. Yeah. I was just…”
