Her lips press into a stark line. “It was a family emergency, actually. My mom had lupus. And that was the day we found out she was going to die.”
Her words hit me like a bullet to the chest. Abruptly I feel like I can’t breathe, my lungs shriveling inside me.Fuck.
“Fuck,” I say out loud. I swallow hard, then swallow again, but nothing helps the way my throat feels as if it’s swollen shut. I feel vaguely nauseous, disoriented and adrift. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
Not that her mother had died, but that she’d been so sick. That Marigold had seen it coming for months, known how it would end, watched her mother waste away until finally there was nothing left.
And there I was, selfishly hating her for no reason at all.
Worse, not fornoreason. Not to Marigold. To her, her mother was dying, and for some reason that personally offended me. Me, convinced herfamily emergencycouldn’t possibly be real, because everything in Marigold’s world revolved around me.
“I mean it,” I press on, because words don’t feel like enough, but they’re all I have. “I was such a dick. I can’t imagine what you must have been going through…. I’m so sorry for putting extra stress on you. I should have just talked to you. If I’d known…Jesus Christ.”
She looks down at her hands, her pianist’s fingers twisting and knotting together until the tips turn red. “Yeah. Well. It was a long time ago now.”
Not that long ago. And it had clearly hurt her enough that she’dheld on to it for this long. But saying as much would only make her feel worse, and that’s the last thing I want.
“Can we start over?” I blurt out. “I mean…I get it if you aren’t okay with that. But if you’re willing to try it…me, too. Besides, it might help if we practice together for Stockholm. Our capstone duet was killer, after all.”
She gives me a tiny grin again. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay. We can give it a go. No promises I won’t decide to hate you again after all. Deal?”
She leans forward, far enough to reach her fist over. I bump it back with mine.
“Deal.”
I clear my throat and resist the urge to fidget, even if I can’t help shifting my weight back onto my heels. “I was going to go out tonight,” I venture after a bit. “There’s this jazz club…. You can come, if you want. Xinyan Yang is playing. Might be good to scope out the competition.”
Xinyan Yang is a Juilliard student. It occurs to me now that Marigold might even know her, having been in Juilliard’s Pre-College program during middle and high school. She’s one of the only other young people going to Stockholm this winter.
I’ve never heard her play in person, but I’ve seen enough of her videos to know she’s incredibly good.
“Xinyan plays jazz?” Marigold says, somewhat dubiously.
“Guess so.”
“That’s intimidating.”
“Or maybe it’s ajack-of-all-trades, master-of-nonekind of deal. Could happen.” Why am I trying to reassure her? Speaking of competition,Marigold Gensleris my competition, too. I shouldn’t be reassuring her. I know we’re supposed to be practicing for Stockholm together, and that this was my idea. But maybe it’s a bad one. Objectively speaking.
Marigold’s hands keep twisting in her lap. I want to reach over and disentangle them. My own hands drive even deeper into my pockets.
“Okay,” she says at last. “Let’s do it. It’s a…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to.
We both know how that one goes.
9
Marigold
The club is in the West Village, a quick trip down on the1train. The interior isn’t what I expected. I’d pictured red velvet curtains and lots of round tables for two draped in white tablecloths, possibly with votive candles and someone circling with an endless supply of Sazeracs and martinis.
Instead, the place is a bit run-down, the art deco wallpaper peeling and the tables’ naked faces staring boldly up at the tin ceiling, initials etched in the wood like tattoos. There’s no server; Jamie and I order our drinks at the bar and carry them to the table ourselves. Someone—not Xinyan—is playing already, a saxophonist with a fondness for chromatic embellishment. I don’t know a lot about tenor saxophone, but from what I can tell, he’s good.
“How did you find this place?” I murmur in Jamie’s ear once we’re seated at a table near stage right. “Did you just stalk Xinyan’s performance announcements?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up—not mocking, for once, but like he actually finds me funny.
