“Not this time. I’ve been here before—just once or twice, but I liked it.ThenI heard Xinyan was playing, which gave me an excuse to come back.”
He settles into his seat and takes a sip of his Negroni. I draw my eyes away from him only with great effort. It’s hard not to stare at his lips curving around the rim of his glass, the shift of his throat as he swallows.
That whole thing with the duet yesterday really fucked me up. All I could think about was how horribly I’d played, and how embarrassing it was that Jamie witnessed it and probably knew—somehow—why. Because I’m dead certain my want for him was written all over my stupid face.
The saxophonist finishes up his set, and then it’s Xinyan who takes the stage, settling in behind the baby grand piano while her accompanist, a violinist, sets up his lead sheet.
Xinyan’s every bit as good as advertised. I’m no jazz expert, but I know good music when I hear it. She and her partner, whoever he is, have the kind of chemistry I could only dream of—they seem to operate on some telepathic connection, playing off each other’s melodies and countermelodies, the violinist adding little flourishes after Xinyan finishes a particularly difficult run, as if to congratulate her.
Even Jamie’s falling for it. His heel keeps moving under the table, tapping against the floor in rhythm. And he’s smiling. It’s an expression that’s so uncommon on his face that I find myself jealous of Xinyan for her ability to inspire this in him.
Before yesterday, the most I could manage out of Jamie was a sneer.
There’s a woman in the audience taking photos of the performance, slipping unobtrusively between tables to catch the right angles with a professional-seeming camera. I wonder if she’s from Juilliard, if they’re already promoting Xinyan’s upcoming performance in Stockholm. (Parker, of course, doesn’t seem to give a shit about two of its students attending the most prestigious piano competition in the world. Another reason to be jealous.)
When Xinyan’s set is over, Jamie grabs my wrist and tugs me up. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go say hi.”
Oh god. It’s been at least five years since I’ve seen Xinyan. It’s not that we didn’t get along when we were at Juilliard together—more that we ran in different circles. Even so, the fact that I haven’t reached out to her since is a little awkward. I mean, I’ve liked a few of her TikToks? If that counts?
But Jamie’s already halfway across the room, so I have no choice but to swear under my breath and hurry after him.
Backstage, we find Xinyan already in conversation with the photographer girl and some hot scruffy dude in a band shirt. I’m lurking back, trying not to intervene, but Jamie—with all the confidence of a standard-issue cis white male—just strides right up and says, “Hey, Xinyan. That was great.”
And for some reason, instead of being annoyed by the interruption, Xinyan smiles this huge smile and throws her arms around Jamie, giving him a big hug. “James! Finally, we meet in person!”
“I know, right? Hope I’m not ruining our whole vibe by showing up in the flesh.”
Their wholevibe? Do they know each other?
Xinyan is still beaming at Jamie like he’s the second coming, and something mean itches at the inside of my chest, fighting to get out.
“Definitely not. You’re less broody in person. In my head you were all emo energy and black T-shirts.”
“This shirt is decidedly green.”
“I can see that! Congrats!”
Fuck it. “Hi,” I say, stepping forward, because like fuck I’m going to linger in the shadows while Jamie flirts with some girl he’s apparently never even met in person. “Nice set.”
“This is Marigold Gensler,” Jamie explains. “She’s my classmate at Parker. And our competition.”
“Hi, Goldie!” Xinyan says. And whatever she thinks about our total absence of contact since high school, none of that shows in her bright smile. “It’s been ages! Congratulations on making it to Stockholm.”
“Thanks. You, too. Seems like it’s going to be a rough crowd this year.”
Xinyan gestures toward her two friends. “This is Ely and Wyatt. They’re also Parker-ites. Ely’s doing her MFA, and Wyatt teaches in the photography program.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and Jamie and I both shake their hands.
“I’m doing a show about artists and how much people sacrifice for perfection,” Ely says. “Xinyan’s been kind enough to let me follow her around while she preps for Stockholm. Even if that means I’m shooting her while she practices for eight hours into the middle of the night.”
Eight hours?I’ve been slacking.
Maybe that’s why people like Xinyan and Jamie are so much better than me. Or maybe I just need to get my head on straight and realize that the clock for Stockholm is ticking, and I’ve got—let’s see—thirteen daysto go. Shit.
I’m screwed.
“And how do you two know each other?” I ask, tipping my head toward Jamie.
