His smile widens and he obeys, sliding onto the bench beside me and poising his fingers over the keys. He plays out a few measures, and when the time seems right, I join in with the first loud D minor chord.
Jamie is right. The piece comes together beautifully, and I find myself swept up in the sheer joy of it, especially when Jamie starts singing along to the part of the Opera Ghost—I can’t help but laugh and add a little flourish to my next notes.
The song ends far too soon. My fingers linger on the keys for a moment before falling away as I turn toward Jamie. “That sounded unexpectedly amazing.”
“Agreed,” he said. “And you know, I was thinking…we should film it.”
“Uh…why?”
Jamie shrugs and fiddles with the keys, playing a little jazzy ditty. “I dunno, it just seems like a good idea. It’s very Celia Chen advice, right? Film yourself, watch it later. Figure out how much you suck.”
“I already know we didn’t suck.”
He snorts. “Well, sure. Fine. Maybe I just want the secret proof that I can play things that aren’t snooty classical music. Yeah?”
It’s not a very good excuse. But something about Jamie’s presence makes me feel heady, like I’ve been drinking too much—willing to do or say just about anything. And if he wants to film us playing our dumb little duet, well then, I’m game.
“Oh, all right.”
“Splendid.Grab my phone. It’s over there on the sofa.”
Once I get the whole thing set up—balancing his phone against one of my father’s decorative vases over on the bookshelf—I gesture for him to take his spot on the bench once more, sliding in next to him.
“This time, don’t mess me up on the triplets,” I warn him.
“This time, don’tgetmessed up on the triplets. Ready?”
“Only if you are.”
I press the “start” button on my Bluetooth remote.
The duet is even better this time. Just like when we have played together before—for our capstone, and again since Jamie moved in here—our music flows together almost too perfectly. Jamie shifts the timing of a particular measure on his Bach piece just slightly, and the new contrast between those unembellished notes and the dramatic soar of Lloyd Webber’s score makes me laugh out loud. Jamie elbows me in the side, and when I look at him, he’s grinning, sharing a quick glance with me that says it all—we’re killing it.
We hit the final notes and Jamie leans back on the bench, tilting his head to expose the length of his neck with a dramatic flourish. We’re both laughing again by the time I hit the remote to stop recording.
“Better than the originals?” Jamie suggests.
“Better than the originals,” I agree. “Somebody nominate us for a Tony.”
“I’ll accept our admission to the classical music canon any day now.”
I’m distracted enough that it takes me longer than usual to notice how close we are. You’d think I would have learned from last time how dangerous it is to sit this close to Jamie, thigh against thigh and breath against skin. Of course, Jamie doesn’t seem to notice at all. Maybe for him, he doesn’t need to. Maybe for him, there’s nothing to notice. Because the days when he was interested in me like that are long in the past now. Now I’m just Goldie Gensler, the girl whose rich dad is letting him stay here out of the Upper West Side Liberal urge to give lonely Midwestern boys a home for the holidays.
The thought is enough to turn that heat in my veins lukewarm. I slide off the piano bench and head over to retrieve the phone from the bookshelf, pretending to be interested in rewatching our video. But I don’t need to. I already know it’s good.
What I need is enough space to make my heart stop beating so fast. And to remind myself, once again, that I won’t always get what I want.
No matter how badly I want it.
Eight Days
Until Stockholm
12
Jamie
It’s another late night spent hunched over the piano keys, silencer and headphones on in case Marigold’s gone to sleep. I keep playing through several measures, all more horrible than the last. I’m making mistakes. Too many of them—more than I usually do. I uncap a pen and scribble on my sheet music, circling the dynamic note four bold times:pianissimo.Focus.
