Or at least, I will be. Tomorrow.
I hope.
Her exhale shudders out. Is she crying?Oh god.But she lifts her head and, thankfully, her cheeks are dry—if perhaps a little pink. Although that could be an artifact of the dull light, the piano lamp casting odd shadows and colors.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean. You’re a great pianist. Fantastic. You deserve it.”
Her answering smile is a little crooked, but it’s there. “You sure I didn’t just land it because of my dad?”
I shrug.Yesis the true answer.At least a little.But—“Not entirely. Your dad probably got you on their radar, but if you didn’t make the cut, they wouldn’t have invited you. It’s thePhil,Marigold. They won’t risk an underwhelming performance.”
She takes another deep breath, but this one seems to steady her somewhat. I find it weirdly flattering that she could be so reassured by my opinion.
“Thanks. Seriously. I hope you’re right.”
“When am I ever wrong?”
At least that gets me a visible reaction, which is sufficient to diffuse some of the tension that had gripped hold. She lets her hands fall off the keys and into her lap, and finally bumps her shoulder against mine.
“I still hate you, Jamie Larson.”
I grin and elbow her in the side, just a little too hard. “Don’t worry. I still hate you, too.”
One Week
Until Stockholm
13
Jamie
Christmas Eve, Shrishti texts me the meme fromMean Girlswith text superimposed: “Get in loser, we’re going ICE SKATING.”
I can think of literally nothing I want to do less, but I’m also willing to do just about anything to make Shrishti happy, so I restrain myself to a private eye roll before texting backk fine when.
The answer isMIDNIGHT!!!!!!because of course it is. Only, that night when I head for the front door to leave, I find Marigold there, hopping on one foot as she tries to shove the other one into a navy-blue duck boot.
“Going out somewhere?” I ask, after she’s noticed my presence and promptly toppled sideways into the coat rack.
“Shit!Announce yourself next time, Larson!”
“Shan’t. It’s too funny watching you struggle.”
She finally manages to force her foot into the boot, weight landing back on the floor with a solid thud. “I’m going out with Cessy. She invited me ice skating.”
No. No fucking way.
“At Rockefeller Center?”
“Yeah. Midnight skating on Christmas Eve. Festive, no?”
“Funny,” I say. “That’s where I’m going, too.”
“Ha, ha.”
“No, I’m serious. Shrishti invited me.” I arch a brow at her. “Take that as you will.”
