“I’m used to confident Marigold. Not…”
“You think I’m not confident?”
He shakes his head slightly. “Not right now. Not for a second, there. You…know you don’t have anything to be nervous about, right?”
I let out a brief laugh. “I have everything to be nervous about. It’sStockholm.It’s one of the biggest piano competitions that there is. A career-maker. Of course I should be nervous.”
“You don’t need to be, though,” he says. “That’s my point. You’re too good. You already know you stand a chance. An excellent one, even.”
The way I would have paid so much money to hear Jamie say this, once upon a time. But now it lands differently. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten too complacent—expecting more of him, nowthat he’s shed his whole asshole persona. This past week, I’ve gotten to know a version of Jamie that I hadn’t seen since that first semester of freshman year. He’s funny, and awkward, with a faint twist of insecurity that I glimpse sometimes, hidden in the reeds of his manufactured cockiness.
Or maybe it’s the new omnipresent threat of disability hanging over my head. The blunt reality that one day, not too far in the future, my body will fail me, and I won’t be playing at all.
This is my last chance. Or at least, one of my last chances.
I have to make it count.
I have towin.
A “good chance” isn’t enough. But of course, Jamie doesn’t know that—I can’t hate him too much for being kind, even if kindness isn’t what I want right now.
“Thank you for saying that. It’s nice of you.”
He smirks. “It’s also true.”
“So says my top competition.”
“And here I thought Xinyan was your top competition?” His eyes twinkle even in this half-light.
“Her, too.”
I don’t want to keep talking about this. I can’t. It feels like poisoning something good to let myself get wrapped up in thoughts of Stockholm. So I wrap myself up in Jamie instead, curling close to the heat of his body as he circles his arms tighter around my hips and presses his lips to the crown of my head.
This is enough.
Right now, this is enough.
“You know that even if you don’t win this thing, you’re still an amazing pianist,” Jamie says after a few quiet moments, his fingertips still toying idly with the ends of my hair. “Your entire career doesn’t rest on this one competition. You have time.”
Maybe it’s the postcoital haze, the dim light, and the musky smell of Jamie’s closeness. Or maybe it’s just foolishness. But.
“I don’t really, though. Have time.” Even now, my foot isn’t quite right. It still feels like it’s half-asleep more often than not; I’ve taken to using my left foot on the piano pedals as much as I can.
“What do you mean?”
God. I shouldn’t have said anything. And now I have no idea how to respond. What am I supposed to say?Sorry for the clickbait comment, but I plan to keep you in suspense?
“Nothing,” I say. “Or…I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I can see the end point of all this, and it’s coming up on me so fast, and I…I have to be perfect. I have to, or else…”
The words catch in my throat, my voice gone slightly raw. He notices, brows knitting together slightly as he skims his fingertips over my cheek.
“Or else what?” he asks.
“Or else I’ll be forgotten.”
Jamie tips his brow against mine, bringing our faces so close that his features blur. The tip of his nose is cool where it brushes my skin. “You won’t be forgotten,” he promises. “I know that much for sure. The world will never forget you.”
I press a soft kiss to his mouth, and he slips both arms around my waist, holding me close. The truth about everything—my diagnosis, the real reason I’m terrified to lose—weighs heavy on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down.
