I lift my head to smile at him, and when I do, I spot Marigold over his shoulder, talking to Ruoxi Zhang.
A cold blade slices through the pit of my stomach. Ruoxi Zhang is the artistic director of the Phil, and she also happens to be one of the judges for the Stockholm competition this year.
There are rules about this. Like, actual rules. You aren’t supposed to fraternize with the judges—or rather, they aren’t supposed to fraternize with you. It’s not a rule everyone adheres to perfectly; the classical music world is pretty damn small, after all.
Too small. Apparently.
I don’t know what I expected. Of course Marigold knows Stockholm judges. She knows fucking everyone, thanks to her parents and that Juilliard pedigree.
I had told myself I was gonna be cool about things like this. Marigold can’t help who her dad is. She can’t help her background. If I’d been in her position, I would take every advantage I could get, too.
But that gnawing feeling in my chest is back, a sick and acrid jealousy burning a hole in my sternum.
It isn’t fair, and it doesn’t make sense. I shouldn’t care nearly as much as I do. I’m only doing this for Adam at this point—only grinding through becauseAdamthought I should, because Adam thought it would make me happy, and because I so desperately hope he was right.
If Marigold wins Stockholm, I should be happy for her.
But I won’t be.
And right now, knowing the kind of odds I’m up against…
I don’t stand a chance.
After the performance, we step out into the frigid night. Marigold, who has apparently decided to suffer with a cardigan instead of a coat, is shivering with both arms hugged tight around her middle.
“Here,” I say, shrugging off my own peacoat and draping it over her slim shoulders. “This should help.”
“Thanks,” she manages to get out, teeth chattering. “I’m such a weather genius, I know.”
The snow from yesterday hasn’t melted yet. Instead, it’s gone gray and nasty underfoot, stained by days of car exhaust and grit and the relentless stamping of people’s shoes. I know snowmelt will be even worse, because then you’ll inevitably step into a gross dishwater-colored puddle at the edge of a curb. But I really need New York to move on from this winter bullshit.
Although, since it’s still just December, that’s not likely to happen anytime soon.
“Shall we go back?” I ask.
Marigold shakes her head. “I have a better idea.”
She takes me downtown, our fingers laced together the whole way, to a little pop-up bar in the East Village. A menorah glows in the window, and inside it’s covered in blue-and-white confetti, little toy dreidels hanging from the ceiling.
“Ta-da,” Marigold announces, spinning around with her hands out like Vanna White. “The only Hanukkah-themed holiday pop-up bar in New York. Do you like it?”
It smells so good in here. Like fried food and cinnamon, somehow both at the same time.
“Love it,” I say.
She grabs my hand again and tugs me deeper, the two of us weaving our way through the crowd to make it to the bar. There’sone of those obnoxious QR code menus, nothing tangible, but we both hunch over my phone to scroll through.
“I’m getting this cardamom cocktail, I think,” Marigold says. “What about you?”
“I gotta go with mezcal. You can’t beat the smoke in winter.”
We order and then retreat to one of the only available tables left, tucked away in a dark corner and lit only by a couple of little tea lights floating in a vase of water.
“Hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of ordering us some latkes andsufganiyot,” Marigold says. “Not really Hanukkah without potato pancakes and jelly donuts.”
“I am absolutely not complaining.”
“Good.” She smiles. In the dim light, the candles’ glow dances across her features, casting shadows across her face. She looks golden and unreal, like a chiaroscuro.
