When the kiss breaks, he leans his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses only just brushing. “You’ve got this. I promise. You’ve got this.”
Fuck it,I think.Fuck it.I’d gone this long second-guessing myself, and it’d gotten me exactly nowhere.
Maybe this time, I’ll try the Jamie method. I’ll try believing in myself for a change.
I’ll try letting him be there for me.
“Listen…” I start. Already my throat is tight, closing in on itself. “I have something to tell you. It’s important.”
Everything that had been languid in his body tenses now, as if expecting a blow. I reach down for one of his hands and squeeze ittight—some kind of reassurance. The most I can give right now, at least.
“What is it?” he asks, voice a little strained. I wonder if he expects me to break up with him over this stupid little fight.
I have to tell him the truth. The whole truth. He needs to understand, and I—well. I need someone to understand. I need something that goes beyond my dad’s sadness and Cessy’s mixed pity and aggressive determination to treat me the exact same as she did before. I don’t really know what I want or expect from Jamie. But I have to find out.
“I don’t have time. I know it seems like I do…like I have every reason to win, everything set up for me. But I don’t have much time left to play.” I splay my hand against his chest, then curl it into a tight fist. How much longer will I be able to do that without pain? Do I feel stiffness even now? Do my fingertips tingle—or is that just in my head, a product of being too anxious? Too attuned, constantly scanning my body, looking for something wrong.
“What does that mean?”
I don’t know how to say it. Not in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m begging for sympathy.
Fuck. I’ll just go for it.
“This past summer…I wasn’t doing very well. My body started feeling weird, like I’d lost sensation in the randomest places. My vision got blurry. I went to my regular doctor, who sent me to a neurologist. They ran a bunch of tests, and…”Say it, just say it. It’s not a dirty word.“I have multiple sclerosis. We don’t know if it’s progressive or not….”Although if this keeps up, the question answers itself.“But if it is, then there’s no telling how long it’ll take, but at some point, I won’t be playing piano at all anymore, never mind performing at Stockholm. This could be my last chance.”
I know he’s probably trying to figure out what to say to that, butthe answering silence is almost too much for me to bear. What is he thinking? Oh, god—is he feeling sorry for me?
No. That definitely isn’t possible. Jamie Larson’s never felt pity for anyone or anything in his life.
So I have that much going for me.
“I didn’t know,” he says at last. And he draws back enough to look at me properly, his eyes flitting across my face in tiny saccades. “I’m so sorry. Of course you feel pressure to win. Of course you do.”
At least he doesn’t try to tell me it’ll all be okay, that I’ll still be a virtuoso twenty years from now. I haven’t had my diagnosis long, but I’ve had it long enough to hear plenty of armchair neurologists tell me how different disease progression can be for people and how I shouldn’t give up hope yet and also have I tried going gluten-free?
“Just a bit,” I say, attempting levity, which obviously fails.
He tips his forehead against mine, his skin burning-warm. “When did you find out?” he asks.
“Just over the summer. Long enough to panic. Not long enough to have a mental health game plan.”
“Does Celia know?”
I shake my head. “I can’t bring myself to tell her. Like…what if she decides I’m a lost cause and stops putting so much effort in? I’m only going to produce dividends for a limited amount of time.”
“That is incredibly fucked-up.”
“Yeah, well, people are fucked-up.”
“Notthatfucked-up. Not Celia, anyway. She adores you.”
I’m unbelievably grateful for how chill he’s being about all this. No long and awkward conversations about treatment and symptoms. The subject came up because of piano, so we’re still talking about piano. It’s practical in a way that makes me want to cry with relief.
“You’re now officially the first person to know. Well, after my doctor and my dad. And Cessy,” I tell him. “It feels weird.”
“Weird that it’s me? Or weird telling anyone, period?”
“Both, I guess.” I laugh, and wonder if it sounds as awkward to him as it does to me. “Obviously it’s a big thing to spring on anyone. But prior to like three weeks ago, you would have been last on the list of people I’d think I’d tell. Can you imagine? Jamie Larson would be thrilled to discover his rival’s about to be out of the game.”
