I sigh and shift closer, squeezing his hand. “What I mean is, that money is already spent regardless. You can’t get it back. But that’s no reason to be miserable.”
“It’s not just that. It’s…my mom. She wants this for me sobad. And Adam. He—he did, too.” Jamie’s voice catches on the last word, and he clears his throat, shaking his head like he can snap himself out of whatever he’s feeling right now. “He said so. In his…in his note. He said he was proud of me. And he told me to…never give up. So I can’t. Give up.”
My heart physically aches for him, a pain that tightens up in my chest like a clenching fist. God. It explains so much. “Adam wouldn’t want this for you. You know he wouldn’t. Not if you don’t love it anymore.”
“You don’t get it,” he grinds out. “I gave up on Adam. I came to Parker, knowing he was sick, knowing he—he’d tried before. And look what happened.”
I squeeze his hand. I know there’s nothing I can say to make him feel better. Iknowthat—but the helplessness of it all is suffocating. I have the sudden urge to get up and cross to the other side of the table and climb into his lap, where I can embrace him properly. It takes actual effort to stay in my chair.
“It isn’t your fault,” I tell him. “You loved him, and I’m sure he knew that. There was nothing you could have done, even if you’d stayed.”
“Yeah. I know. I know.”
I’m not so sure that he does, though.
He blows out a breath and draws his hand out from under mine to rake it back through his hair. “I don’t know. You’re probably right. He wouldn’t want me to do this if it didn’t make me happy. But itusedto, you know? And maybe if I just push through, I’ll feel that way again.”
“Yeah. Maybe. It could. You’re the only one who can decide what the right move is here. But if you need someone to give you permission to take a break for a while…you can. Music isn’t just about winning competitions and getting prizes. You don’t have to be grinding every single second of every day.”
He manages a tiny smile. “Thanks. I mean it. I don’t know that I’m actually going tolistento you…but thanks.”
“Can I…is it okay if I give you a hug?” I ask at last, because I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t look at him like this, with that unsteady, fragile pain written on his face, and not want todosomething.
A laugh bursts out of him on his next exhale, a little incredulous, a little relieved. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. That’d be nice.”
I stand up and reach out, pulling him up out of his seat and wrapping both arms around his middle. It takes a second, but then his hands find my back, fingertips digging in against my shoulder blades. I bury my face against his warm chest, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and pressing my cheek against the scratchy wool of his sweater.
I’ve missed him. It’s only been a week, but I’ve missed him so fucking much.
When we leave, though, we have to split up again—Jamie headed back to his room and keyboard, me to the Opera House practice rooms to meet Celia, who’s managed to secure us one of the rare slots. I’ve got less than twenty-four hours before it’s my turn on that stage, and I have to make every one of them count.
When the next day finally dawns and my time pops up in the preliminaries, it’s almost anticlimactic. I walk onto that stage feeling, oddly, like I’m back home playing in some Parker showcase, like all I have to do is show up and play the pieces, and ten minutes later I’ll be back on the grind. I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one. Or if I’ve just exhausted all my anxiety already, pouring weeks of energy and sleepless nights in anticipation of this moment. I keep telling myselfThis might be your only chanceandThis could be the last time you play at Stockholm, if you don’t do well.But my brain is too tired to process any of that.
So I just play. I let Schumann and Schubert and Rachmaninoffdrag me into the pits of their genius, and when I finally emerge to the audience’s applause, it’s like coming up for air after a year underground.
That dizzy, oxygen-drunk fugue lasts the rest of the day and into the night, and when they say my name at the evening’s announcement of the first-round results, that…thatis when I finally start to realize this is really happening.
Seventy-five contenders, and Jamie and I both made it through the first round.
I’m doing this. I’m really doing it.
Fuck.
Second Round
25
Jamie
The next week passes in a blur.
This is the thing with competitions: It’s not like you get to speed through every round over the course of a few days. The preliminary round takes over a week to get through, with seventy-five pianists competing and each of them playing for three-quarters of an hour or more. The second round isn’t much better, even with the competition pool cut in half, because this round means concertos—and those sure as hell aren’t short.
It’s veryhurry up and wait,and the waiting is absolute fucking torture.
“I’ve played this piece so many times I want to claw my own eyes out,” I mutter to Marigold one evening as we unpack our freshly delivered dinner on the floor of my hotel room. “How am I supposed to havemusicalitywhen I’m starting to feel like a Chopin-bot? Is there such a thing astoomuch practice?”
She shrugs. “I dunno. It’s starting to feel that way, though.”
