“It’s okay. And yes, I’m always cool with you making fun of me a little. Just…notsomuch. You know?”
“Yeah.” I shift closer to her on the bed until our arms and thighs are pressed up alongside each other, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her in close. “Well, if you want to give things with Shrishti another try, then obviously I’m with you. You’re right, things are different this time.”
I bite my tongue to avoid sayingI hope it works out.Somehow, I think that’d come across a little too passive-aggressive for the vibe.
Cessy tips her head against mine, her long black hair tickling my cheek. “Cheers. Because I still fully plan to marry this girl one day.”
“Oh-kay,” I say, and Cessy laughs and elbows me in the ribs, hard enough I almost topple off her bed.
Later, I realize this is probably the first time in two months that I’ve felt kind of…normal.Not like a girl with a threat hanging over her head, an open question as to how much longer things can keep going on like this, how much longer she can keep faking like everything’s okay and her body and mind aren’t falling apart.
I know I have Cessy to thank for that. And maybe that should be my new challenge to myself: try to be more grateful for the good things in my life. Like Cessy, and piano, and Levain double chocolate chip cookies. More of that; less multiple sclerosis and Jamie Larson and the crushing weight of Stockholm bearing down on me, more imminent every day.
It’s a thing,I tell myself that night as I curl up in bed, cozy under all my layers of blankets.I’ll be a nice person now. A thankful person.
It’s a thing.
Three Years Ago
First day of Piano Performance I.
Ever since arriving at Parker, I’d been a seething ball of nerves. It felt like my skin physicallyitched,desperate for some kind of energy outlet. I’d been in conservatories before—I was at Juilliard—but this was different. This wascollege.I wasn’t a high schooler anymore. I no longer counted as some teen prodigy. I was at Parker, and I would be expected to hold my own against juniors and seniors and grad students. So I really needed to pull myself together and actuallyfocusif I wasn’t going to decompose into a slurry of dread.
The small auditorium was filling up fast. I had somebody to my left who was already deeply engaged in conversation, as if they’d known that person for years. My right seat was empty. But not for long.
“Is anybody sitting here?” a masculine voice asked.
I looked up. The boy standing over me was…well,gorgeouswas the first word that came to mind, even if on some level I was aware that was a pretty hyperbolic thing to say about anybody. But seriously, this guy could have been a model. Especially with that artfully tousled bronze hair and those dark blue eyes. He was wearing a Mountain Goats shirt.
“It’s all yours,” I said, and he allowed me a small smile as he dumped his backpack on the floor and shoved it under his seat.
“So,” I said after several seconds of unbearable silence. “Was she a good wife?”
For a second the boy looked confused; then he caught on and glanced down at his shirt, laughing lightly. “Oh, yeah. That song’s stuck in my head just about twenty-four seven.”
It was a set of lyrics from “No Children,” which had to be the bleakest Mountain Goats song—and also my favorite.
“Horrible song,” I said, grinning, a beat before he said, “Fantasticsong.”
I arched a brow at him, and he grinned back at me, infuriatingly unflappable. “You like it enough to have it memorized.”
“Oh, I never said I didn’tlikeit. I mean, the whole thing is basically about the beauty of mutual hatred. Incredibly based.”
He leaned back in his seat, one elbow propped up on the armrest between us, close enough I swear I could feel the warmth of his body heat. “Well, now I guess I have to figure out if you’re just the kind of person who likes dark songs, or if you’re the kind of person who takes them a little too literally. Please let me know which it is before I get too invested.”
“Nah,” I said. “You’ll just have to risk it and find out.”
He chuckled. God, that smile was beautiful. He could be anything he wanted—except he was here, at Parker, in my Piano Performance I class. And he listened to the Mountain Goats. That was two points for him in the first two minutes. He was on a roll.
“I’m Jamie,” he said, reaching a hand across to shake mine. His palm felt callused, as if he was used to hard work.
“Marigold. Well, Goldie. I still can’t believe my parents came up with Marigold and thought,Ah yes, there’s a good one.”
“I like it,” Jamie said. “It’s poetic, somehow. It suits you.”
I made a face. “Well, thanks, I guess. Maybe when I’m older, it won’t sound so ridiculous on me.”
“You carry it well.”
