I can’t.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I say.
It’s like Celia doesn’t even hear me. She just gives me another pat on the back and keeps saying something about how proud she is, how we should talk about the Chopin competition next, and I interrupt her.
“I mean it. I can’t do this anymore. I’m dropping out.”
Celia finally stops. And I know she heard me, that she takes it at least a little bit seriously, because of the frown that settles over her mouth—even if she says, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I know this was a hard competition for a lot of reasons, but—”
“I’m not getting ahead of myself.”
She holds up a hand. “Jamie. Jamie. We’ll talk about this when we get back to New York. Okay? Tonight, you just need to celebrate. Relax. Enjoy it! You’ve earned this!”
Yeah. I’ve definitely earned it, all right. All those endless nights hunched over the piano playing until my neck hurt. Throwing up in the bathroom before every performance because I’m convinced that this time, finally, everyone is going to realize I’m an impostor who doesn’t belong. Forcing myself to play and play andplay,even though I don’t love it anymore. God—I don’t evenlikeit.
Even thinking those words in my head, so blunt and straightforward, is a relief. I already feel like I’m standing a little bit straighter—as if gravity itself has cut in half.
“Sure,” I say, because there’s no point arguing with Celia right now, and she grins and hooks her hand around my elbow and says, “Come on, let’s go meet all your adoring fans.”
There are a lot of adoring fans.
When you win a major international piano competition, turns out everyone and their fucking aunt wants to get to know you. I even signautographs,which is ridiculous, because for starters, I’m a twenty-two-year-old student, and secondly, I’m about to vanish from everyone’s radar so effectively that this time next year, nobody will even remember my name.
God. I can’t fucking wait.
I spend most of the reception trying to spot Marigold. She’s always surrounded by her own little clique of admirers and seems to be eating it up. Which makes sense—she’s always been good at that kind of thing. Mingling, or socializing, or whatever. I wonder if this is the first time I’ve ever just been truly, unadulteratedly happy for her? No envy. No bitterness. If anything, I wish we could trade places—she deserved first more than I did. She actually loves this, loves piano and classical music just for the sake of it.
I just hope she knows how special she is. I hope she never fucking forgets it.
“Congratulations,” I tell her when I finally manage to get her tomyself, passing over a glass of rosé champagne I snagged from the refreshment table.
She’s pink-cheeked, already drunk on excitement. “Hey! You too! First place—that’s amazing. You played so well. You deserve it. Congratulations, Jamie.”
I shake my head, still grinning. “Yeah. Nah. Thank you, but you were way better than me.”
“Stop with the false humility; it’s unbecoming.”
I’m not,I want to say, but I’m not sure she’d even believe me. “You were amazing,” I say instead. “This entire month. Everything you’ve played has been incredible.You’reincredible. This is just the start. They’re gonna be banging down your door with invitations and record deals.”
Her flush darkens. “Funny you should say that. I just talked to a rep from Sony.”
“See? I told you!” I lift my glass, and she accepts the toast, both of us downing our drinks like shots.
“I bet you’ve been swarmed, too,” she says. “I mean…first place. Wow.”
I shrug. “Sort of. I’ve been pushing them off, a bit. I kind of…decided to quit.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I feel like on some level, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. But after tonight, I just…it feels wrong, you know? I can’t keep going like this. It’s too much.” I swirl the dregs of champagne around the bottom of my glass. “I dunno, it feels good to just admit it. Like I don’thaveto do this forever if it isn’t making me happy.”
“You don’t,” she says slowly. “But…Jamie, that’s a really big decision.”
“You sound like Celia.”
“You already told Celia?” She looks shocked, like she didn’treally believe that I meant it when I said I was quitting—like this was some kind of melodramatic gesture and not a decision that, while admittedly impulsive, feels like something I’ve been working toward for a very long time.
“Well, yeah. Figured I might as well.” I crook up one corner of my mouth. “She didn’t take it very well.”
