She lets out a breathy laugh and shakes her head, incredulous. “I mean…I’m not going to tell you how to live your life. If you think you’ll be happier without piano, then I believe you. And I think you should do what’s going to make you happy.”
It’s such a simple thing—the realization that someone legitimately, sincerely just wants what is best for you. That, independent of their own interests or desires, they wantyouto be happy.
When Marigold says she wants me to be happy, I believe her.
And god, I feel so lucky to have found her. She is one of the best…thekindestpeople I’ve known. I don’t know how I was so blind to it before.
“Thanks,” I say. “Today was good. I’d kind of given myself permission to quit before I went onstage and…it felt different. I actually enjoyed myself, believe it or not. I didn’t think I could do that anymore.”
And it’s true. Ihad.God help me, but I’d liked being up there, for the first time in I don’t know how long. Which, if I were to admit that to Celia—and possibly even to Marigold—I’d only earn myself a litany of questioning about why I’d quit now that I’d finally found a good thing.
But this feels wholly separate from the competition somehow. I enjoyed the musicdespitethe competition, not because of it. I enjoyed it because I knew Marigold was out there somewhere in the crowd, listening, and I wanted to speak to her. I wanted that song to befor her.
“I’m proud of you, then,” Marigold says, after giving me onelast long, considering look. “You deserve to do something you actually love—whatever that is. Although I will say, the piano world is going to be very bereft without you in it.”
“Oh, hundred percent. Don’t know what they’ll do without my rock-star talent buoying them up. Drown into irrelevance and die, probably.”
She chuckles. “I’ll drink to that. Find me another one.”
I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek. She smells good enough, I’m tempted to stay there and just breathe in her closeness—but I make myself pull away. It’s still just the start of the night, after all.
The start of many, many more, and happier nights.
Six Months
Since Stockholm
28
Marigold
I’m waiting for Jamie at the bar, sipping the last dregs of my frozen daiquiri, when his shift ends.
“Still the best pianist at Stockholm,” I remind him as he tips in to kiss me hello.
He makes a face, but he’s smiling all the same. “I’m a better pianist than I was back then. Does that make me the best pianist in the world, now?”
“Absolutely.”
I kiss him again, lingering this time. Jamie’s right; he really has gotten better in the six months since he won Stockholm and quit Parker for good. It’s like shutting that door behind him opened up every window in the house. I’ve followed him over half the city, listening to him play jazz and blues and—yes—even classical piano. Watching him perform now is transcendent. He plays like he’s on another plane of existence entirely, his entire being aglow with an impossible internal light. His mom flew up to visit one weekend a couple months after Stockholm, and I met her here, at the restaurant, where we both got to watch as Jamie played the entire room under his spell.
“I’m glad you were able to get off early,” I tell him.
“Are you serious? I wouldn’t miss this for the world. My boss could fire me if he had to. Anyway, they should be grateful they got to see me play in my fancy suit.” He tugs at the lapel of his rented tux, the corner of his mouth curling upward in an expression I already want to kiss right off his face. “It was nice of you to come meet me all the way over here. You know I can find my way to Lincoln Center on my own, right?”
“Mmmmm, I don’t know about that. You farm boys tend to get confused by the subway system. I wouldn’t want you to get taken advantage of.”
He elbows me in the side, and I elbow him right back, and we’re still giggling like two teenagers as we spill out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. Jamie hooks his arm through mine and keeps me close as we head uptown, taking an easy pace that I know must feel unbearably slow to him with those crazy long legs of his.
“Shrishti texted me and said she and Cessy are already there,” Jamie says. “Apparently Cessy sprung for the expensive seats. Look.”
He tilts his phone over so I can get a glimpse of their selfie, Shrishti laughing and Cessy with her lips puckered in a saucy kiss, red stiletto nails pressed against one cheek. They’re in orchestra, second tier center and slightly to the house left, which is exactly where you ought to sit if you want to maximize acoustics but also have a decent view of the pianist’s hands.
My hands, tonight.
“Damn, Cessy’s really trying to impress Shrishti this time. I feel like that bodes well. Take notes, James.” I give him a wink, which I’m not sure he even sees, butIknow it was there. “I can still be romanced.”
“I have literally never put an iota of effort intoromancingyou, and I am not about to start now. I just made it so exhausting tokeep hating me that you had to fall in love with me. Work smart, not hard.”
