“Yeah, I came straight from work.”
He holds out a hand. “Give it here.”
I hand Christian the rose. He snaps off the stem, which startles me a little. Then he takes out his wallet, removing what looks like a pin. “Do you mind?” he asks. I shake my head, letting him attach the flower to the pocket of my shirt. “A boutonniere. It’s notperfect,but—”
“No, I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”
Christian smiles at me. Then he gestures toward the hotel entrance.
“Shall we?”
There’s a fireplace in the lobby. Christian walks us to the elevator, taking us to the third floor. The doors open to a ballroom where the art gallery opening is taking place. Thewalls are full of paintings, but Christian walks right past them as if he’s seen them already. We grab drinks from the bar and find his friends. A blond guy in a small circle of suits waves us over. He squeezes Christian’s shoulder, then turns to me and says, “You must be Eric. I’ve heardallabout you.”
“This is my friend Nick,” Christian says, placing his arm around him. “We know each other from Yale. He showed me around Chicago when I first moved here.”
“Charity work,” Nick whispers to me. “You do them one favor and you can never get rid of them.”
“Be nice,” Christian says.
“I’m always nice.” Nick sips his drink, amused with himself. Then he turns to me again and says, “I heard you went on a boat ride the other day.”
“Yeah, with Christian.”
“How was it?”
“Really cool. I’ve never been on a yacht before.”
“Well, isn’t thatendearing.”
I give him a look, wondering what he means by that. Nick spins back to the group. “Let’s get another drink.” He looks around. “Where on earth is that server?”
“They’ve been terribly slow,” says one of the others.
Nick shakes his head. “You’d think they were making the food themselves. Ah, there he is—” He snaps his fingers. A young server from the other side of the room turns his head and hurries over.
“Sorry, can I get you something?” the server asks. He looks around my age, maybe a year or two older.
“Some service would be nice,” Nick whispers to us, as if the guy can’t hear him. “We’ll take two Negronis and a dirty martini, my boy.” He slips a bill in the server’s pocket. “And quickly, alright?”
“Thank you, sir.” The server turns and leaves.
“Was that a fifty?” another friend asks.
“Let’s hope it speeds him up,” Nick says, waving it off. “Probably what he makes for the entire night.”
Everyone laughs at this, including Christian. I wonder what they would say if I mentioned I worked as a server, too. That was a little over a month ago. I keep that to myself as their conversation continues. Most of them work in finance, the rest in some kind of art collecting. It doesn’t take long to realize how different we are. I listen actively, trying my best to contribute a word here and there. “Oh, interesting.” “Wow.” But once they get into real estate investments, I feel myself fading into the background. I keep nodding along, smiling occasionally. It’s like they’re speaking a different language, making it feel like I’m not really here.
As the server appears with the drinks, a bell goes off from somewhere in the room. But no one else seems to have heard it. I glance around, noticing the sound of a distant piano. There’s something familiar about the song. I close my eyes for a second, trying to remember where I heard it before. When I think no one is paying attention, I step away from the conversation, wandering toward the music.
There’s a piano on the other side of the gallery. Then I notice the person sitting behind it.
“Haru?”
I wasn’t expecting to see him here. He’s wearing a white button-up that fits him beautifully as he plays the piano. If other people weren’t around, I’d throw my arms around him, hugging him tight. Instead I walk over casually, taking a seat on the bench beside him. Haru doesn’t turn his head. His eyes are focused on the piano. But I can sense he knows it’s me. For a moment, nobody else is in the room but us.
“I didn’t know you could play,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything.
