Chapter 19 Marigold
Marigold
But end it does. Because something changes on the walk home, a shift in the energy between us.
Something’s on Jamie’s mind—it’s a palpable presence between us the entire walk home, even if he plays along on script for every conversation I try to rope him into.
More than anything, it reminds me of the way things used to be between us.
Like he’s trying so damn hard to be civil while nursing a hot coal of hatred in his heart, fiercely and devotedly keeping it warm.
I manage not to say anything until we’re back in the apartment and I’m watching Jamie shuck off his flannel overshirt with rough hands like it did something to personally offend him.
“What’s up?” I try to phrase it lightly, to give him every opportunity to come up with an equally light and self-deprecating excuse.
“Nothing,” he says, in the kind of voice that makes it obvious it isn’t nothing.
“Okay,” I say.
He toes off his shoes, also too brusquely. He wants me to ask again. So, obviously, now I’m determined to pretend I believe him, because stupid games are stupid.
“I’m making tea,” I announce. “Do you want some?”
“I’m good.”
Jamie follows me all the way into the kitchen anyway, a seething and extremely hard-to-ignore ball of black energy. He manages to restrain himself all the way up until I’ve boiled the water and started pouring it over my tea leaves.
“So. You know Ruoxi Zhang, huh?”
Aaaand there it is. I should have guessed.
“Ah, right. That old chestnut.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he bites out.
I put down the kettle and meet his gaze across the kitchen counter. “Weren’t we supposed to be getting past this? I thought we weren’t going to fight about my family background anymore.”
“Really? I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“Oh, okay, so you’ve just been secretly stewing on this the whole time after all. You’re really good at faking civility, then.”
His mouth twists. “Faking civility? For one, I haven’t been faking anything. Second…civility? Seriously? That’s the word we’re going with?”
This is getting off track. I can already see the tentacles of this argument unfurling in every direction, a thousand possible endings. And somehow, I have to find the one that doesn’t turn out with the both of us hating each other again.
“The point that I’m trying to make is…I mean…people know people, Jamie. Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid? My dad and Ruoxi work together. It’s not like I can just avoid her.”
“Paranoid?”
“A little bit, yes! It’s not like I was sliding her a crisp hundred under the table and telling her to make sure I get through to the final round. She was asking me when Parker’s going to reopen campus after winter break. That was literally it.”
The whole conversation could not possibly have been more mundane. Neither of us brought up Stockholm. Intentionally—because despite what Jamie seems to think, people do actually care about the ethics of it all.
“I know you aren’t really…I mean, you haven’t been in the New York music scene all that long,” I say, phrasing it as carefully as I can, because Jamie is—apparently—a delicate flower.
“But you’re just going to have to trust me on this.
It’s incestuous. The rule about not interacting with judges is not something anyone thinks they can actually enforce.
I mean, you can’t have a judge be your actual teacher or something like that, but… ”
The grimace on Jamie’s face darkens. “Right. Don’t worry, I’m not at risk of forgetting just how much of an outsider I am in your world. It’s not like you don’t throw it in my face every chance you get.”
“Excuse me, what? Are you serious right now? I don’t throw anything in your face. You’re delusional.”
Seriously, screw this guy. I can tolerate him being a bit sensitive. I can deal with his general abrasiveness when he has so many other good things about him.
But I’m not going to sit here and let him insult me.
“You need to stop,” I tell him. “Just for five seconds. You need to stop and think about what you’re saying. About what you’re accusing me of. Because it’s extremely not fucking okay.”
And to my very great surprise, Jamie Larson shuts his mouth and thinks about what he’s saying.
I wait in silence, trying not to get ahead of myself and predict what he’s going to say next. I’ve had plenty of mental arguments with him where I construct entire well-and-then-he’d-probably-says, and they only ever make me even more pissed off.
So I give him a chance. I let those cogs churn in his mind.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last, blowing out a heavy breath. “You’re right. I—I promise you I’m trying to be less, well, ridiculous about this. But it’s hard.”
I lift a brow. “It’s hard not being an asshole?”
He shrugs expansively. “I mean, yeah, apparently. What can I say? It’s basically an ingrained personality trait at this point.”
He looks contrite enough that I decide…fine, he can catch a break. Just this one time, though. “You’re on thin ice,” I say, but I can feel that smile already tugging at one corner of my mouth. It’s hard to stay mad at him for long.
“Don’t I know it.” He edges closer to me, then hesitates. “Can I…I mean. Do you want a hug?”
The uncertain way he says it is enough to do me in. “Yes. Please.”
He slides his arms around my waist, and I press my face in against his shoulder, breathing in the warm scent of him. One of his large hands smooths along my back, rubbing a steady pattern against my spine.
“I know you worked hard to get here,” he says after a while. I feel his chest rumble beneath my cheek as he speaks, his voice soft and deep. “You deserve this. You’ve earned it. And I’m happy for you.”
“Are you?”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I might have a funny way of showing it, but…yeah. I am. And you’re going to be fantastic.”
Where was this Jamie the past three years?
Somehow the words mean that much more coming from him.
Because if anybody was going to say it’s all nepotism, it’s James Larson.
I just wish he was around to say that to the dumb little self-defeating voice in my brain every time I start thinking there’s some nefarious reason why I ever succeed at anything.
“A part of me thinks it might be pity,” I admit, because here, with my eyes shut and my face buried against his chest, it feels like I can actually put that fear into words. “Because of the…because my mom died. What if I only got the spot because they feel sorry for me?”
Jamie pulls back, both hands firm on my shoulders as he looks me in the eye.
“That,” he says, “is not true. The Phil doesn’t invite soloists because they have a really good sob story.
They invite soloists who are good. And that’s what you are.
Okay? You’re good, and the Phil wants to have a rising star on their program.
They want to be able to look back in five years when you’re mega-famous and say We had her first.”
God, now I feel like I might cry. I blink against the prickling in my eyes and laugh a little, despite myself. “Yeah. Maybe. I mean…probably. Hopefully, anyway.”
“Brains are stupid,” Jamie says.
“Brains are stupid.” I smile for real this time, and he dips down to kiss me, one hand finding my face, his thumb skimming along my cheekbone to trace the curve of my ear.
When the kiss breaks, he leans his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses only just brushing. “You’ve got this. I promise. You’ve got this.”
Fuck it, I think. Fuck it. I’d gone this long second-guessing myself, and it’d gotten me exactly nowhere.
Maybe this time, I’ll try the Jamie method. I’ll try believing in myself for a change.
I’ll try letting him be there for me.
“Listen…” I start. Already my throat is tight, closing in on itself. “I have something to tell you. It’s important.”
Everything that had been languid in his body tenses now, as if expecting a blow. I reach down for one of his hands and squeeze it tight—some kind of reassurance. The most I can give right now, at least.
“What is it?” he asks, voice a little strained. I wonder if he expects me to break up with him over this stupid little fight.
I have to tell him the truth. The whole truth.
He needs to understand, and I—well. I need someone to understand.
I need something that goes beyond my dad’s sadness and Cessy’s mixed pity and aggressive determination to treat me the exact same as she did before.
I don’t really know what I want or expect from Jamie. But I have to find out.
“I don’t have time. I know it seems like I do…
like I have every reason to win, everything set up for me.
But I don’t have much time left to play.
” I splay my hand against his chest, then curl it into a tight fist. How much longer will I be able to do that without pain?
Do I feel stiffness even now? Do my fingertips tingle—or is that just in my head, a product of being too anxious?
Too attuned, constantly scanning my body, looking for something wrong.
“What does that mean?”
I don’t know how to say it. Not in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m begging for sympathy.
Fuck. I’ll just go for it.
“This past summer…I wasn’t doing very well.
My body started feeling weird, like I’d lost sensation in the randomest places.
My vision got blurry. I went to my regular doctor, who sent me to a neurologist. They ran a bunch of tests, and…
” Say it, just say it. It’s not a dirty word.
“I have multiple sclerosis. We don’t know if it’s progressive or not…
.” Although if this keeps up, the question answers itself.
“But if it is, then there’s no telling how long it’ll take, but at some point, I won’t be playing piano at all anymore, never mind performing at Stockholm. This could be my last chance.”
I know he’s probably trying to figure out what to say to that, but the answering silence is almost too much for me to bear. What is he thinking? Oh, god—is he feeling sorry for me?
No. That definitely isn’t possible. Jamie Larson’s never felt pity for anyone or anything in his life.
So I have that much going for me.
“I didn’t know,” he says at last. And he draws back enough to look at me properly, his eyes flitting across my face in tiny saccades. “I’m so sorry. Of course you feel pressure to win. Of course you do.”
At least he doesn’t try to tell me it’ll all be okay, that I’ll still be a virtuoso twenty years from now.
I haven’t had my diagnosis long, but I’ve had it long enough to hear plenty of armchair neurologists tell me how different disease progression can be for people and how I shouldn’t give up hope yet and also have I tried going gluten-free?
“Just a bit,” I say, attempting levity, which obviously fails.
He tips his forehead against mine, his skin burning-warm. “When did you find out?” he asks.
“Just over the summer. Long enough to panic. Not long enough to have a mental health game plan.”
“Does Celia know?”
I shake my head. “I can’t bring myself to tell her. Like…what if she decides I’m a lost cause and stops putting so much effort in? I’m only going to produce dividends for a limited amount of time.”
“That is incredibly fucked-up.”
“Yeah, well, people are fucked-up.”
“Not that fucked-up. Not Celia, anyway. She adores you.”
I’m unbelievably grateful for how chill he’s being about all this. No long and awkward conversations about treatment and symptoms. The subject came up because of piano, so we’re still talking about piano. It’s practical in a way that makes me want to cry with relief.
“You’re now officially the first person to know. Well, after my doctor and my dad. And Cessy,” I tell him. “It feels weird.”
“Weird that it’s me? Or weird telling anyone, period?”
“Both, I guess.” I laugh, and wonder if it sounds as awkward to him as it does to me.
“Obviously it’s a big thing to spring on anyone.
But prior to like three weeks ago, you would have been last on the list of people I’d think I’d tell.
Can you imagine? Jamie Larson would be thrilled to discover his rival’s about to be out of the game. ”
I regret saying it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. The flash of hurt across his face is unmistakable, and on reflex, I coil in closer to him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously I don’t think you’d celebrate it. That was a shitty joke.”
“Yeah. A bit.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. God. Why can’t I learn to stop rattling on about random bullshit?
Five seconds ago, we were fine; five seconds ago, this was all sweet and romantic or whatever that he was apologizing and listening to me and being supportive and I could trust him, and now I go and say something like this.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“It isn’t. Fuck. I really didn’t mean that. I promise.”
It’s his turn to laugh, and thankfully his isn’t awkward. It’s low, almost affectionate, as he brushes the backs of his fingers along my cheek. “I know you didn’t. Really, Marigold. It’s okay. You can let it go.”
“You’re just being nice to me in hopes of getting more sex.”
A quick grin cuts across his lips. “That obvious, huh?”
“So obvious.”
“Well, then,” he says, as he takes my hand and tugs me down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Time for you to make it up to me, then.”