Chapter 9 Marigold
Marigold
Instead, the place is a bit run-down, the art deco wallpaper peeling and the tables’ naked faces staring boldly up at the tin ceiling, initials etched in the wood like tattoos.
There’s no server; Jamie and I order our drinks at the bar and carry them to the table ourselves.
Someone—not Xinyan—is playing already, a saxophonist with a fondness for chromatic embellishment.
I don’t know a lot about tenor saxophone, but from what I can tell, he’s good.
“How did you find this place?” I murmur in Jamie’s ear once we’re seated at a table near stage right. “Did you just stalk Xinyan’s performance announcements?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up—not mocking, for once, but like he actually finds me funny.
“Not this time. I’ve been here before—just once or twice, but I liked it. Then I heard Xinyan was playing, which gave me an excuse to come back.”
He settles into his seat and takes a sip of his Negroni. I draw my eyes away from him only with great effort. It’s hard not to stare at his lips curving around the rim of his glass, the shift of his throat as he swallows.
That whole thing with the duet yesterday really fucked me up. All I could think about was how horribly I’d played, and how embarrassing it was that Jamie witnessed it and probably knew—somehow—why. Because I’m dead certain my want for him was written all over my stupid face.
The saxophonist finishes up his set, and then it’s Xinyan who takes the stage, settling in behind the baby grand piano while her accompanist, a violinist, sets up his lead sheet.
Xinyan’s every bit as good as advertised.
I’m no jazz expert, but I know good music when I hear it.
She and her partner, whoever he is, have the kind of chemistry I could only dream of—they seem to operate on some telepathic connection, playing off each other’s melodies and countermelodies, the violinist adding little flourishes after Xinyan finishes a particularly difficult run, as if to congratulate her.
Even Jamie’s falling for it. His heel keeps moving under the table, tapping against the floor in rhythm. And he’s smiling. It’s an expression that’s so uncommon on his face that I find myself jealous of Xinyan for her ability to inspire this in him.
Before yesterday, the most I could manage out of Jamie was a sneer.
There’s a woman in the audience taking photos of the performance, slipping unobtrusively between tables to catch the right angles with a professional-seeming camera.
I wonder if she’s from Juilliard, if they’re already promoting Xinyan’s upcoming performance in Stockholm.
(Parker, of course, doesn’t seem to give a shit about two of its students attending the most prestigious piano competition in the world. Another reason to be jealous.)
When Xinyan’s set is over, Jamie grabs my wrist and tugs me up. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go say hi.”
Oh god. It’s been at least five years since I’ve seen Xinyan.
It’s not that we didn’t get along when we were at Juilliard together—more that we ran in different circles.
Even so, the fact that I haven’t reached out to her since is a little awkward.
I mean, I’ve liked a few of her TikToks? If that counts?
But Jamie’s already halfway across the room, so I have no choice but to swear under my breath and hurry after him.
Backstage, we find Xinyan already in conversation with the photographer girl and some hot scruffy dude in a band shirt. I’m lurking back, trying not to intervene, but Jamie—with all the confidence of a standard-issue cis white male—just strides right up and says, “Hey, Xinyan. That was great.”
And for some reason, instead of being annoyed by the interruption, Xinyan smiles this huge smile and throws her arms around Jamie, giving him a big hug. “James! Finally, we meet in person!”
“I know, right? Hope I’m not ruining our whole vibe by showing up in the flesh.”
Their whole vibe? Do they know each other?
Xinyan is still beaming at Jamie like he’s the second coming, and something mean itches at the inside of my chest, fighting to get out.
“Definitely not. You’re less broody in person. In my head you were all emo energy and black T-shirts.”
“This shirt is decidedly green.”
“I can see that! Congrats!”
Fuck it. “Hi,” I say, stepping forward, because like fuck I’m going to linger in the shadows while Jamie flirts with some girl he’s apparently never even met in person. “Nice set.”
“This is Marigold Gensler,” Jamie explains. “She’s my classmate at Parker. And our competition.”
“Hi, Goldie!” Xinyan says. And whatever she thinks about our total absence of contact since high school, none of that shows in her bright smile. “It’s been ages! Congratulations on making it to Stockholm.”
“Thanks. You, too. Seems like it’s going to be a rough crowd this year.”
Xinyan gestures toward her two friends. “This is Ely and Wyatt. They’re also Parker-ites. Ely’s doing her MFA, and Wyatt teaches in the photography program.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and Jamie and I both shake their hands.
“I’m doing a show about artists and how much people sacrifice for perfection,” Ely says. “Xinyan’s been kind enough to let me follow her around while she preps for Stockholm. Even if that means I’m shooting her while she practices for eight hours into the middle of the night.”
Eight hours? I’ve been slacking.
Maybe that’s why people like Xinyan and Jamie are so much better than me. Or maybe I just need to get my head on straight and realize that the clock for Stockholm is ticking, and I’ve got—let’s see—thirteen days to go. Shit.
I’m screwed.
“And how do you two know each other?” I ask, tipping my head toward Jamie.
“How does anyone know each other? The Internet, obviously,” Xinyan says with a little laugh. “Well. He’s nice to me in my TikTok comment section, so we started DMing.”
Jamie? Nice to a competitor? I honestly have no idea what to make of that—or if I even believe it.
I wonder who slid into whose DMs first.
“Oh,” I say. “Cool.” Jamie Larson doomscrolling TikTok sounds unlikely, but I guess I don’t really know him that well. Yet, whispers a voice in the back of my mind.
But never mind that. Why did Jamie even invite me here, if the whole reason he was coming was to meet up with his TikTok crush? I feel like the—not even third wheel, because Xinyan has her two Parker friends here. I’m the fifth wheel.
Awesome.
“We were going to go grab dinner,” Xinyan says, gesturing toward Ely and Wyatt. “You two are welcome to join us, if you want.”
“I wish I could, but I have to get back home and practice more. Need to catch up with you two,” I add, to make it seem like a joke, even though all I want to do right now is hide under a pile of blankets on my bed.
I fully expect Jamie to take Xinyan up on the invitation or tell them we already had dinner at my place, but to my surprise, he says, “Same, unfortunately. But text me. We should definitely hang out in person again.”
I have no right to stew over any of this. I know that. Jamie is not anything to me, except a maybe a rival—and now, roommate. I don’t have the authority to tell him who he’s allowed to hang out with. Or DM. Or text.
Like, good for him for having friends, I guess. The only person who can put up with my bitter ass is Cessy. And even she would rather spend time with Jamie’s friend Shrishti these days, still caught up in the honeymoon of their relationship resurrection.
Not that I resent her for it. I don’t. I at least try to be a good friend.
Tonight’s just a horrible night for Good Human Goldie, that’s all.
“You didn’t mention that you know Xinyan,” I say as we walk back toward the train station, forcing my voice to stay light and upbeat.
“It didn’t come up,” says Jamie. “Besides, it’s not like I really know her. We’re just mutuals online. This was the first time I ever met her in person.”
“Seemed like you two knew each other pretty well.”
He shrugs. “I guess. If being Close Friends on someone’s Instagram story counts as knowing them really well.”
It does in my book, but then, the only people on my Close Friends list are Cessy, my dad, and my pen pal from eighth grade music camp.
“So what happens if she beats you at Stockholm? No more digital friendship?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “She’s not the one I’m worried about beating.”
He doesn’t say my name, but I hear it all the same. At least it’s dark out, so he can’t see the heat rising in my cheeks.
We walk the rest of the way to the station without speaking, Jamie swiping his MetroCard through, then passing it back to me across the turnstile—a sweet gesture that I don’t feel right turning down, even though I always use OMNY to tap through, myself.
He goes to sit on one of the gross wooden benches against the wall, and I dart forward, grabbing his arm and yanking him back.
“No! Don’t!”
He raises both brows. “What? Is there pee on the bench or something?”
“No. But there probably was pee at some point. Those things are disgusting.”
“Well, good thing it’s just my ass touching them,” he says, and starts for the bench again, although he doesn’t fight it when I don’t let go.
“You should still want to have a clean ass!”
“My ass is pristine, thank you very much.” And now he’s smirking at me, the kind of smirk that’s haunted my dirtiest dreams ever since I met him. Only usually in those dreams, we’re talking about his ass for entirely different reasons.
“I thought Midwest boys were worried about getting infected with city filth and so on.”
“This Midwest boy grew up mucking out pig pens, so nope.”
“Wow, good thing you didn’t tell my dad about that; he keeps a kosher home. At least ten percent of your carbon atoms are probably pork at this point.”
He grins, all white teeth. “Nah. Hundred percent corn-fed, right here.”