Chapter 9 Marigold #2
I’m smiling back at him, and it occurs to me in some distant way how odd it is that we’re both standing here in this crowded subway station flirting—because this is flirting, isn’t it? Am I imagining things?
Suddenly I wish we’d stayed at the jazz bar. I picture us leaning together across that tiny table, the votive light flickering between us, tasting vermouth on Jamie’s full lips.
The train careens into the station, the screech of metal on metal slicing through that dream and bringing me solidly back to the real world—and the smell of stale urine.
The fantasy was great while it lasted.
Three Years Ago
“You know what I miss most about North Carolina?” Cessy said, mouth full of blueberry pancake, a smudge of purple fruit staining the corner of her lips. “Waffle House. Y’all will never understand the simple pleasure of a Waffle House at three a.m. And that is sad.”
“Isn’t it just a chain diner?” I asked.
“It is the chain diner,” Cessy informed me. “The blueprint. The Zeus of chain diners. Once you’ve had their flimsy little paper plate–tasting waffles and soggy eggs all other breakfasts will feel woefully insufficient.”
“You’re really selling this here,” Jamie said with a laugh.
“You won’t understand until you try it.”
“Which is hopefully never,” said Shrishti. She was all but sitting in Cessy’s lap, stuck to her like the world’s prettiest little lamprey.
Cessy just shrugged and stuffed another bite of waffle into her face.
I’d never understood how she could eat that much and stay as skinny as she did.
Although maybe I did understand; the practice schedule for the dance program was intense, and ballet was obviously a lot of hard work.
Sometimes Cessy didn’t get back to the dorm until ten p.m. or even later.
And I’d seen the state of her feet, all bunions and blisters and bruises, her pointe shoes battered and frayed after just a week of wear.
“I’ve been to Waffle House,” supplied Sam, one of the other guys in the dance program. “It is not all that. This place is for sure better.”
“It might be better, but it’s not legendary.”
“Aren’t all New York diners legendary?” I asked. “I mean, speaking as a New Yorker here…we’re kind of famous for it. Haven’t you seen When Harry Met Sally?”
“Nope, and I don’t plan to,” Cessy said. “Eighties movies suck.”
Sam made a face. “That is categorically untrue. Maybe you just have shitty taste, Cessy.”
“My taste is fabulous.”
“Your favorite TV show is Secret Lives of Mormon Wives,” I pointed out. “Your taste is reality TV and drama.”
“I don’t love the drama, the drama loves meeeee,” Cessy quoted, and she and Shrishti shared a snicker.
I wanted to scoff sometimes at their flamboyant displays of public affection.
But honestly? I was just jealous and bitter and single.
And far, far too conscious of this diner’s tiny benches and Jamie Larson’s thigh pressed up against my own.
I’d been drawn to Jamie since the day I started at Parker three weeks ago.
Hard not to notice his cinnamon-brown hair and sea-glass eyes, or the way the muscles in his forearms shifted beneath his skin as he played the piano.
He was tall, too; tall enough to tower over me.
Although with me being short, that wasn’t too hard.
Appearances aside, he played like nobody I’d ever heard before.
The precision with which he hit his notes…
the soul that he poured into every piece, the movements imbued with narrative and each chord played as if he adored it, as if every note was precious…
And of course, Jamie himself bent over the keys, eyes fallen shut and lips parted, tilting toward the keyboard as if he might whisper it a secret.
Cessy finished her pancakes before the rest of us and even stole some of Shrishti’s.
Sam demolished his own bacon like a man possessed—and then it was just me and Jamie left.
I picked at the edges of my waffle, trying to convince myself to give it another go.
Unfortunately, if the waffle wasn’t great hot, it certainly wasn’t good cold.
“I gotta go,” Sam said at last, stretching his arms overhead and cracking his spine. “Early start tomorrow.” For a second Cessy looked confused, and Sam gave her a pointed look. “The master class, remember? Seven-thirty a.m. sharp.”
“Oh, shit,” Cessy said. “Yeah. Okay. I’m headed out too, then. Sorry, guys. Maybe we can hang out tomorrow instead, crack open a couple beers in my room?”
“For sure,” Jamie said.
Shrishti was already scooting off the bench, following Cessy. “I’m going, too. As much as I hate to leave the two of you unsupervised. Can I Venmo you guys?”
“I still owe Cessy dinner from last time we went out,” I said. “This one’s on me.”
“Wait, for all of us?” Sam asked.
“I mean, it was a really nice dinner.”
Sam leaned across the table to bump his fist against mine. “Sick. Thanks, Goldie.”
I gave him a little salute and watched them head out, suddenly—strikingly—envious of the way they tilted toward each other, the bonds of their friendship like knots between them.
I used to be like that with Cessy, before she met Shrishti.
And now…We were still friends. Best friends, even.
But it wasn’t quite the same. Most nights Cessy headed out with Shrishti, and most days—between practice sessions—they were going for coffee or a walk or lunch.
They even went to the bookstore together.
They were inseparable in a way I’d never been with anyone, ever.
It was only once they were gone that I realized the diner was unusually silent, the only sound that of dishes clinking together as the staff cleaned up. Jamie and I were alone.
“Cessy seems cool,” he said after a few moments, swirling one of those little wooden sticks through his coffee.
“Yeah,” I said. “She is.”
“How long have you known each other?”
“Almost four years,” I said, and surprised myself when I realized it had actually been that long.
“We met in high school. I was in the Juilliard Pre-College program, and she was doing one of the School of American Ballet youth programs. They’re right next to each other in Lincoln Center, so we kind of hung out in the same places.
Ended up having to share a table at a coffee shop once because all the other seats were taken. And we’ve been friends ever since.”
“Nice meet-cute,” Jamie said.
“I mean, yeah, it was pretty serendipitous.” I laughed.
“And we got lucky that we both went on to Parker, too. The universe wants us to be best friends.” I lifted my own coffee up to my lips then realized it had gone cold.
I grimaced and set the mug down again. “What about you and Shrishti? Incestuous music department friendship or did you have some movie scene run-in on the subway or something?”
“We met here,” Jamie said. “Music theory class. Not nearly as adorable.”
“Well, I guess it’s hard to meet friends these days. They even have apps now—like Tinder, but for platonic relationships. College is one thing, but after we graduate I don’t know how I’m going to meet new people. Like, what do actual adults even do?”
“Meet people through work, I suppose.”
“I guess.” I shrugged expansively. Even then it was hard to imagine. Piano performance was a pretty solitary pursuit. And if you did end up playing with an orchestra, it was usually a guest position—and most of the other players would be older.
Although there was a certain appeal to being tight with some sixty-year-old lady, hanging out in her cozy Village apartment sipping tea and playing duets.
“And your friendships don’t stop the second you turn twenty-two,” Jamie said. “You’ll still have Cessy. And the rest of us.”
The rest of us. I felt my cheeks color; it was the first time Jamie had suggested that he and I might be friends long-term. And, yeah, a part of me would rather be more than friends. But I’d take what I could get.
“Assuming you all will tolerate me that long. I have it on good authority that I can be obnoxious, and a snob.” As Cessy reminded me all the time.
Jamie snorted. “I mean, sure. But maybe I like that.”
God. Was he saying things like that on purpose, just to watch me flush? I busied myself with the remains of my waffle, pushing little pieces of it around my plate using the tines of my fork.
Do you want to go out sometime? The words pressed up against my shut lips, begging to be spoken. But I couldn’t stand the prospect of rejection. How would I face Jamie for the next three years if he said no? Or worse, if we tried and it didn’t work out?
He was probably flooded with girls wanting to go out with him. Between the raw talent and the devastating good looks, there was no reason he’d want to settle for me.
“Do you?” I asked at last, gaze flickering up to meet his. “Do you really?”
It was his turn to blush. It looked good on him—windswept, almost, as if he’d just walked in from a snowy night. And then, of course, I was imagining him with snow in his hair, gathered like pale glitter on his eyelashes. How his lips would feel chilly against mine.
“Yes,” he said. “Quite a lot, actually.”
The tension was unbearable. I wanted to crawl into his lap and kiss those pinkened cheeks. I wanted to grab hold of that gorgeous bronze hair and keep him there while I bit his neck. And then roll my hips down to find out how much he likes snobs, exactly.
“So,” I said instead of any of that, social anxiety winning out. “Tell me more about yourself. I feel like half of what I know is secondhand from Shrishti. Feels like I should get it right from the source.”