Chapter 24 Marigold #2
“I think part of the problem is that I still kind of feel like…I dunno. We’ve talked about how I need to get more emotion in my work, but I just don’t…
I can’t feel it. Every time I play, it’s like I’m going through the motions, like I’m a machine built to hit the right notes and that’s it.
Being here makes it worse. Like if my brain can just focus so hard on the next step, winning the competition, the music is just a stepping stone to get there.
It doesn’t have to mean anything else.” He shakes his head. “And that fucking sucks.”
“You’ll get it back,” I say. “Eventually. I really, really do think that. I mean…it’s like I said.
Adam has only been gone for two years. There’s no timeline for when you have to get over grief.
But maybe one day, you’ll be able to take all that pain and work through it with your music, instead of at odds with it. ”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
I slide my hand over and lace our fingers together against the cold table.
His tighten back against mine, holding on like he’s afraid I’ll let go.
“For the record…it’s not every time you play.
I’ve heard you at the restaurant, remember?
I know you feel something then. I can tell. It comes out in your music.”
“That’s different,” he says. “There’s no pressure there. It’s not for my career or whatever, it’s just for fun.”
“Isn’t music always supposed to be for fun?”
He shrugs and picks at the lid of his coffee cup, flicking his thumb against its plastic edge.
“I mean, it’s a job, right? Jobs aren’t fun all the time.
I feel like people think you have to enjoy every second of a creative job because you’re doing it for the passion or whatever, but that’s just not realistic. ”
“Sure. But if you hate your job, you can quit it. You don’t have to go around playing these competitions. If you like playing just for you, there’s no reason you can’t do that.”
His hand stills, and he curls his lower lip under, chewing it with his teeth.
I wonder if anyone’s ever suggested that to him before—that he can just stop.
Surely he’s thought about it. He’s best friends with Shrishti Menon, after all: gold standard for saying Fuck it to careers that no longer serve you.
But it’s like this is the first time he’s ever considered the possibility of not trying to be the number one best pianist in the universe.
“I can’t,” he says after a long moment, finally lifting his gaze to look at me again. “I’ve put too much into this. Half my mom’s money…Adam’s college fund…”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I sigh and shift closer, squeezing his hand. “What I mean is, that money is already spent regardless. You can’t get it back. But that’s no reason to be miserable.”
“It’s not just that. It’s…my mom. She wants this for me so bad.
And Adam. He—he did, too.” Jamie’s voice catches on the last word, and he clears his throat, shaking his head like he can snap himself out of whatever he’s feeling right now.
“He said so. In his…in his note. He said he was proud of me. And he told me to…never give up. So I can’t. Give up.”
My heart physically aches for him, a pain that tightens up in my chest like a clenching fist. God. It explains so much. “Adam wouldn’t want this for you. You know he wouldn’t. Not if you don’t love it anymore.”
“You don’t get it,” he grinds out. “I gave up on Adam. I came to Parker, knowing he was sick, knowing he—he’d tried before. And look what happened.”
I squeeze his hand. I know there’s nothing I can say to make him feel better.
I know that—but the helplessness of it all is suffocating.
I have the sudden urge to get up and cross to the other side of the table and climb into his lap, where I can embrace him properly.
It takes actual effort to stay in my chair.
“It isn’t your fault,” I tell him. “You loved him, and I’m sure he knew that. There was nothing you could have done, even if you’d stayed.”
“Yeah. I know. I know.”
I’m not so sure that he does, though.
He blows out a breath and draws his hand out from under mine to rake it back through his hair. “I don’t know. You’re probably right. He wouldn’t want me to do this if it didn’t make me happy. But it used to, you know? And maybe if I just push through, I’ll feel that way again.”
“Yeah. Maybe. It could. You’re the only one who can decide what the right move is here.
But if you need someone to give you permission to take a break for a while…
you can. Music isn’t just about winning competitions and getting prizes.
You don’t have to be grinding every single second of every day. ”
He manages a tiny smile. “Thanks. I mean it. I don’t know that I’m actually going to listen to you…but thanks.”
“Can I…is it okay if I give you a hug?” I ask at last, because I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t look at him like this, with that unsteady, fragile pain written on his face, and not want to do something.
A laugh bursts out of him on his next exhale, a little incredulous, a little relieved. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. That’d be nice.”
I stand up and reach out, pulling him up out of his seat and wrapping both arms around his middle.
It takes a second, but then his hands find my back, fingertips digging in against my shoulder blades.
I bury my face against his warm chest, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and pressing my cheek against the scratchy wool of his sweater.
I’ve missed him. It’s only been a week, but I’ve missed him so fucking much.
When we leave, though, we have to split up again—Jamie headed back to his room and keyboard, me to the Opera House practice rooms to meet Celia, who’s managed to secure us one of the rare slots.
I’ve got less than twenty-four hours before it’s my turn on that stage, and I have to make every one of them count.
When the next day finally dawns and my time pops up in the preliminaries, it’s almost anticlimactic.
I walk onto that stage feeling, oddly, like I’m back home playing in some Parker showcase, like all I have to do is show up and play the pieces, and ten minutes later I’ll be back on the grind.
I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one.
Or if I’ve just exhausted all my anxiety already, pouring weeks of energy and sleepless nights in anticipation of this moment.
I keep telling myself This might be your only chance and This could be the last time you play at Stockholm, if you don’t do well.
But my brain is too tired to process any of that.
So I just play. I let Schumann and Schubert and Rachmaninoff drag me into the pits of their genius, and when I finally emerge to the audience’s applause, it’s like coming up for air after a year underground.
That dizzy, oxygen-drunk fugue lasts the rest of the day and into the night, and when they say my name at the evening’s announcement of the first-round results, that…that is when I finally start to realize this is really happening.
Seventy-five contenders, and Jamie and I both made it through the first round.
I’m doing this. I’m really doing it.
Fuck.