Chapter 28 Marigold
Marigold
I’m waiting for Jamie at the bar, sipping the last dregs of my frozen daiquiri, when his shift ends.
“Still the best pianist at Stockholm,” I remind him as he tips in to kiss me hello.
He makes a face, but he’s smiling all the same. “I’m a better pianist than I was back then. Does that make me the best pianist in the world, now?”
“Absolutely.”
I kiss him again, lingering this time. Jamie’s right; he really has gotten better in the six months since he won Stockholm and quit Parker for good.
It’s like shutting that door behind him opened up every window in the house.
I’ve followed him over half the city, listening to him play jazz and blues and—yes—even classical piano.
Watching him perform now is transcendent.
He plays like he’s on another plane of existence entirely, his entire being aglow with an impossible internal light.
His mom flew up to visit one weekend a couple months after Stockholm, and I met her here, at the restaurant, where we both got to watch as Jamie played the entire room under his spell.
“I’m glad you were able to get off early,” I tell him.
“Are you serious? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.
My boss could fire me if he had to. Anyway, they should be grateful they got to see me play in my fancy suit.
” He tugs at the lapel of his rented tux, the corner of his mouth curling upward in an expression I already want to kiss right off his face.
“It was nice of you to come meet me all the way over here. You know I can find my way to Lincoln Center on my own, right?”
“Mmmmm, I don’t know about that. You farm boys tend to get confused by the subway system. I wouldn’t want you to get taken advantage of.”
He elbows me in the side, and I elbow him right back, and we’re still giggling like two teenagers as we spill out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk.
Jamie hooks his arm through mine and keeps me close as we head uptown, taking an easy pace that I know must feel unbearably slow to him with those crazy long legs of his.
“Shrishti texted me and said she and Cessy are already there,” Jamie says. “Apparently Cessy sprung for the expensive seats. Look.”
He tilts his phone over so I can get a glimpse of their selfie, Shrishti laughing and Cessy with her lips puckered in a saucy kiss, red stiletto nails pressed against one cheek.
They’re in orchestra, second tier center and slightly to the house left, which is exactly where you ought to sit if you want to maximize acoustics but also have a decent view of the pianist’s hands.
My hands, tonight.
“Damn, Cessy’s really trying to impress Shrishti this time. I feel like that bodes well. Take notes, James.” I give him a wink, which I’m not sure he even sees, but I know it was there. “I can still be romanced.”
“I have literally never put an iota of effort into romancing you, and I am not about to start now. I just made it so exhausting to keep hating me that you had to fall in love with me. Work smart, not hard.”
But he still pulls me in close against him, easy and affectionate, so I feel like I won that round.
“I put the start of your set up on my TikTok,” I tell him. “Your adoring fans continue to be obsessed with you. Seriously, you should start your own account—a real one, that is. You could use it to find new students.”
Jamie chuckles. “I don’t need any new students,” he says. “My schedule is packed already. Between giving private lessons, playing the bar circuit, and Muay Thai with Shrishti, I feel like I barely get to see you anymore.”
Which of course isn’t true; we practically live in each other’s pockets these days. But I get why it can feel that way. And besides, it’s very sweet.
And I can’t help but feel relieved that Shrishti didn’t have to leave New York after all, having landed a teaching position at a community college in Queens. It might be a longer commute, but at least she’s here. I love Jamie very much, but I can’t be his only friend.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll see more than enough of me once the year’s over and we’ve moved in together. I’m never going to give you a second’s peace.”
He rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder against mine. I bump him back and smile, my chest full of inexplicable warmth.
The theater is already starting to fill up when we arrive.
I take Jamie to the backstage entrance, waving to Barb, the door lady, as she sneaks us in.
That’s where we have to part ways, though.
I’ve got Jamie a backstage pass, but he can’t come to hair and makeup with me, and the conductor will want to talk to the entire orchestra before curtain’s up, which is also a private thing.
He stops me before I can disappear, though, drawing me back enough to lay another soft kiss against my lips. “Break a leg,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna kill it.”
I don’t know about killing it. But I do know that a year ago, I never would have been smiling like this as I walk out onto that stage, meeting my dad’s proud gaze from where he sits with the other violinists while the conductor gives me a slight nod as I approach the piano.
Smiling? Yes. But this is a joy that fills up every part of me.
It overflows, golden and ebullient, and I feel like I could do anything right now.
I imagine I can see my mother when I look out at that crowd, her hands clasped together and her eyes brimming with happy tears.
I imagine the music alive in my bones, desperate to be played.
Even if this doesn’t last—even if in ten years, twenty, I can’t play professionally anymore—I’ll always have this. I’ll always have music.
My hands are shaking when I sit at the bench. I watch them tremble over the ebony and ivory. That familiar curl of fear darkens in my gut, but then the strings begin to play, and I close my eyes, and I let the music take me.