“Hey.” I cleared my throat and pulled myself sitting. “I’m distracting you.”

Oscar propped himself up on one arm. “What?”

“You’ve got serious work cut out for you here. And I’m—”

“I’m not worried about the symphony.”

“You are worried about something.” I pulled my shirt down and crossed my arms over it. “Do you want to talk about it? Or . . . ?”

“I’m good. You don’t need to . . .” He grinned, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’m fine!”

It was convincing. But his hand was clenching and unclenching next to him. I wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

“Okay. Well.” I slid off the bed. “I’ve lived with a composer my entire life, so I seriously do know the drill. You need space to be inspired. If you don’t get enough of it, stress builds up and . . .”

You get short-tempered. You throw things and trash your study and barely say two words to your entire family for weeks.

I blinked, hard. “Get some work done, that’s all I’m saying. And then find me when you’re ready to take a break. You know where I live.”

I nodded upstairs, like he needed the visual aid.

“When does your dad get back?” Oscar blurted.

My mind ping-ponged between the many different reasons he could have asked that question. “Friday morning.”

“I’m supposed to have a second movement to show him by then.”

“Ah.”

“You’re right, I should probably make some headway.”

He peered up at me, waiting for a counterargument to my own argument. I felt a tugging in my chest, like I’d been hooked and he was reeling me closer.

“Or . . .” I said, my knees sinking onto the mattress.

He grinned. “Or . . .”

My phone beeped—a text, a nagging memory rising with it.

I stood up again, grabbing my phone.

Nora. Still on for lunch? :)

“It’s Monday. Crap. I was supposed to—I am so late!” I turned around, pointlessly. “Ugh. I’m gonna cancel.”

Oscar stood. “No, if you’ve got something to—”

“It’s not . . .” I clicked my phone off. “In any way important.”

“No no no, you’ve got your life,” he said, holding my arms, steadying me. “I get it! And, you’re right . . . I should . . . yeah . . .”

I opened my mouth to protest, but his eyes had already drifted to the sheets hanging on the walls—lost in music in the space of a blink.

•   •   •

Nora’s house was cool and dry. It smelled like lilies and wood polish. As a woman in a housekeeping uniform shut the huge mahogany door behind me, I took a step farther into the grand entryway, and the sound of it echoed up three curved flights of stairs, making me crane my head as if I could follow its flight.

Nora poked her head over the banister. “Come up, sweetness! I’m just sending an email.”