“Really? Ugh. This is what happens when your life has no schedule. Anyway, I haven’t heard from him since then. Or seen him. Nothing.”

“Have you texted him?”

“Yeah, twice. Once asking him if he wanted to grab dinner, another one that was, like, a confused-face emoji.”

“Wow. How do you manage to ghost somebody who lives upstairs from you? I’d be impressed if I weren’t so indignant.”

My pace flagged. Jules jogged a few steps ahead, then turned. I powered on.

“So what is your deal, anyway?” Jules looked at me. “Are you two exclusive? Is he dating other people? Do musicians even manage to hook up or are they too busy rehearsing all the time—?”

“No, they hook up.” My mouth felt dry. “Especially in summer programs, it’s like this weird teenaged bacchanal. With less booze. Not that I’ve ever . . . yeah.”

“Is that where you used to go every summer? Music programs?”

“Yeah. Wildwood. Adirondacks.”

“Not Amberley?”

“I’m not good enough for Amberley.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I auditioned.”

Jules slowed, hunching, and motioned us to a bench—and for one split second, my angst was replaced with a surge of pride that I’d managed to outlast her for the first time. Then the angst surged back, full force. Maybe Oscar decided there were too many points against us being together. Maybe he was caught up in his composition and forgot I existed. Maybe—

“You should show up,” Jules said, hands pressed to her thighs.

I squinted.

“At his, like, Rachmaninoff Baroque quartet rehearsal or whatever.”

A snort burst out of me. “Sorry . . . you called Rachmaninoff Baroque.”

“Whatever,” she groaned. “Go to Lincoln Center, sneak in, observe unseen. Take a look at what’s going on when you’re not around.”

“You don’t mean confront him, you mean stalk him.” For some reason, that came as a relief.

“Potato, potahto.” She nodded to the path and we started to jog again, more slowly this time.

I thought about her suggestion. The idea started to swirl and gather, a perfect storm of compulsions.

“Hey, so,” Jules said, her tone approaching awkward. “Kudzu Giants are coming to Amsterdam Ballroom in August and we got you a ticket.”

“We?”

“You know, the ‘gang.’” She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m the one who bought the ticket, but everybody’s hoping you’ll come.”

“That sounds awesome. Wow.” I smiled, touched. “I mean, I don’t listen to a ton of hip-hop, so I probably won’t know the songs . . .”

Jules turned with a snort to match my own. “You called Kudzu Giants hip-hop.”

“Are they not?”

She slung an arm over my shoulder. “We have so much to teach each other.”

We passed a block lined with white trailers for a film shoot. Jules grumbled at having to detour, but I still caught her glancing back to see what they were shooting.

I grinned at her. She ignored me.