Oscar’s fingers traced my spine. “When did your mom leave?”

Something detonated in my chest, shrapnel scattering. There it was.

“She’s on tour.”

He went still, waiting for an answer. Something true.

“July. Last July.” My eyes started to well. “Almost a year ago . . .” A tear fell, my nose stinging. I swiped it, heaving a jerky breath. “Ugh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He held my face gently and wiped the tear with his thumb. “You miss her?”

“No, I don’t want to.” I sniffed, forcing my eyes dry. “That other piano in our sitting room is hers. Nobody ever dared touch it. She rehearsed on it every day—it was her home, do you know what I mean? It bugs me that she never came to get it. I think it’s what bugs me the most, but maybe that’s part of touring, soloing, if you’re successful. You need to adapt. And she’s busy, I know she’s busy.” I filled my lungs until they stung. “Anyway. We’ll make up for lost time when she gets a break.”

“And you’ve got your dad.”

“I texted her that I quit the piano. Back in April, after my Amberley audition.”

“You auditioned—?” Oscar’s eyes widened. “Sorry, no, go on.”

“She didn’t . . .” I pressed my lips together. “She probably didn’t know what to say. I don’t know, she didn’t write back.”

Oscar perched on his elbow. “She didn’t write back about that? Or . . .”

“No, I haven’t . . .” I exhaled the rest of my sadness away. “I haven’t heard from her since March, I guess? Anyway. No big deal. Tell me about these girls you went out with but did not have sex with.”

Even Oscar’s teeth seemed to blush.

“What?” I smiled. “It’s my turn, right?”

“Yeah, fair enough. They were orchestra girls. One played the . . . I guess they all played the violin.”

“Oh God.” I pulled the towel up, laughing. “You have a type and it’s not me.”

“It’s you,” he murmured. “It’s only you.”

I dropped the towel.

He cleared his throat, lips pressed together to stifle a smile. “My turn. Favorite piece of classical music. I’ve got a hunch you actually have an answer to this one.”

“You’re going to make fun of me.”

“‘Rock Me Amadeus’ is not classical.”

I laughed, pushing his shoulder. “How do you even know that song? How do I?”

“The answer is always YouTube. But for real, what’s your favorite? I won’t laugh.”

I bit my pinkie. “‘Clair de Lune.’”

“‘Clair de Lune’ is incredible! Why would I make fun of that?”

“I feel like it got ruined. Have you seen—?”

“Oh riiiiight. Mr. Romantic Vampire, playing the piano. There’s a reason they picked that song, though. It’s lush.”