“I see.” Dad sat again, like he was too tired to stand.

He seemed older today, his actual age catching up with him. I wondered how draining that UK trip had been, despite the extended stay. Or maybe it was this conversation making him look like a series of small objects was falling onto his head.

“I don’t think you’ll have much time for dating this summer, son.” He squinted up at Oscar. “Your premiere is in five weeks and you’ve got—”

“We didn’t plan for this to happen,” I interrupted, while Oscar blurted, “She’s helping me. She’s a huge help, kind of a muse—”

“All right!” Dad lifted a hand, not looking at either of us. “You don’t need to ask my blessing. Just don’t let it affect your work.”

Oscar spun toward me, exultant, and I smiled back. But as I drifted into the hall, I felt more spectral than ever.

He was relieved—of course he was—because my father gave the okay. I knew Dad would, in the end. I’d even known the words he would use. They didn’t mean Dad approved, they meant he didn’t care enough about the subject to argue.

“Show me what you’ve got so far.” Dad closed the door to the study.

Even with my own door shut, I could hear Oscar playing on Dad’s upright. I sat on the edge of my bed and listened, bracing for my heart to sink into the trench I’d dug between music and me—but it didn’t. It bloomed, slowly unfurling.

That music was Oscar’s. And Oscar was mine.

25.

“muse.” Jules held the door to the pizzeria with her foot. “He used that word.”

“It’s sort of corny, but . . .”

“It’s sort of insulting.”

“He was scrambling. My dad can be intimidating.”

“But not, ‘Your daughter is amazing, I love hanging out with her.’ He says he needs you as a prop to make his music happen, basically? It’s so pretentious.”

I watched her, comprehension dawning, as I walked to the counter. “You don’t like him.”

“I don’t know him! I just . . . worry for you.” Jules glared at the slices on display. “And I think you’re a hell of a lot more than some dude’s ‘muse.’”

“Thank you,” I mumbled. “That’s nice.”

“It’s true.”

“While we’re saying true things, I think you’re better than this ‘born to be a shop girl’ dramarama.” I kicked her ankle. “There’s nothing wrong with shop girls whatsoever. But you’ve got talent, Jules—”

She side-eyed me hard. “You are changing the subject.”

“I’m . . . talking about potential! Yours, mine.”