He reached for me and I walked to stand by him, his arm looping around my waist. “Definitely polka. I’m a polka fiend.”

I leaned against his shoulder, still cringing inside. “Okay, so, back to the music at hand . . .”

The thing was, he identified with the bachata on some level—and with the plainsong. He wasn’t just writing about a trip to the Cloisters here. Multiple cultures—he lived in them and they lived in him, variations on the theme of Oscar, and he switched them up when he felt he needed to.

He’d joked that he was a perfect plus one, never two, but he was more than two. He was as many people as he needed to be. It had to wear on him.

“So think about how it relates to the first movement,” I said, smoothing a bent corner of his composition page. “Is this a layering, is it a debate . . . a dance-off? Is one going to win, or . . . do they need to find a way to . . . ?”

Oscar peered up at me. “Cohabit. The thing is, I don’t have an answer.”

“I continue to have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“No.” Oscar squinted at the keys. “No, this . . . it’s something. It’s a question and that’s . . . yeah. I think you might actually be a muse.”

As cheesy as the word muse might have been, it didn’t feel insulting. It was a job, a purpose, a definition. And I was enjoying it.

He played and I listened. I frowned when it wasn’t quite there and clapped when it was and somehow my thinking walked the same lines as his. He strung it together, went back to add, jot, cross out—a quick harmonic sketch, the full orchestrations would come later—and then he played the whole thing.

And we looked at each other.

“Second movement.”

“I think so.”

We high-fived over our heads.

It was dark outside. We’d been at this for hours.

“Hungry?” I asked.

He stood, closing the fallboard, then reached for me. “Ravenous.”

•   •   •

“Fast-food restaurant.”

“This one.” I nodded up at the Burger Barn menu. “Fried potato product?”

“Seasoned, curly. You?”

“Shoestring.” I smiled at the cashier. “Small shoestring fry, classic double, please.”

“Same for me, no pickles on the burger,” Oscar said.

I looked at him. “No pickles?”

“No pickles.”

“I’ll take his pickle.”

Oscar stifled a laugh. The cashier rolled her eyes.

As soon as we found a seat, Oscar’s shirt pocket started ringing Dvořák.

“‘Songs My Mother Taught Me’?”

“And I’ll give you one guess who’s calling . . .” But he silenced his phone and put it to the side.

“You can answer! It is your mom, right? Am I—?”

His hand froze like this was a life or death decision. Then he stood. “Moms! Hey! Yeah, sorry it’s been so . . .” And he strolled out to the sidewalk.