“Ah, no. I went to a Passover Seder at Leo’s place once. It was intense and ended with him screaming at Dad across the table and Mom storming out and Alice chasing her and Win cracking up the whole time. Leo turned conservative after he met his wife and since then, he hardly talks to the rest of us. We’re goyim now, I guess. Mom was raised Methodist, so technically he is too, but nobody ever points that out. It’s sad, though, he’s got a little boy and girl and they’re so cute. I’m an aunt—I think I told you that? But yeah. I mean, it’s nice that he has that faith! I’m happy for him. I do wonder what it would be like to be that . . . sure.”

Oscar was staring at me with a mix of sympathy and admiration.

“Your family is . . .” His voice drifted out.

“Live studio audience.”

“Hopefully you’ll like mine.”

“You think I’ll meet them?”

“I hope so.” HIs fingers laced into mine. “If only so my mom will admit I’m not making you up.”

“So . . . you wanna work some more?” I nodded upstairs. “Find the God piece? That sounds . . . wow.”

He grinned. “No, it’ll come.” He reached for his keys and started down to his apartment. “I’m gonna keep . . .”

His hand hovered an inch from the keyhole.

I waited a beat. Two. Three.

He whirled around, mad-scientist electrified. “I need voices.”

“Oh-kay?”

“This . . . this needs voices.” He hit his chest, like that was the cabinet where the music was being filed. “A choral symphony.”

“Jesus, Oscar . . .” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Amberley’s got a singing program.” He grabbed my hands. “No, listen, this is good. The third piece, the ineffable. I don’t even have to write the lyrics—it can be wordless, like Daphnis et Chloé, I can trust the music to speak to what this piece is saying.”

“What is this piece saying? Have you figured that out over burgers, or . . . ?”

Instead of answering, he pulled me into a kiss and staggered with me inside and I’d already forgotten my question by the time the door shut behind us.

He was distracted, though. I wasn’t totally surprised when his mouth drew back, eyes drifting, and he said, “Let me get a few things down.”

I sat on his bed, twirling my ankles while he lay on his stomach, scribbling, humming, scribbling some more. Then he handed me the sheet.

“Can you sight read?”

I scoffed. “Of course. I’m not that bad, Oscar.”

“Sight-sing, I mean.”

“Oh. Right now?”

I held the sheet out. Of course I could—that had always been my starting point with every keyboard piece, hearing the music, humming it in the shower. But I felt self-conscious, like this was some sort of audition.

I started, tentative, on a la, then stopped. “Is there a better vowel, or—?”