I’d survived. I’d stood up and embarrassed myself in front of an audience and emerged unscathed. My heart continued to beat. My stomach continued to rumble. I was me, a bit braver.

“Bravo,” said Tyler, appearing from nowhere to plop down at our table, stealing a bite of the nachos we didn’t even know had arrived. “Sorry I’m late.”

Jules ignored him as she sat, her eyes locked on mine, waiting until the boys were locked in conversation to give me a barely perceptible thumbs-up, marking her approval of Oscar.

I waited for my chance to return the favor with Ty. It never quite came.

27.

“so?” Oscar turned, arms outstretched.

After hours of debate, this was the chosen look—hair supernaturally natural, dark skin shining, smile stupefying, a soft button-down with faint blue stripes, pale gray pants, lace-up brown boots, a bow tie in deep green that I couldn’t believe wasn’t a clip-on until I saw him retie it with my own eyes. He looked like he should be riding a unicycle on his way to the polo grounds.

“Perfection,” I said, kissing his cheek and breathing in minty aftershave. “Let’s taxi it so you don’t melt.”

His expression wavered between a giddy grin and a deep frown the entire ride to Lincoln Center, his hand clenching mine with every turn.

“You’re going to do great,” I said as we walked across the plaza to Amberley. “Just be yourself.”

“I wish you were interviewing me.”

“Oh yeah, all my incisive questions . . . ‘Tell me Oscar, what do you feel like for lunch?’ ‘Who would win in a keyboard battle, Bach or Liszt?’”

“Bach. Next question.”

“Maybe I’ll become a TV journalist,” I joked.

Oscar pointed to me. “Maybe.”

“I’ll keep it on the list.”

“On the Liszt?” Oscar said, nudging me, then his shoulders slumped. “God, I’m nervous. Don’t let me pun in front of Shawna.”

“I’m sure you’ll conduct yourself just fine.” I pushed him. “Get it, get it?”

He covered his face.

“You’ll end the interview on a high note—I’m stopping, sorry.”

The antiseptic smell of the Amberley administrative offices hit us like a wall as soon as we stepped inside the marble lobby, like we’d entered some sort of sealed-off lab. There weren’t any students milling around today—just news people waiting with clipboards and microphone gear.

A blonde with a tight braid perked up at the sight of us. “Oscar Bell?”

“Yes!” He extended a hand.

She lifted a finger, hoisting her phone to her ear.

“He’s here. Second floor? On our way.” Then she finally shook back, swiveling on her heels to push the elevator button. “I’m Libby, Ms. Oneida’s assistant.”

Ms. Oneida? The producer, maybe?

“Everyone’s waiting in Mr. Chertok’s office.”