I bit the heel of my hand so Oscar couldn’t hear me crying. So I couldn’t either. After a minute, my dad’s voice shouted from his study and I heard Oscar trudging away and the door downstairs creaking shut behind him. And then the music. His goddamned taunting music.

Even through the blanket I shoved over my head, I could tell Oscar was off today. And still a million times better than I would ever be.

They’d ended early. I peeked out my window to see him walking around the stoop to his apartment, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked up to my window.

I ducked away. Sat on the bed.

Then a giant’s thudding steps sounded on the stairwell, followed by three great knocks on my door.

“Ruby,” Dad said. “It’s time we had a talk.”

31.

dad sat on the corner of my bed while I crawled up to make a nest of pillows, wondering how long it had been since he’d been in this room. Years, maybe.

Besides me and our old housekeeper, the last person to set foot inside was Mom. She’d sat next to me right here, languid and soft and warm, playing with my hair, comparing toes, before getting into it. We’d already had the “this is an amicable divorce, nothing needs to change” chat with Dad in the kitchen the week prior, and this had been the follow-up—the “I want to talk you through my tour dates” conversation. I’d been stoic even as she flipped to a new month, and another, and another. I’d told her how exciting it was.

Now, wiping my eyes dry only to have them fill back up again, I wondered what might have happened if I’d cried then like I wanted to. Would it have changed anything? Would she have cared enough to stay?

“Honey.” Dad rubbed his beard. “I try my very best not to dictate what you do with your life. If you want it, my job is to give it to you, period. But this isn’t a good idea. And I think you know it.”

“Yeah.” My voice came out like a kid’s. I pressed my lips together to keep from tipping into sobbing. “I’m not a singer, I was being stupid. I don’t know.”

Dad’s brow creased. “Not the . . . if you want to sing, you should sing. Christ, Odile’s not cheap, but I’m happy to pay for lessons if that’s what you want to do. No. Ruby. I’m talking about Oscar.”

My arms went cold. I reached out to flip off the AC and picked up a pillow to hug. “What about him?”

Dad cleared his throat. “I want you to give him a wide berth.”

“You’re . . .” I clutched the pillow. “Wait, is . . . ?”