So now, day six, vacation. Summer heat, thicker and hazier than New York’s by a factor of ten. Tomatoes from the garden, fish from the river, Gramps trying to “fatten me up.” We talked about college sports more than music, and it was obviously what I needed—except for this pain, the one I was feeling right now. I would breathe, it would go away. I would think of Oscar and it would get worse and better at the same time, like the relief I felt as a little kid, pushing a loose tooth back into the ache.

Our calls were making it worse. We talked on the landline every night, after my grandparents went to bed, and there was no discernable longing in his voice. New York was great, the symphony was shaping up, rehearsals were amazing, he didn’t say I miss you, didn’t attempt I love you, I had to maintain rapid-fire subject changes to keep him from rushing me off the phone, and—

Eight more days. I gazed at the light on the river, shifting endlessly. Peace. Space. Dad pacified, Oscar’s symphony complete, and I’ll be . . . I’ll . . .

I’ll just be.

I nodded. Then I headed back to the house, feeling either completely enlightened or about to faint from heat stroke.

“Your dad’s on TV!” Grandma Jean called down to me as I was rounding the pool. “You’re probably used to it, but come up if you want to see!”

I squinted up at the porch. Dad didn’t have a premiere to promote. He used to host these Welcome to the Symphony network specials, but those stopped airing before I was born.

Then it hit me.

I sprinted into the living room and grinned at the non-Dad close-up on the mounted screen. Oscar. My Oscar. He looked close enough to touch.

“It’s a dream come true,” he was saying, his voice strangely rote.

Grandma Jean pointed past me. “Is that the boy who’s been staying with y’all?”

“Oscar Bell, yeah,” I answered, excitement tugging me onto my tiptoes. “Can you rewind it? Or—”

“I think so. Let me . . .” She stared at the remote.

By the sound of it, Dad had only referred to him in oblique terms—not surprising, given that he’d sent me here to protect Oscar and his delicate creative process from the perils of my feminine allure.

But I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t confessed what he was to me. Maybe because thinking about him hurt enough. Talking about him might have ripped me apart entirely.

“There!” Grandma Jean sat as a commercial ended and the clip began.

It was ATV’s morning news program, a panel of perky hosts sitting around a coffee table with Shawna Wells, who looked like she’d descended from Olympus and didn’t want to stay long.