“They . . .” I glanced at the door. “Told me where you were. I came here looking for you. Like I said, my flight—”

“I’m sorry, ugh, I shouldn’t have . . . I’m not . . .” He sat in one of the plastic rehearsal chairs. “I missed you.”

Now there was longing in his voice.

I sat next to him. “I missed you too.”

A blizzard of thoughts swarmed me at once, apologies for leaving, confusion over the conversations we’d had, descriptions of the peace I’d found in tiny pockets, my mom showing up and all that that entailed, but none of them made their way past my lips—because all I wanted was to kiss him. So I did.

In the middle of the rehearsal room, both of us nearly careening off our plastic chairs, hands in each other’s hair, we kissed like the room was filling with water and we were each other’s only source of oxygen, and I kept thinking, Finally, finally, finally I’m home.

But time was running out.

“I want to hear your piece.” I kissed his forehead. “Can you play it for me?”

Oscar knew what I was really asking. He knew damn well I’d been put up to it.

Even so, he took my hand, stood up, and walked out with me, passing Nora without a glance, fingers gripping tight all the way to the stage of Lilly Hall.

The orchestra didn’t applaud his appearance this time. But they snapped to attention when he drew himself up and took the baton.

And then they played.

I watched from the wings with Nora flanking me, the great enormous world constricting into one narrow lane, two endless glass walls on either side.

The orchestra. Oscar. Nora. Me in the middle, fighting to breathe.

36.

it took me half the walk home to ask him. We stopped at a busy crosswalk, the city din around us amplifying our own silence, and I tapped his sneaker with my toe.

“When we talked . . .” Emphasis on the when. “I thought you were doing well.”

“You were on vacation. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Unsatisfactory answer. “So what’s been going on with you? The truth.”

He glanced up, as if startled by the question. “It’s been happening for a while. Today was bad.”

“Would you say you’re having anxiety attacks?”

“I mean, yes?” He swallowed. “I’ve seen the school psychologist a few times. We talked about referrals, prescriptions, but . . . I don’t know. I worry about side effects, given everything I need to get done. Maybe after. But maybe I won’t need it anymore when this is over. I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Is this something you’ve dealt with at home?”

“There have been bad days. Bad weeks. I always got through them. This is . . . worse.”