The streets snarled instantly, I’d missed a crosstown bus . . . I eyed the way west, running calculations. And I started to jog.

A brisk half block, dodging wet pedestrians, before I hit the park—familiar territory. Jules and I had run it yesterday.

Unfortunately, this route was far easier in Nikes. The darkness rendered everything unfamiliar, the path winding me in the wrong direction, so I pointed myself west, left the pavement, hurdled over a low wire fence, and zipped through soggy grass, clumps of dirt flying in my wake. There went the zoo, the giant boulder, the carnival at Wollman Rink, its jangling music hushed beneath the splatter of rain, up and over and around.

Darting between trees, I felt the ground gave way—the decline slick with mud from the downpour. My shoes skidded from beneath me, sending my butt sledding, my back, elbows, hair coated with loamy soil. I laughed, screamed, got up, ran.

I could do this. I was good at this!

Out of the park, onto the sidewalk, into Midtown gridlock, the crosswalk signs interminable, dodging umbrellas, wiping water from my eyes so I could see, this flimsy dress clinging to curves I was sure were now completely exposed, but I didn’t care—because I saw the Lincoln Center fountain gleaming tall ahead of me, a mystical vision, the end of a quest.

Two steps into the Lilly Hall lobby and I heard the answer to my last question. The second movement was playing. Oscar was here.

His shoulders were stiff up at that podium, but he was concentrating hard, fighting to stay on that tight rope. The violinist was standing, playing her solo more beautifully than ever. I stepped into the auditorium, and saw her eyes drift toward me.

Her instrument screeched.

Oscar let the next two bars play out, then motioned them to stop.

“Sorry! Sorry,” she said. “I . . .”

Everyone was staring now and it finally occurred to me to glance at myself—sodden legs, broken heels, muddy wreck of a dress. I nearly started laughing. My transformation into a low-budget horror ghost was now complete.

But Oscar didn’t seem to notice the mud at all. A grin broke over his face.

“Take five,” he said, and the orchestra relaxed, watching with bald curiosity as he hopped off the stage and jogged wordlessly to me.

We stepped into the empty lobby and turned to each other so quickly I couldn’t even get a breath in before we were kissing, fighting over who deserved to say “I’m sorry,” kissing again, arms clenched tight around each other’s shoulders.

We were each other’s life rafts, finding balance while the river beat on around us.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Oscar said.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “It is.”

38.