“Depends. Is there delightfully tiny food there?” She took a bite of quiche. “I am sneaking a champagne, by the way.”

I stuck a ticket in her leather clutch with a wink. “See you inside.”

The back stairwell to the rehearsal rooms was empty. I hurried past the rooms where Amberley kids were gathered and drank in the sounds of normal teenagers, instruments set aside for the moment, cracking jokes to dilute their stage fright—then I continued to Oscar’s space, a new one, smaller, unblemished by the panic of the past few weeks.

I opened the door, seeing a line of lights over a broad mirror, two bouquets—one I knew Alice and Danny had sent, the other probably from his parents—and then Oscar.

He’d just finished tying his bow tie. He was dark, bright, princely, perfect.

He saw me through the mirror and gawked. “Wow.”

“Weird, right?” I twirled so my tea-length skirt became a whip.

“That wasn’t the word I was thinking.” He turned to catch me mid-spin and touched my dress with the tips of his fingers.

I glanced in the mirror at the two of us, together—tuxedo and white dress—and nearly burst out laughing.

“I really want to kiss you,” Oscar murmured. “But I don’t want to mess up your lipstick.”

It was blood red, perfectly applied. He had a point. Jules would kill me.

“We’ll kiss when this is done. Like . . . so much kissing.”

Oscar’s forehead pinched. “How’s your dad?”

“Fine.” I smoothed Oscar’s sleeve. “Resting.”

“It’s weird not having him here.”

“I know . . . but this is your night. He’s rooting for you from home.” I looked back at the clock. Twenty to eight. “Do you feel ready?”

He drew a long breath. “I do.”

“Good.”

“How about you?”

I nodded with more confidence than I felt. “I’ve got this.”

“This is your symphony too, you know. We should share—”

“Oh blah.” I put my finger to his lips.

“Seriously, Ruby. What would the music have been about if I’d never met you?”

“Trees. Forks. The poor guy who choked to death at the next table while you made musical notations about it, you bastard.”

Oscar laughed so hard he started coughing.

“Sorry! Don’t you choke! I’m going.” I stepped back toward the door. He really did need to concentrate.

And I just needed to say one more thing. “I love you, Oscar Bell.”

He closed his eyes in reply, absorbing the words like they were a magical incantation. In a way, they were.

I slid the door shut behind me, eyeing those two bouquets. Dad’s greenroom before premieres always looked like his bedroom right now, a flower shop on load-in day. Had Oscar gotten even one bouquet from Amberley? Did Nora forget?