I stared up at his face in profile, slack with joy at the podium, and my heart swelled and broke and healed to break again, because oh my God, I knew him, this quickly, and he knew me, and there was still so much left to know, to be wrong about, surprised by, to marvel at, this separate person who somehow loved me.

Forty minutes passed—a summer, years, a lifetime. And all of it his now, in every sense, all rights reserved in perpetuity throughout the universe. I listened, silent, but inside I was singing along at the top of my lungs.

The orchestra played the final bars with the golden exhilaration of sunset burning over the city’s horizon. One more flourish of the baton—and silence fell.

My heart rested, but only for a second. Because then the world started to roar, a volcano erupting as everyone flew to their feet, cheering for Oscar. Not for what he might accomplish. For what he had.

He didn’t turn to face us yet. He nodded, set down the baton. A quick whisper into his phone before he pushed to hang up, and even then, he didn’t turn.

I scrambled to my feet, too overcome to clap. Oscar pivoted, numb, like he was in shock, and found my face in the crowd. I shot him a smiling nod, encouraging him to take his bow.

Instead, to the whoops of the audience, he hopped from the stage into the front row and headed straight for me.

I took his hand. It was trembling again.

He stepped closer, his mouth resting just past my ear. “I’m not staying for the meet and greet.”

I laughed. “I think that’s okay!”

Oscar leaned past me to slap hands with Reinhardt and whisper a heartfelt thank-you to Liz. Jules shot him a thumbs-up, mouthing Whoa, and he clutched his heart, grinning.

But before any of us could urge him back onstage, he took my hand.

I glanced at Jules.

“Go go go!” She winked. “I’ve got potential clients to gawk at. See you back on the block.”

With that, Oscar was in motion. He led me swiftly away, toward our closest fire exit, all the while motioning gratefully to the orchestra and giving a hasty wave to the shouting audience.

As soon as we were through the doors and out of sight, we ran—fleeing together through the back rooms of Lilly Hall, like we’d pulled off a heist, me in pristine silver shoes, his glossy ones squeaking with every stride, laughter bubbling, then bursting out of us, wild.

We hit the stage door and erupted into the humid night. Oscar swung us left, away from the press, past the side of the plaza where limo drivers stood smoking, then down a flight of steps and into the wild, steaming clamor of the city.