I stopped smiling. Froze in place, staring. Of all places, I’d walked us here.

I’d been on autopilot and my system was still set to Lincoln Center.

“Wow. Um, why?” Oscar closed his eyes. “I . . . if my sister were here, she would be full-on slapping me. Just, like, Feminism 101: Don’t Call Somebody an Object. And I’ve made you totally uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I said, my fists balling. Not because of him. Because of here.

“I apologize.” His eyes were intent on mine now. “We just met, but that’s not what I’m about. I just . . . I can’t always control my mouth.”

Which made me look at his mouth. Full lips, creased charmingly at the corners. I looked away, thawing, trying to remember what he was apologizing for.

Then he glanced behind him and hopped in the air. “Hey! Where it all happens.”

I stared across four lanes of stopped traffic, taking it in, Dad’s office, his fiefdom, home of the philharmonic, the Metropolitan Opera, the American Ballet Theatre, the Amberley School of Music. Once, it was just my playground, a place with walls to climb and benches to do coloring and flat tiles to bounce my pink sparkle ball. And I remembered when it changed, shifted, lodged itself in the exact center of the universe—the night of Alice’s professional debut, right here at the phil, an absolute triumph.

She’d been my age.

Someone bumped me from behind.

“Sorry,” a short kid mumbled, holding his cello case at arm’s length as he bustled past. I gave way, a few seconds too late. Halfway down the crosswalk, he glanced back, mouth falling slack like he recognized me. It did happen from time to time.

My heart thumped. I could hear it. Probably everyone could.

The kid continued away.

Oscar motioned after him. “Shall we?”

“You shall, should.” One more step back. “Definitely. I would show you around, but you were here yesterday, right? And I’m supposed to meet up with my friend”—I pulled out my phone as if checking the time—“and she’s having a personal issue, so I can’t invite you, but, um, I’ll see you at the big family dinner.” I waved like I was on parade. “Have fun, make good . . . choices!”

I turned and sprinted away, marking the fastest possible route—one long, noisy block to another world.

Safely inside Central Park, breathing green, I secured a boulder to sit on, a fenced-off vista to peer at bleakly.

Okay. I needed to pull in the damn reins. He thought I was somebody. A Chertok. He’d blank me once he knew.

But it was flirting, wasn’t it? I wasn’t that clueless.