“What’s your brother’s name, the older one?” he asked, leaning back to pocket his phone. “I can’t believe I’m blanking. He’s an amazing oboist . . .”

“Leonard. Leo. He’s got two little kids, Aaron and Matilda, so I’m an aunt.” Sort of. I’d only met them once.

“What about your mom?”

My mouth went dry. I sipped my lemonade.

“She’s touring, right? That’s what your dad said.”

“Well, yeah.” I peered over at him, confused. “I mean, she’s not with Dad anymore. They split up last year. Amicable. Totally fine, no drama.”

“That’s ideal.”

“Yeah, it was really . . . evolved. They’re still friends, it’s just the way it is.”

Another swig.

Oscar smiled. “But she’s been on tour?”

“Yeah! The last . . . eleven months? She’s doing great, getting tons of high-profile bookings, it’s awesome. You know, for so long it was all about Dad, and now her name is getting out there. I really admire that.”

I finished off my lemonade and capped the bottle, turning it over in my hand.

“Do you get to see her much?”

“She’s taking a break soon. So. We’ll catch up then. I mean, it’s not like I’m five, right?”

“No,” he said softly. “Well, I hope I get to meet her while I’m here. She’s an incredible artist.”

I stood, jaw tight. “She is. You ready to—?”

“Oh. Yes.” He tossed his trash into the bin by the door and followed me to the intersection.

As he drew level, I glanced over at him and caught him staring. Instead of looking away, he shot me a brazen, single-dimpled grin, and it edged out all thoughts of my mother.

We strolled around to the park, passing high-rises with their doormen waiting in pools of lobby light, carriages clip-clopping back to the park stables, taxis, vans, buses skidding past, taillights cutting a red streak through the darkness.

Normal life, summer in the city. It had been here this whole time, year after year, and now I was in it.

We looked at each other again, briefly this time, and our steps took on a different beat, like gravity wasn’t working as well as a second ago. Oscar started humming to the rhythm. I recognized the tune.

“Is that something you’ve been working on?”

“Yeah, I can’t . . .” He reached out, fighting with something invisible. “I can’t get rid of it, so I’m trying to figure it out.”

“You act like you’ve got cholera.”

“That’s what it feels like!” He walked backward to face me. “I’ve come down with a melody. But the only way to get rid of it is to make it music, find it friends.”

“Friends?”