“He played the first movement,” Dad boomed. “You should have seen him.”

I hadn’t realized that was an option.

“He started out with that motif, described what it conveyed, the bridge, coming into the city, the Romantic theme—”

Dad meant it with a capital R. Romantic. As in the musical style.

But Oscar’s shoulders drew in like Dad had said too much. “Ah. I sort of improvised from there, but . . . you know, it wasn’t bad. It sketched out where I want to go with it. Minus the details, of course, and that’s where the music really . . . lives . . .”

His eyes rose to meet mine.

“We’re staying in to work, Rooster,” Dad said, walking into the kitchen. “What do you feel like for dinner?”

I knew Dad well enough to know what that meant: What do you feel like getting me for dinner? It had never annoyed me before, but it did now—so the knock that sounded on the door, right on cue, felt extra satisfying.

“I’m heading out, actually.”

Oscar glanced at me, shoulders slumping.

Dad popped his head out of the kitchen, quizzical, like he’d heard me wrong.

“I’ve sort of reconnected with Jules—do you remember Jules?” He looked even blanker. “Julie Russo? Our neighbor?”

“The ten-year-old?”

I laughed. “She’s not ten anymore. Neither am I, by the way.”

Oscar fought a smile as he headed to the front door. The second he opened it, Jules strode through, holding a sequined top out to me.

“Try this,” she said, then glanced over her shoulder at Oscar. “I’m Jules, nice to meet you.”

“Oh,” he said, “I’m—”

“Hi, Mr. Chertok!” she shouted into the kitchen. “Long time no see.”

“You look the same,” Dad said, which made Jules and me exchange a delighted giggle, before she pulled me up the stairs like she was the one who lived here. She remembered exactly where my room was.

“Strip,” she said, as soon as I shut the door.

I raised my eyebrows. “Are you hitting on me?”

“Don’t you wish. We’re just in a hurry. Everybody’s already there and my phone is going to break from all the pissy texts I’m getting.”

I slipped the shirt on over the black dress shorts I was wearing.

“Do you have a vest or something?”

I winced a “huh now?” as she played with my messy braid.

“Never mind, this is fine, he’ll like it, let’s go.”

“He’ll . . . what?” I flushed, thinking of Joey. Logistically speaking, last time couldn’t have been a setup, but what about tonight?

Jules trotted down the steps ahead of me. “Aren’t you inviting him?”

I only had enough time to put “him” and “Oscar” together, a thrill shooting through me, before Jules waltzed past the study—its door still open—poked her head in and called out, “You coming tonight or what?”