“Not because of me. He . . . Oscar’s worried it’ll mess up the work he’s doing with my dad, which is fair enough.” I untied and retied my shoe for no reason. “This whole thing started and ended because he thinks I’m a Chertok, or whatever, like my family, and I get that, and I’m supposed to be finding a way out of that world, that’s what this summer was for, so . . . it was going to fizzle at some point anyway. It’s completely fine!”

“Double back. Rewind.” Jules’s eyes narrowed. “You really think that’s why he’s into you? Because of musical ability? Or are you actually just talking about your last name?”

“Both, but not on a conscious level.” I motioned vaguely in the air. “More a pull kind of thing.”

“A star-fucker thing.” She winced. “Sorry, that was crass. Potty mouth.”

“I am not a star. So.”

“You’re a classical music princess.” She shrugged. “Still twinkly.”

The word princess felt a million times crasser than what she’d said before. I stared at my lap, but she leaned her head way over so I would see her.

“Maybe he just likes you, Ruby. Did you think of that?”

“I . . . have considered the possibility?” I gripped my knees. “It’s just, it’s not something I’ve in any way earned. If somebody like Oscar is into me, it needs to be because I’ve achieved something. Preferably something incredible.”

“Cool, cool. Yeah, I take it back, you are way too weird to be a princess. So. Freaking. Bizarre!”

I laughed. “I am working hard to spin this conversation as a friendly one.”

“Dude, I’m just trying to follow it!” She squinted at me. “You don’t think you deserve love unless you, like, cure cancer? Or are we still talking about playing an instrument really well, which is . . . I guess an achievement?”

I let the jab about music slide. “It’s not about deserving. It’s about earning.”

“You literally just gave me a synonym for deserving.”

I knew I sounded ridiculous, but this felt important. I thought of Oscar—all that brilliance, all that work—and me, everything just there, at my feet.

The very first memory I’d replayed this morning was that taxi bypassing Oscar. And me, blithely flagging the next one, painfully clueless.

He deserved more. Better.

Jules was still looking at me, exasperated. She was never going to accept that answer.

“I don’t know what I think. I just know . . .” I heaved a cheerful sigh. “That I am not going to figure it out after running that far. My brain is mushy. Twinkly mushy.”