“We fight over the car stereo. Mom likes nineties R&B, Bri’s all Disney Channel pop, Etta hates music—”

“Hates music.”

“She’s lying, it’s her little rebellion.” His smile sank a little as his eyes drifted. “We’ve got this big family on my dad’s side, three aunts, two uncles, I don’t even know how many cousins. They all live, like, forty-five minutes away, so we do a lot of Sunday dinners, and . . .” He laughed. “Mom grew up in Carmel, California, and you know her health hang-ups. She always turns up with escarole cranberry salad. Quinoa burgers. One time my cousins called me Carlton.”

I grimaced.

“It’s all good—like I said, I’m used to it. But this? A world-class conservatory program? ‘Odd one out’ here means . . . it means a whole lot more attention. Higher stakes. Implications that stretch and stretch and . . . yeah. I don’t know. This is new.”

I wanted to link my arm through his, but I stayed put. His eyes shifted to meet mine and he smiled, slumping a little.

“So here’s where I’m concerned. Not concerned, like worried, just contemplating. What does it look like . . . out there”—he motioned past the courtyard—“for . . . let’s say the ‘new kid on the classical music scene’ to immediately hook up with a Chertok?”

I flinched at the sound of my last name.

“It looks deliberate, doesn’t it? And it isn’t. I promise, this is accidental.”

The way he looked at me when he said accidental made the air shimmer.

“They . . . ask about you, you know. The Amberley students. They’re curious.”

I pulled at a snag in my hair. “What do they ask?”

“What you’re like.” He nudged me. “When you’re debuting.”

I let out a mirthless laugh. “Right.”

“I don’t tell them anything.”

“It’s fine, tell them whatever. But I get what you’re saying. I’m, like, this added thing. So . . . people would talk.” I very nearly rallied with a rousing “Who cares what they think?” before stopping myself.

He cared. And whatever his reasons, they mattered.

“So. All that on the one hand. And on the other . . .” Oscar stared at his open palm, then up at me. “You’re what I think about.”

“When?”

“At all times.”

I drew a slow breath.

“I’m done, I promise. Sorry to unload. This is not something I do much of. I don’t have anybody I can talk to about this stuff without seeming . . . I don’t know. Ungrateful. That’s a big thing with my parents, practicing gratitude—”

“You can talk to me about anything. I’m here to listen. Whatever we are.” I drew a slow breath to keep from wincing.