They all rose and exited the house at a glacial pace, like a ceremonial procession in an opera—Mr. New York Times already asking Oscar how his love of music began, Nora linking arms with Dad while Bill surged ahead on a tiny invisible Segway. I thought for a second Nora might stop and make good on that pinch, but she didn’t even glance over her shoulder at me as she left with the others. Only Oscar did—faint regret shining in his eyes before he turned away again, continuing the conversation.

The door shut, the procession proceeded, the house sank into silence around me, and my brain . . . crescendoed.

Okay, what the hell were we? What had felt nice and unique and balanced in the courtyard was now jangling in its discord. How was I supposed to feel right now?

I cleared up the half-full coffee mugs they’d left on the dining table, determined to distract myself. Whether we were a thing or not, it wasn’t as if our individual lives were going to stop. And if anyone had a life, it was Oscar—a rammed schedule, a symphony to write—none of which could be put on hold for . . . whatever. I got it, understood it, wouldn’t let it affect me, even if I had shared something with him that felt way more vulnerable than any make-out session.

A courtyard. A couple of childhood memories. Oscar’s secret vulnerabilities and feelings for me and—calm down, I told myself, this is fine.

But it wasn’t until I closed the dishwasher and leaned against the counter, task completed, that another source of uneasiness hit me.

Oscar wasn’t just some guy I was ambiguously hanging out with. Somehow, along the line, I’d started blanking who he was—Dad’s protégé, Amberley’s most gifted recruit, a bottomless font of brilliant music. Now he was officially someone the New York Times wanted to interview, and I was still . . . a blur.

Oscar was right to put the brakes on. This summer was his moment. It was in no way mine.

A knock sounded in the entryway. I thought for a confused second it was Oscar back already, but when I opened the door to the street, Nora stood three inches away, shrugging broadly.

“Am I right?”

Oh God. I couldn’t stop my cheeks from flaming. “About . . . ?”

She shot me a playful glare as she walked past me into the house. “I could be wrong, but I’m usually right about these things. I have an eye for gossip.” She peered at the Steinway for a second as if searching for Mom on the bench, then turned. “So. You? Young Oscar Bell? Is this a thing?”

“I . . . duh . . . he . . . um . . .”