I felt my shoulders relax. This, his silence, was as much a gift as Arnold Rombauer’s dismissal had been back in April—an acknowledgment of what I already knew, of what Mom had always known.

Oscar walked behind me, lightly touching my fingers. “Your hands are small.”

He didn’t say it like he was trying to make excuses for me. More as a simple observation. Almost an endearment. Or maybe a reason to touch my hand, turn it over, run his fingers along each of mine.

My heart beat faster. “Mom’s are small too. They say it’s part of why she’s such a brilliant musician. She had to work harder—change the traditional fingering in difficult pieces to suit her own hands, which makes it sound fresh, I guess. Unexpected.” I drew a shaky breath. “I always thought that was what it took. Working as hard as she did, practicing the same number of hours, in the same schedule, the exact same . . .”

I touched the keys but didn’t press them.

“The thing is . . .” I started to go on, but my voice clenched.

Oscar sat on the bench next to me.

“I love music. I love experiencing music. But the second I start to play, something sort of shuts off inside me. The joy evaporates—I feel like a machine. But I mean, a machine would at least be technically adept, right? I miss notes and lose my place and scramble to get back, no matter how many times I practice. Mom and Alice and everybody else, that doesn’t happen to them. Which makes me wonder what’s different about me? What’s missing?”

My hand rested against my throat, as if to soothe the raw knot rising in it.

“And if it’s not hard work and dedication,” I went on, gritty, “then, I mean, maybe it’s my soul. Maybe I don’t have the soul for it?”

I’d never admitted it before, out loud or otherwise, but there it was. Giving up piano hadn’t felt like a redirection or even a failure. It had felt like an admission—that I was lesser. That I was empty.

I caught a distorted glimpse of myself in the fallboard and forced my eyes away.

Oscar stared at the entryway. “Do you know what I thought, the first time I saw you? My very first impression? I thought you were a ghost.”

I let out a surprised laugh. “I knew it. I looked—”

“You looked beautiful. You looked otherworldly.” He turned to me. “And I keep seeing it. You try so hard to be what other people need you to be, but then there are these moments where you’re just . . . no bullshit. It’s like your body’s not there, and you’re pure emotion, whatever the emotion is. Embarrassment or sadness or . . .” He frowned as if heartbroken himself. “I think it’s why I can’t stay away from you.”