“Touché,” Mark said. He looked for a trashcan for his wrapper and napkin.

Dani scooted toward him — not entirely closing the distance, but shrinking it considerably. I could get used to this, she thought. But I shouldn’t.

“I’m serious,” she said. “How long did it take you?”

He stood and tossed his trash into a nearby can as if it were a basketball hoop. “Three points,” he muttered under his breath. He didn’t say anything else for a moment, but he stood there with his back to Dani, as if deep in thought.

That’s when she noticed a rectangular bulge in his backpack and instinctively knew what it was — his oboe. Suddenly, everything clicked into place: Why a guy like Mark was free on a random weekday instead of working. Why he encouraged her dreams as if he understood them. How he knew about lost jobs and auditions.

“You’re still trying to make it,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.” It came out as a sigh. He nodded without turning around and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I make ends meet by doing a lot of freelance gigs.” He turned around and shrugged. “Helps that I can play pretty much any woodwind. But my heart isn’t with the clarinet.”

“Isn’t the clarinet the wimpy man’s oboe?” It was her attempt at a joke, but she knew there was a kernel of truth to it. The reed and breath control required of an oboe far surpassed that of a clarinet.

The softening of muscles around his mouth hinted that she’d landed on something. Yet she recognized weariness in his voice; she’d felt the same thing every minute of every day over the last six months. Looking back at her time in the city, she had to wonder how much better off she’d have been if she’d thought to work weddings and other events like Mark had. Maybe she could have saved enough to buy herself another month.

But that was all in the past — what might have been. Right now, she wanted to see and hear the enthusiasm she’d first seen in Mark — to have the spark in his eyes return, which her words had extinguished as if she’d blown out a candle with a single breath. What could she say to fix it? Sorry wouldn’t do it. Of course he knew she was sorry that they were both failures.

No. We’re not both failures. He’s no, anyway. His big break is around the corner.

“Play for me?” she asked quietly. She stood and reached out to touch his arm. To her relief, he didn’t flinch or pull back.

He just turned his head slightly and tilted it, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“Because I want to hear your music the way only you can play it.” She hadn’t planned on saying any of that, but as the words tumbled out, she meant every word. “Please?”

Mark seemed to think about it for a few seconds, but then he nodded. He sat on the bench again and unzipped his backpack, revealing the black instrument case she’d known was inside. He pulled it out it oh-so-gently, as if the instrument inside were a priceless antique. He placed the backpack on the ground near his feet, and the case on his lap. He unlatched it and opened the lid, revealing the gorgeous black-and-silver instrument that lay inside, nestled in red velvet.

One by one, he pulled out the pieces and assembled his oboe, then set the case on top of the backpack. It fell open, unheeded, as Mark put the oboe to his lips. He placed his fingers just so on the keys, moistened the reed, breathed in, and began to play.

From the first note, it was as if he’d entered a new dimension where only he and his music existed; both his body and face took on a different look — focused concentration combined with peace and a sense of increasing joy. His shoulders and face relaxed as he swayed side to side. She knew that look; she’d felt it on the dance floor more times than she could count. The haunting notes of Ennio Mariconne’s “Gabriel’s Oboe” from The Mission floated around her — the very piece that had first made her love the oboe. Chills broke over Dani’s arms and raced down her back. What were the chances that she would meet a man who played her favorite instrument so masterfully? Every note was infused with intense emotion: melancholy and loss, with a thread of hope and joy tying it all together. More than anything else, an overarching beauty encompassed him as he moved back and forth, music flowing from his fingertips.

The moment felt holy, as if he was baring his emotions in a vulnerable, sacred way. And hers, too. Still standing, Dani found herself moving side to side as the rhythm and notes moved through her. She closed her eyes, unable to not move. She was a dancer; she couldn’t feel such powerful music moving through her bones and expect to stand still.

Her sway evolved into a sweeping arm movement, her core contracting and releasing. Her feet soon followed, and before she knew it, she was improvising full-out with footwork, arms, her torso, even quadruple pirouettes. Her movements built from small at first to grander as the music swelled. She leapt past him, vaguely aware that Mark’s focus remained entirely on his instrument; she could have been beamed to Mars, and he mightn’t have noticed.

She grinned, knowing exactly what that felt like: the rush of creativity and performance, even if it was for an audience of one. She danced bigger, with turns and leaps and extensions, letting her emotions from the past six months come out in a rush, the same melancholy, loss, and hope that flowed from his oboe — the sounds that connected Dani and Mark in a way she’d never be able to put to words.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed people passing by on their way to the pond as they stopped, perhaps to watch, but she paid them no mind. Let them think what they would. She’d stopped caring what people who weren’t casting directors — or her mother, at least — thought of her.

Mark’s fingers stopped moving as he held a long note, then released the reed. The music stopped, and even the air seemed suddenly still. Dani’s movements stopped too. She was breathing hard, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, when a rousing applause and cheers erupted from the small gathering around them.

The noise broke the remaining spell, and she looked about. Some twenty people had stopped to watch. Many smiled as they continued on their way. Several walked over and tossed coins — in some cases, bills — into the instrument case. She bowed as if onstage, and Mark nodded deeply to acknowledge them.

After the crowd had dispersed, her heart still pounding from her sudden exertion, Dani sat close to Mark. “That was fun.” She pointed at his oboe. “And that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Thanks for playing for me.”

Mark wore a half-smile and pointed at the instrument case. “Look. There’s got to be ten or fifteen dollars in there. Not too shabby for about five minutes of work.”

Dani reached down and pulled out the bills to count them — a five and four ones. “Nine bucks. And that’s not counting the coins.” She peered into the case with its velvet interior, where quite a few quarters and some other change lay. “Probably a few more dollars there. Good guess.”

Mark shrugged, as if it was no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t. But his face had suddenly darkened, and his shoulders had fallen. Dani had no idea why, but the overall effect was such a drastic change from the way he’d looked moments before while playing, that the shift made her sad — and worried.

“Did I … say something wrong?” she asked, scooting a couple of inches away in case she’d gotten too close.

He shook his head and licked his lips. Then he pointed at his case and shrugged. “Truth is, I’ve done a lot more busking than I’d care to admit. It’s how I’ve made ends meet when I didn’t have a regular job and no freelance work came my way.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and began rubbing his right thumb against the back of his left hand — a nervous action if ever there was one.

“I’m so sorry,” Dani said. “You’re so talented — and I mean that. It’s crazy to think that you aren’t first chair in some world-renowned symphony.”

He cracked a smile at that then shook his head and laughed sardonically. “You’re being very kind.”

“No, I’m dead serious,” Dani insisted. “I heard a lot of—”

“Here.” Mark picked up the case and held it out. Dani put her hands together, palms up, and he dumped the coins into them. He took his oboe apart and went on as he put the pieces back into the case. “My father would have a field day if he ever found out that I busk pretty regularly. It’s not exactly how I pictured myself making a living with my music, either, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do, and I’m not ready to give up.”

He’d placed each instrument piece carefully into its spot, treating it with care. He closed the lid and latched it carefully. That oboe was his most prized possession; Dani knew it without asking.

“If you enjoy what you do, who cares?” she said. “Your dad doesn’t need to ever know.”

“He’ll find out eventually. Somehow.” Mark said it without looking at her. He slipped his oboe back into the backpack and zipped it shut.

A strained silence tried to come between them, but Dani pushed it away. “Can you live on what you make by busking?”

His pained expression softened as his mouth rounded in a smile. “Not well, but I can survive, assuming I get some freelance gigs and have several roommates to split rent and utilities with.”

She could almost hear the words he wasn’t saying: that his father expected him to have a “real” job, whether that meant in a restaurant cleaning tables or a place in that world-class symphony. “Then do more of it,” she said. “I can tell you love busking. You make your own hours, and it would give you the flexibility to go to more and more auditions, and eventually, you will make it big, whether you’re in the pit playing for Wicked or playing for the Metropolitan Opera or the New York Symphony Orchestra or whatever. Someday, you’ll have your own concerts with an entire symphony accompanying you, like Yoyo Ma, except on oboe. And—”

Mark laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll do more busking and freelance work. Happy?”

“I suppose.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Come on. I’m thirsty. Let’s get something to drink. My turn to show you something — my favorite smoothie place.”

“Lead on,” Mark said, standing. His previously somber mood seemed to have fallen from his shoulders.

“This way,” she said, walking down a path that led out of the park. “I’ve got a handful of quarters burning a hole in my purse.”