“ruby!”
As I clomped into the street, Oscar burst out of the building behind me.
“What . . .” He stumbled to a stop, hesitating on the sidewalk. “Are you . . . okay? What was that up there?”
I turned, anger boiling in my throat. “I don’t. Play. The piano. I’ve been telling you that over and over but you don’t seem to want to listen to me.”
“I’m sorry.” He ran his hands over his cheeks. “Oh God, Ruby, I really am. I don’t know why I put you on the spot like that. I guess I panicked and figured you were used to it, being—”
“I’m not. And you know what? I don’t have to get used to it. But you do.”
He shuffled backward. “I guess so. I mean, you’re right.”
A taxi dropped somebody off on the near corner. I raised my hand for it.
“Where are you going?” Oscar asked, a note of panic in his voice.
“Home.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” I leaned on the car door. “No. Oscar. That’s sweet, but . . . you need to go up there and shake more hands.”
“But—”
“They’re giving you this platform. You have to help them fundraise.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “That’s what Dad’s always done, that’s what Win does, even Leo and Alice, when they’re asked to. It’s part of the job. You were doing great, keep it up.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the lit-up windows and let out a little laugh. “I feel so . . . on parade.”
“Yeah, well.”
“No, I mean . . .” His jaw clenched through his smile, like he wanted to confide something.
I waited, holding the cab door open. Oscar leaned in, exhausted, letting his forehead fall against mine. I closed my eyes.
“Hey, kids!” The voice behind Oscar was older, male, but as I leaned out to identify the source of it, a light flashed in my face. A camera? It turned off before I stopped blinking, but the photographer seemed satisfied—a short, bald guy, I saw now. He waved, shouted “Thanks!” and vanished toward the Wing Club entrance.
Oscar squinched his eyes shut. “What the actual—”
“These things attract photographers,” I said quickly, hoping he couldn’t see how shaken I was. “It’s fine.” I squeezed his wrist. “You’ll be fine.”
He straightened. “Okay. You’re right. See you back at the ranch, then.”
The photographer snapped another shot of him as he strode back into the club, bouncing more with every step.
Rattling home in the taxi, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the darkened window, eerie and pale. This version of myself was easiest to look at. All that fuss over my outfit and hair, and for what? Half a champagne glass, zero tiny food items, and a graceless exit with the glitterati watching.
I don’t want to do this.
This life isn’t for me.
The realization came as a shock of relief, like taking off a scratchy sweater and letting the air hit my bare skin.
Not this. Try again.
I could breathe.
The house felt crypt quiet when I shut the door behind me. But as my ears adjusted to the thick silence, the world grew gradually noisier.
I could hear the hall clock ticking. I could hear the AC growling. I could hear the city outside and the neighbors arguing and . . .
I could feel my piano waiting.
I sat. Lifted the keyboard cover. Tried the pedals, one, two, three.
I thought for a second. And then, tentatively, quietly, I played it.
My Amberley audition.
Schubert’s Piano Sonata in A Major; Bach’s Fugue No. 24 in B Minor; Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1—one tiny rebellion. They’d wanted something virtuosic for the third selection. I’d picked something I liked instead.
The piano still felt cold beneath my fingers, but I kept playing, buffeted by the memories I’d been blocking out for the past three months—the sweet orange oil smell of the audition room, the stage lights flooding the blind screen in opaque yellow, the three vague shadows beyond, the bench still warm from the last auditioner. I remembered exactly how I’d rushed that glissando, flubbed this B-flat, how there had been a voice in my head whispering, “Is this good enough? Is this good enough?” like every time I played. I remembered a real voice, Arnold Rombauer, saying “Thank you,” in dismissal. Flat. Bored. Faintly irritated.
And I felt once again what I’d felt then, hearing that verdict—relief.
It was an ax coming down. It was an answer.
Tonight, here, now, I muddled through to the Debussy. I missed a few notes. And then more. And more, and more, and more, my fingers falling over themselves, begging me to stop.
I did. I gave in, slumping.
A floorboard creaked behind me. Oscar stood leaning against the doorframe, listening, his expression deeply peaceful. He straightened as I turned, clearing his throat.
“Back already.” My voice sounded empty.
“I was worried about you.”
I looked down. “You heard me play?”
“The last piece.”
He sounded thoughtful more than friendly. Slowly, he strode over to stand beside the piano. I waited for him to lie: “You play beautifully.” Or “I can see potential.” Or “There’s plenty of work out there for a good accompanist!”
But he stayed silent, watching like he finally understood.
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.”
He stood, and I wanted to pull him back to me but stopped myself, my hands falling weakly into my lap.
Then I felt him walk behind me again. His body grazed my back and lowered—settling behind me on the bench. I slid forward to make room as his legs swung over, framing mine.
“I keep thinking about . . .” Oscar’s warm breath swept my neck, shooting shivers along my skin. “How much I’d like to see you like that, pure emotion—but happy. I . . .”
His arms crept forward, around me.
“I want to be the one to make you feel that.”
I waited for his fingers to move onto the keys, to compose something for me, the Happy Ruby Suite. But his hands landed on my knees, covering the green fabric of my dress and then slipping under, cool against my bare skin.
“Can I try, Ruby? I . . . I really want to try.”
“Okay,” I said, my own whisper shaking hot, as his fingers tingled up my thighs and higher. Then he kissed my neck and I couldn’t say anything at all.
Higher still. And even more under.
My nerves skittered and settled.
This is new. It should be scary. After all, my prior experience consisted of a few underwhelming kisses from a Wildwood boy or two. But the scariest thing right now was how relaxed I felt. It was like I was alone in my room thinking about Oscar. But better. And better.
I let my eyes fall shut, my mind quieting to a sweet hum as I leaned against him and let his mouth find mine—maybe not pure emotion, not completely, but closer with every touch.