dad sat on the corner of my bed while I crawled up to make a nest of pillows, wondering how long it had been since he’d been in this room. Years, maybe.
Besides me and our old housekeeper, the last person to set foot inside was Mom. She’d sat next to me right here, languid and soft and warm, playing with my hair, comparing toes, before getting into it. We’d already had the “this is an amicable divorce, nothing needs to change” chat with Dad in the kitchen the week prior, and this had been the follow-up—the “I want to talk you through my tour dates” conversation. I’d been stoic even as she flipped to a new month, and another, and another. I’d told her how exciting it was.
Now, wiping my eyes dry only to have them fill back up again, I wondered what might have happened if I’d cried then like I wanted to. Would it have changed anything? Would she have cared enough to stay?
“Honey.” Dad rubbed his beard. “I try my very best not to dictate what you do with your life. If you want it, my job is to give it to you, period. But this isn’t a good idea. And I think you know it.”
“Yeah.” My voice came out like a kid’s. I pressed my lips together to keep from tipping into sobbing. “I’m not a singer, I was being stupid. I don’t know.”
Dad’s brow creased. “Not the . . . if you want to sing, you should sing. Christ, Odile’s not cheap, but I’m happy to pay for lessons if that’s what you want to do. No. Ruby. I’m talking about Oscar.”
My arms went cold. I reached out to flip off the AC and picked up a pillow to hug. “What about him?”
Dad cleared his throat. “I want you to give him a wide berth.”
“You’re . . .” I clutched the pillow. “Wait, is . . . ?”
My mind swam between visions of Nora and her sister debating my usefulness and Dad’s face, closing off, when Oscar asked for his blessing. The way he’d been avoiding looking at me all summer.
Dad raised a hand. “Maybe in another life, another time, the two of you would make sense, but this is—”
“Another time? This is the twenty-first century, Dad. And we’re us! Progressives, smart.” I stood from the bed, pressing the glass of the window. “I cannot believe you’re saying this!”
“You’re not listening, Ruby.” He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not such a wordsmith, as you know, so I’m going to be a blunt instrument here. I don’t think you’re what he needs right now.”
“What he needs.” I could only dully repeat his words as they fluttered around in my head. Oh.
Oh.
“This is his shot, Ruby. This summer, this school—everything is conspiring to give him a launch pad into an incredible career. I believe in Oscar like I’ve never believed in a student before. He’s the real deal, but this”—Dad motioned to me with both hands, sketching the general shape of a girl—“isn’t helping.”
“I’m not distracting him,” I croaked.
“You say that.”
“I’m not. I’m not pulling focus, I’m not doing anything but supporting him.”
A chill shot through me, like I’d confessed something deeply incriminating.
Dad gestured to my face. “And look how happy you are about it.”
Another goddamned tear slipped out.
Dad scooted over to wipe it off, but I flinched. Undeterred, he leaned forward and wrapped me in a hug. I was angry, I wanted to wiggle loose, but it had been so long since he’d held me like this, a real squeeze. I’d missed it—his scratchy beard, his musty vest, the way the world seemed like a diorama that just belonged to the both of us: Marty Chertok and Daughter at Home.
“Listen, I’m not asking you to make a hard-and-fast decision,” he murmured, patting my hair smooth. “But I have a suggestion.”
I leaned away to look at him.
He smiled, eyes sad, then pointed to my digital picture frame. “Why don’t you head down and spend some time with your grandparents? Couple of weeks, fish off the dock, clear your head.”
“I never fish off that dock.”
“Dangle your feet.” Dad nudged my shoulder.
I was thinking about it. The coastal island where they lived. Grandma Jean’s cooking. Gramps’s jokes. Their vegetable garden. The endless dock where seabirds landed. Cicadas and crickets and marsh frogs. At night, fireflies came out, flashing and swirling. They had a porch swing where I used to watch the stars, feeling like I was on another planet entirely. A world of my own. An anchorite.
I’d wanted space this summer. I’d found other things—but I hadn’t found that. And if it was only for a couple weeks . . . ? I could survive it, the distance.
An ache tore through me at the prospect of missing Oscar. And that scared me more than anything. Could I be on my own? On top of everything else, was I now incapable of even that?
A whisper shuddered out of me. “Is this an offer or a demand?”
Dad stayed silent, and that was his answer.
I stayed silent too. And that was mine.
“I’ll book it,” Dad finally said. “They’ll be glad to spend some time with you.”
He stood slowly, hunching to fit through the open doorway. “You’re a good one, Ruby.”
A good what?
I bludgeoned myself with the question as he plodded downstairs.
But soon I would be somewhere that rendered it moot. No instruments. No debuts. No busy busy, no self-importance, real or false, no champagne teas, no photographers, no casual lies, no manipulation, no confusion.
No music. No Oscar. My breath left me again at the thought of it. It hurt. Too much.
I dragged a roller bag out of the pile in Win’s bedroom.
“Two weeks?” Oscar paced the sidewalk, pulling his collar. “That’s . . . you’ll be getting back right before the concert.”
“They haven’t seen me for years, so I owe them a long visit. And honestly, Oscar, this will be good for you. A chance to focus and get the rest of it finished. I’m distracting you from writing—”
“You’re not distracting me from writing the symphony, Ruby, you are the symphony.”
He stopped pacing and stood staring at me from five feet away. A clutch of commuters passed, swerving in both directions.
I felt like I was being crushed by the air between us. I took a step forward and it got worse.
“The third movement could be about us missing each other.”
“The capitulation should be hopeful,” he said. “Not . . .”
His eyes had drifted. He was considering it.
“I have to be honest, Oscar, I need to get away.”
He gave a surprised blink before his expression closed off.
“Not from you!” I reached for him. “From the city, my usual life. I’d thought I could figure some stuff out this summer from home, but it hasn’t happened, so maybe I’ll get some perspective while I’m there. I’m trying really hard not to say ‘find myself’ because oh my God would that ever go on the list of things white people say.”
Oscar smiled back absently. “Yeah, that’s . . . that’ll be good. You should do this, it’s important. It’s pretty sudden, but—yeah, it’s all good.”
Dad had booked me out on the first flight tomorrow morning. Something told me if there had been an evening flight to Charleston, I’d already have been on it. And secretly, I welcomed the rush. It gave me less time to talk myself out of going.
“I mean, you’re right.” Oscar stepped closer. “It’ll give me a chance to focus.”
It was true. It was what I wanted. But it hurt to hear him come around to it.
Oscar reached out to run his hands through my hair, gathering curls between his fingers and watching them fall.
“We do have tonight, though.” His lips grazed my forehead.
“Tonight.” I let the word cascade over me. “Whatever should we do with it?”
“You kids hungry?”
Dad shouted from the top of the stoop. I hadn’t even heard him come outside. He was grinning but his eyes were scalpel sharp, taking in the shifting energy between us. Oscar stepped away, straightening his collar again.
“In the mood for French food?” Dad asked.
“Always!” Oscar said.
“Liar,” I whispered, nudging him. He nudged me back, a little green.
“My treat.” Dad’s voice brooked no argument. “Come on.”
I glanced at my shorts and layered tanks. “You can’t mean Roland, Dad, look at me.”
“Of course I mean Roland, and . . .” He shrugged. “You’re a Chertok, wear what you want.”
I turned away so I could silently scream.
“What about me?” Oscar asked.
I laughed, taking in his button-down, skinny tie, pale green khakis. “You’re always dressed for Roland, Oscar. Come on, time to get over your aversion.”
We started down the block, failing to keep pace with Dad.
Oscar whispered, “Is there a kids’ menu?”
I snorted.
“I’m serious!”
“Get the steak frites. It’s amazing.”
“I’ll trust you.”
We rounded the corner to the park just as a dozen joggers in matching pink T-shirts were crossing the street ahead of us.
“Hey now!” Oscar called, pointing. “Is this your competition in the marathon? Should I heckle them? Is that a thing?”
I laughed, grabbing his arm.
Dad turned, confused. “Are you running in the marathon?”
The same ridiculous question Nora had asked me. For some reason, it made me laugh louder. “No!”
“If you do, I’m coming.” Oscar reached out for my hand. “I’ll wave a banner at the finish line.”
“An entire banner.”
“I have long arms.”
We swung our hands as we walked, even as a weight of sadness fell over us. Oscar would have to travel from DC to be at the finish line. And I wouldn’t even be running, so no visit.
And I was leaving tomorrow.
We tightened our grip, fighting reality as long as we could.