by Phil Stamper
“Want to give her a ring?” she asks. “I’m sure you could use a positive pep talk right about now.”
I laugh at the idea. It’s almost a scoff.
“It wouldn’t be positive,” I say. “She can be pretty aggressive about it, actually.”
Sophie stops to lean against a tree, and I feel an enormous relief knowing this pit stop could delay us for a few more minutes. I take in a breath.
She puts out her fists in a fighting pose. “What, need me to give you a couple punches? Whip you into shape?”
I roll my eyes.
She gives me a smile. “Just trying to be a supportive friend here.”
“Well, she’s never hit me,” I say. “But she’s … I guess she’s been pretty rough, verbally.”
She stares into the trees for a bit, and I feel a calmness surround her. I can already tell Sophie’s a lively person, excitable at times and cautious at others, but she seems to know how to choose her words. I envy that in her, right now.
“But when it comes to my anxiety, it’s like I can’t do anything.” I start to sweat, and I realize it’s a cold one—my body starts to shiver in the eighty-degree heat. “I don’t want to be like this, you know?”
Before we go into the station, she pulls me to the side and looks right at me. “Oh, Marty. Don’t say that. And don’t beat yourself up about it. So you need a push sometimes? Tell you what: I’ll push you out of your comfort zone, but I won’t be a bully about it. How’s that?”
I don’t know if Megan’s a bully, or if she’s necessary in my life, or what. But I’ve never been this transparent about it.
“Thanks,” I say. “I still don’t think I can do this.”
She laughs. “We’ll see about that.”
I clutch my oboe case and take the stairs one at a time. Drawing it out as much as I can. Sophie grabs my arm and pulls me through the station.
And I hear something. Music, the sweet pluckings of a classical guitar. It almost makes sense in this setting, tinny chords splayed out by fast-moving fingers.
I turn the corner, half expecting to see some Spanish guitar master slash bullfighter, cape and all, even though I know that’s a horrible generalization of an entire culture. Damn, my American is showing.
But when I turn, I see … well, a cute guy. His eyes are pressed closed as he sways to the music. He’s in all grays—light jeans and a V-neck sweater—and he flips his head back like he’s got this massive head of hair, but his buzz cut isn’t budging.
I’ve apparently stopped, because now Sophie’s in my face.
“This one’s reserved for Knightsbridge students, and I grabbed the spot just a bit ago, so I’m not sure what he’s doing here. Let me go talk to him.”
“No! Well, maybe after this song.”
She rolls her eyes and walks over to him, and I launch out after her to join her.
I take a deep breath, and try not to let him affect me because I have been a swooning mess since I got here. I hate confrontation, and I just want this over with.
“Hey, didn’t see your name on the schedule,” Sophie says.
He looks up, and his fingers stop picking at the strings. His eyebrow curls, so I hold up my oboe. I fill the silence. “Yeah, um, I’m supposed to play here, now, I think. Did we double-book? Is this not how it works? Should I come another time?”
He smirks, and his eyes light up. I can’t help but smile at him.
“Play with me,” he says. His voice is unusually deep, unmistakably not British.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He points to my case. “That a clarinet?”
“Oboe. Look, I’m not even playing a full set. I just need video evidence of me playing here for, like, a few minutes; then you can start playing again. And”—I point to his empty guitar case—“if anyone throws in some money for me, which they won’t, it’s all yours.”
His fingers run over the strings, and the chords melt deep into my core. The tune is playful, mocking. It matches his all-teeth side smile. I wish I’d shut up and let Sophie deal with this, and I wish she’d come save me. But she’s now just hanging back with a sly smile like she’s enjoying this.
“Also, I can’t play with you. We don’t know the same pieces. I don’t think there are oboe and classical guitar duets. I’m likely to piss enough people off with this squeaky thing on my own.”
“What pieces do you know? I can figure it out and pluck along. People will think we planned it.”
“The Bach Partita for Oboe in G minor was my audition piece.”
His eyes light up. “I thought I remembered you. You auditioned for Knightsbridge last year, right?”
I sigh. “Let’s not talk about that.”
For once, he’s the one who looks uncomfortable. “Right, sorry.”
I’ve started putting my oboe together, more out of necessity than anything. Double reed instruments—where you basically make the noise by tying two special reeds together—are peculiar in every way. On the walk here from Hyde Park I had my reed resting tip-down in a cup of water. I took it out and let it rest a few minutes back in its case. If you don’t do this right, you can’t play well.
If I wait any longer, I’m going to have to repeat the entire process, and I already threw out my cup of water. So, I don’t really have a choice.
I nod as I push in the reed and feel the familiar squeak of the cork padding as it slides in. I stand and bring it to my lips, take a deep breath from my diaphragm, and release it into the oboe. I run through quick scales, arpeggios, and do the quickest warm-up I can think of.
He side-eyes me, stops playing altogether. “Did you just run through the world’s fastest version of ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’?”
“You know it?”
“There are people who don’t? It’s, like, the best film score of all time.”
My features lighten, and I show some teeth too. (Then quickly cover them, because his are ten times whiter than mine, I’m sure.)
“Play it with me,” he says. “I can figure out the background, just play the first note.”
I sidle up next to him and look out in front of me. Stark white subway tiles creep along the wall, stopping to highlight the Marble Arch station sign under the tube’s classic branding—red circle, blue rectangle. I take note of the advertisements along the wall too. Two book ads stare at me, asking what I would do if my family was in danger, or what if my wife’s secret could ruin my entire life.
It’s all a bit melodramatic.
I play the first note of the piece and wonder if we’re any different from the ads. Trying to stand out when everyone wants you to fade away. Grabbing people’s attention, then making them roll their eyes.
And suddenly I’m playing. It all kind of disappears. Not my worries, of course—I’m still very much aware people can see me and are probably judging me. But it softens, at least. My emotion for the piece fills in, and the support of the classical guitar moves me. Chills creep up my back as he nails the chord progressions by ear.
I sway back and forth as I play, and I wonder how we look together. Do people think we planned this? The petite guy with the big guitar and the tall guy with the teensy oboe. But then I hear something oddly validating.
A woman unzips her bag, and the abrupt sound makes me open my eyes and throw her my gaze. She pulls out a couple of pounds from her change purse and tosses them in his case.
Ennio Morricone is a master, and “Gabriel’s Oboe” is his masterpiece. The most compelling contemporary melody over a light harpsichord. It’s the piece that made me pick up the oboe for the first time. Mom is a film score buff, and she’d play this over and over. I’d go back to her old CDs, ignore all the gospel ones, find The Mission soundtrack, and put the piece on repeat. And that was where it all started for me.
And then we finish, somewhat abruptly, because I could have kept repeating it ad nauseam and this guy was willing to let me.
“You’re amazing,” I say. “How’d you play that by
ear?”
“I’ve listened to the piece a lot.”
“Me too.”
His gaze falls to the guitar box. “We got, like, ten pounds for a two-minute song. That’s a record for me, and it’s off-peak hours.”
He reaches in and hands me a five. The queen stares at me. “I can’t accept this; you really helped me with—”
“Take it,” he says, with such authority that I do. “I’m not exactly an oboe expert, but I have played my share of duets, and you’re quite the musician.”
His eyes burn into me, so I divert my attention and focus on a freckle on his chin.
“Are you okay? You seem embarrassed.”
Naturally, this makes me feel … doubly embarrassed.
“Well, anyway. You’re a confident player, and a very supportive duet partner. So thanks. That was fun.”
“Did you seriously just have a film score jam session?” Sophie busts in, showing us her phone. “This is amazing. But I’d expect nothing less from the prodigy golden child who graduated from the academy at sixteen.”
“Always nice to, uh, meet a fan.” He laughs, almost mocking himself. “I’m Sang. Sophie, right? I work part-time in the office, so I can usually put a face to a name.”
“And I’m Marty. But wait, let’s back up,” I say. He’s so young. “You graduated from the academy?”
“Last year. Now I just play gigs around the city for not great money.” He rolls his eyes. “Living the dream, eh?”
But what he doesn’t realize is that literally is my dream.
“So, Marty. You want to take over my spot here?” he asks.
My heartbeat speeds up, and I know I’m not ready to play here alone. And now that I know this is his livelihood, to some extent, I don’t want to kick him out of here.
“No, I think we’re okay. That video’s enough, right?”
“It’s a start,” Sophie replies, with a slightly disappointed tone.
I ignore it and start packing my oboe away. We say our goodbyes and make our way to the exit. The soft plucking of Sang’s guitar follows us as we go, and a part of me feels empowered. If he can make a life here piecing together various gigs and side jobs, so can I. So can Shane.
This plan we’ve worked up might feel far-fetched at times, but for once, it actually feels doable.
TWELVE
Sophie and I split up so she can finish classes for the day—Music History and Music Theory, respectively—and agreed to meet up afterward for a late lunch at Pret a Manger, the go-to lunch spot for all of the academy.
My heart beats fast, almost humming, as I sit down with my prepared sandwich and chips—okay, crisps, whatever. The way Sang played was nothing short of magical, prodigious. I can’t help but wonder if there are other duets I could be doing, even if just to mix up my portfolio. And to have some fun.
It’s probable that Sang and I couldn’t even if we wanted to. Unless he’s knowledgeable about obscure classical oboe solos, I don’t have much else we could play together. And considering I have no way to contact him, I can either hang around Marble Arch or the Knightsbridge office and cross my fingers, or I could move on.
But I want to know how he makes a career out of this—even part-time. I wonder who he’s auditioned for, or why he’s still busking for money if he has real gigs.
Sophie takes a seat across from me, and I feel a presence to my left. I look up.
Pierce.
He has a tray of food and an awkward smile on his face—like he’s uncomfortable or something, which is impossible because he doesn’t strike me as a guy who gets uncomfortable.
And he’s pulling a chair over to this two-top table. Oh god, are we the type of friends who share meals together now?
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says.
I sit up straight and shake my head. “No, of course. I’ll make room.”
He takes a seat, and we rearrange our trays and food so there’s enough room on this table for all of us. While he’s unwrapping his tuna melt, I take a second to really look at him. We haven’t spoken much since the kiss, except the occasional text and promise to meet up.
Are we becoming friends?
Are we more?
He’s wearing a bright patterned shirt buttoned all the way to the top. He trimmed his beard down to stubble. Like a magnet, I feel myself pulled into him.
I grip the table to make it stop, but it doesn’t stop.
There’s too much to concentrate on.
First, there’s the feelings.
Second, there’s the “don’t worry, guys, I’m cool” attitude I’m trying to display.
Third, there’s the fact that I have no idea how he feels about me, but I know he’s not exactly the most trustworthy person in the room, plus—
“You okay?” Sophie asks.
“Oh, yeah. Just distracted. Still thinking about today.”
“Sophie showed me your video in Music History,” Pierce says. “That was amazing. I can’t believe you just met Sang and you could play together like that.”
I blush. The kind of blushing that makes your cheek muscles cramp. I couldn’t doubt the connection between me and Sang. I couldn’t doubt the connection between me and Pierce.
Sophie gives me a wink when she sees my face. That’s an unexpected connection too.
This didn’t happen in Kentucky.
Megan and I only had each other for so long. She ripped me out of my shell when my anxiety made me retract, and I gave her perspective when she couldn’t see it. If I was an INFP, idealistic and introspective—which I am, I looked it up—Megan was an ESTJ, pragmatic with an intense sense of right and wrong.
We’ve had so much fun together.
I keep waiting to miss Megan. To feel the ache of our separation—she was my crutch, my bandage holding me together. And now that I’m free from her, I’m making my own friends and people are connecting with me not because of Megan’s self-deprecating humor, but because of me. My humor. My words.
Sophie kicks me under the table. “You are hard-core zoning out right now, Mart.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t sleep well last night. Is it possible to still be jet-lagged one week later?”
Pierce’s bare knees are touching mine. Deep breaths. I eat a crisp. Normal, normal. I am so acting normal right now.
“Sang was the golden child of his year, but even so, there was so much emotion in your playing,” Pierce goes on. “People were literally throwing money at you. It was brilliant.”
“I have to agree,” Sophie says. “This is what I was telling him stands out—on YouTube, on portfolios, whatever. A classical guitar slash oboe duet on the London Underground? Fucking smashed it.”
I smile, and the tension in me releases slightly.
We eat in silence for a bit, listening to the ambiance of the restaurant around us. I try one of Sophie’s crisps, because it’s a sweet chili flavor I’ve never seen in the States. Pierce’s attention drops toward his own food, and it takes me a second to understand what he’s doing. He inspects the nutrition information of his tuna melt with a disapproving glare.
“There’s so much fat in this,” he says distractedly as he takes a bite. “It’s basically all mayo. No wonder I can never eat the whole thing. Oh well, can’t be too choosy.”
It’s a quick observation, one that he seems to make without much thought. Sophie and I meet eyes, and neither of us seems to know how to respond in any meaningful way. I self-consciously shield the remnants of my own, fully eaten, tuna melt from his view.
“Anyway, I have a proposition,” Pierce announces. “Completely unrelated to this conversation.”
We both turn to him, and Sophie’s eyebrow is cocked.
“Dani’s got a car. We’re going to Cardiff with Ajay, and we got an Airbnb in the Welsh countryside for cheap, but it’d be even cheaper if we got some more people.” He pauses. “Would you two like to come with us?”
Sophie’s eyes widen, and I remember how she’s not used to b
eing part of this group.
“Is Rio going?” she asks, curious if the cliquey woodwind she seems to dislike was asked first.
“She didn’t seem interested when we were talking about it. She’s into more European trips.”
“And Wales isn’t European?” I ask.
“She’s from Belfast. Northern Ireland. Totally unenthused by anything in the UK.” He turns to me. “And Shane has to work, so he’s out. Shocker.”
“I’ll go … if Marty will.” Sophie looks to me expectantly. “Otherwise I’d feel like I’m crashing your party.”
“Yeah, I’ll go too.” I say the words before I think of them.
It’s not Italy, but it’s something. A weekend with Pierce in Wales. I nearly shudder at the thought. He looks at me and seems so genuine. I subconsciously pull an arm over my stomach, and wonder why he’s so into extended eye contact.
Sophie excuses herself to go to the toilets. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Pierce leans in.
“I have a second proposition, actually.”
My cheeks must be bright red with how hot they feel. Is it possible he’s going to ask me on a date? There’s such sincerity in his eyes right now that I’m unable to reconcile that with the monster from Sophie’s story.
But then he’s reaching in his bag, and as he’s pulling out sheet music, it clicks before he says anything.
“Will you play in my end-of-term recital?” He’s almost pleading. “I adore this piece, and it’s not working with Dani. Dr. Baverstock said I could get outside help. I want to spend more time with you, and this seems like a great reason to do so.”
He sighs. “I knew I wanted to ask you after hearing you play in the park, but after seeing that performance, I couldn’t wait. What do you say?”
“We’d be practicing this the whole summer?” I ask. “We don’t even know if we’re compatible together.”
“Oh, and the best part! These end-of-term recitals have a really intimidating guest list. Scouts from the Philharmonic, big production companies. It could help you out too.”
Megan’s advice about taking chances rings in my head. I’m not naive—well, maybe I am, but I know he’s not exactly doing this to become buddies. So maybe he’s using me, a little bit. Then why can’t I use him right back?
