" You okay, Bobert?”

He says pretty much what I expect: “I don’t know how I’m going to pair Ramón. He’ll drown Lisa.”

Robert’s pianist, a man named Luther, is pretty wonderful. “Can Luther carry the solos?”

“On piano?”

I shrug. “Just spitballing here.”

He appears to consider it, and then shakes his head. “The songs don’t lend themselves to keys. The strings have a richness, a vibrancy that the piano can’t mimic. It needs to stir something inside you. Luther is amazing, but we need a musician who demands your attention. Who makes you feel.”

The idea seems to heat my blood, and I straighten. “Wait. Wait.” Robert looks up, confused. I hold up my hand. “An idea is forming in my brain.”

His expression clears in understanding. “No, Buttercup.”

“He’s exactly what you’re describing,” I insist. “You’ve never heard him, but trust me—he is.”

“He plays guitar. Honey, I know you’re enamored, but—”

“It’s not that, I swear. And he’s not just some busker hanging out on the street. He’s gifted, Robert. Listening to him play is like watching Luis onstage. I feel the notes. I know I’m not . . .” I search for words, flushing. Trying to tell Robert how to do his job is dangerous; he may be my uncle, but he’s been a brilliant musician for much longer. “I’m not a trained musician like you are,” I say carefully, “but I feel like classical guitar might work here. It’s gentle, and soft, yes, but has the passion and—the vibrancy you mention? It has that. If we’re changing the sound entirely by bringing in Ramón, why not change it this way, too? Have a guitar sing with Ramón, instead of a violin?” Robert stares at me, speechless. “Just come with me once.” I grow dizzy from the awareness that I might be convincing him. “Once. That’s all it will take. I know it. "

― Christina Lauren , Roomies