I keep my eyes trained on Jack, who watches, mouth agape as the story I’d told him about in bits and pieces plays out for him. At the very end, as the screen fades to black on the Prince and Knight together, “And they lived …” appears in white.

As the house lights come up and the applause rattles me, I feel a calm I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

I exhale. It’s over. I did it.

And I lived.

During the hour-long reception after the shorts, I try to search out Jack, curious to hear his thoughts. But he’s nowhere in sight. My stomach cramps as I realize he probably left after seeing our fictionalized happy ending—yet another instance where I scared him off.

Not that I care.

Because I’m totally enlightened now.

Or something.

The one person I cannot avoid is Dad. I gave him a tepid hug, and Mom told me to “be nice.” (I’m always nice.) Now we’re all standing in a circle—me, Mom, Taylor, Dad, Rae, Benny, Rhett, Xavier, Chloe, and Sofía—and they’re all talking about how impressed they are that my work looks so professional and blah, blah, blah.

Taylor yanks me to her level. “I had a loooooooong talk with Dad.”

“About what?” I say, a little too loudly.

“You’ll see.” She offers a pity-me half smile, and my stomach does flips.

Right on cue, Dad breaks formation and asks me to step outside. I follow behind him until we’re safely out of earshot of any of the event’s attendees.

“Krissy and I broke things off.” He looks a bit older than he did a couple months ago. A touch grayer, a little more beat down, and a little fuller around the waist.

“Sorry to hear that,” I lie. I barely knew her. Hardly said two words to her anyway, but he looks sad about it, and as angry as I am at him, I want to give him a hug.

I don’t. But I want to. I think that’s progress, right?

“Right after Turkey Day. The holidays are always rough,” he says.

Then nothing.

But.

Awkward.

Silence.

Until: “I got your email.”

My heart races. “What email?” I haven’t sent him anything. Unless …

My fingers are numb as I paw at my phone in my pocket. I haven’t given one ounce of thought to the email I drafted to my dad that night after my first session with Dr. Sweatervest, and I definitely didn’t press send. But I pull up my Sent folder, and there it is. My fingers must’ve pressed the send button! This is why you don’t type an actual email address into a pretend letter you never intend to deliver.

Oh crap.