As Cherish snaps away, Reid approaches me in a metallic gold vest and gray jeans. The fittings are taking up way more time than they should. It’s worth it because Fitz is an incredible designer, but it means Reid has time to come talk to me.

“Hey.” Reid sits next to me on the right wing of the stage, our feet dangling over the side. “Are we okay?”

No. “Hmm?”

Reid scratches his elbow. “You’re acting weird.”

Because you’re a manipulative lying liar and I want to kiss your face so bad but I can’t because you proved once and for all that you are the worst. “I’m fine.” I brush my fingers through my hair. “Stressed. It’s all so close, you know?”

Reid nods and looks at me. “I didn’t get into Albany.”

My breath catches in my throat. “What?”

Reid shrugs, chewing on his bottom lip. “They never contacted me for an audition. They should have by now. Which means I didn’t get one.”

“That’s stupid of them.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“It’s whatever,” Reid says. “I knew it was a long shot. Musicians from all over the country apply. Most have been taking fancy private lessons since they could walk. I don’t know. I felt so good about the audition when we sent it in, but I guess I’m not Albany material.”

You are. I dig my nails into my palms because I should not feel guilty.

And yet—

“I’m sorry, Reid,” I say.

“I wanted you to know. I thought maybe me keeping it to myself was why we feel off.”

“It’s just Melted stuff. I swear,” I say.

Reid nods. “Well, I’m here if you need me.”

Fitz, done with the photo shoot, calls Reid over to take more measurements and Reid pushes off the stage with his hands, his feet landing on the ground with a soft thud. Reid knows something’s wrong. In spite of everything, I almost want to tell him before it’s too late. I can’t quite separate that I know how much he wants this. How much I wanted it for him before I knew the truth. But I also know I need Melted to happen, and he’s the one that kept this from me. He started the secrets. Telling Reid the truth means sacrificing Melted. And I can’t, I won’t.

I don’t.

That night, Henry drives me home from rehearsal, with a much-needed pit stop at Chao Down for dinner. The new year has reset us, I think. Henry’s been chill at rehearsals and we’re a great team, codirecting the not-musical parts of Melted.

“I missed this,” Henry says, echoing my own thoughts.

“Me too,” I say.