“I mean, it’s been years, Nat. I haven’t heard from her since she was in New York.”

“Did you know she’s the newest Albany Institute faculty member?”

Dad scratches his beard. “I did not.”

“She’s heading up the woodwind section for the summer program.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah! So I’m wondering if maybe—”

Dad cuts me off. “—I can fix the problem you created?”

I deflate. “Honestly? Yeah.”

Dad softens ever so slightly with my admission. “I’ll leave her number on the fridge in the morning. You have to be the one to call her though.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Is… he okay?”

Dad presses his lips together. “How could you do it, Natalie? Seriously? I’m not—I’m trying to understand, I really am. I know things have always been, um, complicated. But I think he’s more upset not even about what you did, but that you did it.”

I close my laptop. “I thought he was going to break my heart. I wanted to break his first.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Dad says, closing the door behind him on his way out.

Seven voicemails and five emails later, Jenny Nelson finally, finally responds.

Dear Natalie,

While I am sorry that Reid Callahan missed the RSVP deadline, I am more sorry to inform you that nothing can be done. The institute follows up with each applicant prior to the deadline, to ensure that everyone has been properly notified. Records indicated we did call Reid. If we make an exception for one applicant, the integrity of our entire program is compromised.

Reid is welcome to apply for Winter Institute, a weeklong intensive in February. Applications open this summer.

Send my regards to your father. I hope he still plays.

All the best,

Jenny

After the thirty-five form rejections I’ve received from various Albany Institute faculty, it was refreshing to open an email that begins Dear Natalie, so I was sure this was it. But still, it’s a rejection.

Emails are so cold.

I show Dad the email at breakfast, over scrambled eggs.

“What did you say to her?” Dad asks.

“I told her the letter got lost.”

Dad looks at me. “That’s a nice way to phrase it.”

I stab cold eggs with my fork. “I couldn’t explain it in a voicemail. I’m sorry. I tried.”

“Because it can’t be explained. I will never understand you, Natalie.”

There it is again. It doesn’t matter what I do or how hard I’m trying. It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked—we’ve worked—on Melted. It doesn’t matter even when I do something right.

I screwed up Reid’s audition. I can’t fix it. That’s all that matters to Dad.