I tossed my phone in my backpack at that point because I had done my duty, told my parents where I was, and served myself up for certain grounding. I did not need to watch them plot out my punishment in real time, thank you very much.

Fitz takes the exit toward the Albany Institute. “Can I distract you with news?”

“Please,” I say.

“On the subject of summer programs… I applied for one too! In New York. Not, like, middle of nowhere, New York, like this. In New York, New York. FIT, specifically. The Fashion Institute of Technology.”

“Fitz, that is amazing.”

She smiles. “Danica encouraged me to apply! She’s doing a summer internship at a theater before starting at NYU.”

“Wow. That’s serious.”

“Seriously perfect. They have the most incredible precollege program. And it is the perfect test run to see what college in Manhattan would be like. I used Melted’s costumes for my portfolio. I hope between that and If the Shoe Fitz it’s enough.”

“Your costumes and platform are perfect, Fitz. Wow. I love all of this for you so much.”

I’m quiet for a beat. Everyone in my life is so confident about their path and what’s next. Conservatory for Reid. Fashion school for Fitz. Business school for Henry. They’re all jumping head first into not just a direction, but their passions. They’re not afraid to fall. To fail.

Fitz’s GPS alerts us we’re entering not quite Albany. The neighborhood has the prettiest street signs and snow-dusted lawns. It’s honestly an attack. I expected streets and coffee shops and strolling through the downtown shopping center until we found a place to properly caffeinate before the big moment.

“We’re here. I think,” Fitz says, pulling into guest parking, and we are, in fact, here. The Albany Institute of the Arts in front of us is this gorgeous campus. As Fitz looks for a spot, I marvel at the string of Dutch colonial buildings, at the snow-covered quad, at the fact that the dorms are named for chord progressions and the buildings after composers. Students pass from one building to the next with cellos on their backs and saxophones around their necks and I can already see it: Reid here. Reid thriving. Reid belonging.

I open the car door, ready to begin my mission: find Jenny Nelson even without caffeine.

But wow, Fitz is right. Albany is cold. As soon as I step out of her car, freezing wind whips my hair. I wrap my scarf around my neck as tight as it will go.

“Okay. What now?” Fitz asks.

I, in fact, have no idea where I’m going. Get here is the farthest I got in my plan.

And, well, we are here.