I don’t know what this means for Melted’s opening night. I do know that I’m not giving up on this show, on my cast. We’ve come so far, we’ve faced every obstacle. We weren’t supposed to exist. But we do. I—along with Henry and Fitz and the entire cast—will figure out Melted. I should have known we could from the start.

But first, I have a Moritz I am so excited to fire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Fitz and I make it home in time for the second half of Melted’s first day of tech week.

Dad’s expression is impossible to read when I enter the auditorium. So I turn to the stage instead and I am overwhelmed by the scene in front of me. Wow, it sucks that I have to rip everything apart now that it’s all come together. The costumes are finished. The tech hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet—no dead mics or blown-out lights. Makayla and Cherish’s set looks incredible, a celestial canyon on steroids. Every cast member seems comfortable onstage, transformed into their characters. Melted has come to life, for real.

Reid is even here, onstage in his Moritz costume. Reid showed up for Melted.

Fitz and I sneak into the back row of the auditorium and it’s kind of nice, to be. To watch Melted without my binder of notes, without putting my director hat on. Even if this feeling is only for a scene, until the lights go down and the props are reset.

Reid finishes Moritz’s last scene, singing a reprise of “Hate Is a Closed Window.” Reid is nailing the emotional performance. He might be—oh my God, he is crying! It’s perfect. It’s devastating.

Even more so now that I know it’ll never happen.

I exit through the auditorium door and run backstage before the song ends. Reid exits stage right, so I want to be there to intercept him when he does. I make it there as Reid is singing the final notes. When he sees me waiting in the wings, he pauses for a half beat, almost like he’s contemplating exiting stage left instead. But ever the professional, he doesn’t.

“Reid.”

He keeps walking.

I follow him out the double doors, to the hallway. “Reid.”

He stops walking but doesn’t turn around. “Not today, Natalie.”

“We need to talk,” I say.

“I don’t want to—”

“Yes. You do. It’s important.”

I pull Reid by his wrist through the double doors and around the corner to Dad’s empty classroom. He follows, reluctant, but, I mean, he has the strength to dig his feet into the ground and stop me if he really wanted to. So at least part of him wants to come. Inside Dad’s classroom, I flip the light on and close the door behind us and drop my backpack onto the floor.