“It’s not easy. I’m glad we didn’t delude you into thinking it’s going to be easy. Your father and I have certainly had our ups and downs on the path to our dreams. But the things that we love? They are always in our lives. Even when it’s hard, we make them work in ways we didn’t expect. Your father isn’t in an orchestra, but he loves Lincoln Street Blues and he loves his students. And I’ve been in a creative slump because I churned out ten books in nine years and that is just… not sustainable.” Mom laughs. “Burnout is real, and I’m working through it. I’m on my way back. It’s not easy. But don’t be a cynic, Lee. Don’t be too scared to even try. The question is, do you love it?”

“I love it,” I whisper.

Then Mom’s arm wraps around my shoulders and she pulls me close. “I know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Delia makes chocolate peanut butter pancakes for lunch the next day even though there is zero chance I can eat.

She flips pancakes on the griddle like a pro because she’s the only one who has the patience to cook with Dad. He always made these on opening day. He would cook more than we could eat, and everyone would sit around the table, the four of us plus Henry, stuffing the butterflies away because these pancakes are that good.

Tonight, the curtain goes up at seven p.m., in six hours. The cast call—our final cast call—is in four. I’m restless, checking emails and double-checking my lists as though I can will nothing to go wrong or conjure something for us to do besides twiddle our thumbs and eat pancakes. There is nothing to do except count down the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until we are live. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.

I hope Reid is too.

“Pretend these are the best pancakes you’ve ever tasted,” Delia says, serving us at the table. “I’m not Dad, but I tried.”

“Thanks, Dee,” I say. I kind of love Delia a lot for trying.

Henry is already digging in, only pausing briefly to give Delia a thumbs-up, which makes her pump her fist in the air in victory. I cut a tiny bite so I don’t hurt her feelings and drench it in maple syrup. But I’m not hungry.

Dad’s absence is so glaring—but I can’t be mad because this time it’s my idea. At least he’s active in the family group text, sending sporadic photos from Albany. One pointing at The Egg in the distance, Albany’s performing arts center. A cheeky selfie in front of the Capitol, which looks more like a Newport mansion than a government building. The last one, Dad, smiling, hanging out with Reid.