All of them showing Dad, in Albany, not here for opening night. I wait for my stomach to do that twisty thing it always does seeing Reid and Dad together.

But it doesn’t.

Is this what it feels like to not blame Reid for the chasm between Dad and me?

“Are you going to eat those?” Fitz asks, her face pressed against the sliding screen door. Danica stands behind Fitz, both hands on her hips. Delia unlatches the slider, assuring Fitz that there are plenty of pancakes for everyone. She forgot that Dad always halves the recipe. We are going to be eating pancakes for days.

“You can have mine,” I say, pushing my plate to the empty seat to my right.

Fitz squeezes my shoulder as she walks past me. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I repeat.

“Eat your pancakes, Natalie,” Delia instructs. “I’ll make a plate for Fitz.”

I place my phone on the table, facedown. “Okay, Mom.”

Delia sticks her tongue out at me, everyone laughs, and for a moment the butterflies dissipate and everything is okay.

You’ve come a long way and no matter what happens tonight with the school committee, you should be proud. I am.

Sincerely, Mrs. Mulaney.

The email popped into my inbox one hour before call time. Seriously, Mrs. Mulaney. It’s a nice note, but way to remind us there is pressure, like we don’t already know.

“Y’all thought you could kick me off a stage!” Fitz says while doing her makeup. She has fifteen minutes to make her eyes match her vest. “Look at me now!”

I read her the email from Mrs. Mulaney.

“She will not rattle you,” Fitz says, applying liquid eye shadow to her right eyelid. “It very well will not be our last show. When the curtain closes on our LHS drama career, I am damn well going to be the lead.”

“It’s what we deserve,” I say.

“Truly,” Fitz confirms.

“Fitz?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. For everything.”

Fitz snaps a picture of us making goofy faces in the mirror. She smiles at her phone, her fingers flying over the keys as she proclaims that she’s sending the picture to Reid.

“What? No. Why?” I ask, reaching for her phone.

She swats my hand away. “If you mess up your hair, I swear.”

“Don’t text Reid,” I say.

“What? You look hot, Natalie. Very conductor chic. Besides, Reid asked for updates.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. We’ve been texting all day. I’m, like, talk to your codirector. He said you’re probably stressed enough as is, which is fair. Dude knows you—” Fitz’s phone buzzes midsentence, lighting up with four new texts from Reid “—and Neid is not over!”

“It will be if you keep calling us that,” I say, but my heart is doing a tap dance.

“I don’t choose the ship name. The ship name chooses you.”

“But, like, no.”

Fitz winks at me. “You’re welcome. For everything.”