I’ve felt the high of directing a great play. But nothing has ever come close to this. Being involved in so many different parts of the creative process—writing, directing, music—it’s like a giant piece of my heart is embedded in Melted and out there for everyone to see. And it matters to them. This is purpose. This is magic.

I believe in you. I’ll never forget the way Reid whispered those words to me, so softly, outside of Olive & Twist on that snowy December night.

I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

I can’t wait to tell Reid I believe in me too.

CHAPTER THIRTY

And just like that the curtain closes on Melted: The Musical.

The applause fades on the other side of the curtain, until the only sound left is the beat of hearts hammering against our chests. I wait for the overwhelming release of emotion that the final curtain always triggers once the adrenaline wears off. Except it’s not wearing off.

Reid is here.

Dad is here.

“Natalie! Jacobson!” Fitz squeals. My eyes pop open as her arms wrap around me. “That was amazing.”

Henry appears, stage left, his headset around his neck, insisting to get in on the group hug. And even though I still have to go find Reid and Dad, this is when the tears come, the overwhelming feeling I can’t push down or swallow. Tears roll down my cheeks because, like, how lucky am I to have Henry and Fitz? The best people. My people.

“My makeup,” Fitz says, mad at the tears streaming down her face.

“The show’s over,” Henry says.

Fitz’s shoulders slump with the disappointment of seeing her art slide down my face. “But it still would have looked great for Chao Down. Ugh. I assume we’re going to Chao Down?”

I nod through the tears, because dumplings have never sounded so good.

“Reid’s smile for you is the stupidest,” Henry says.

“Did you know?” I ask.

Henry and Fitz shake their heads no in unison. The movement is too precise, too choreographed, and I would call bullshit, but I’m so happy I don’t even care. I break the group hug first and Fitz is fake-annoyed until I remind her the quicker I change, the sooner we eat.

In my closet fitting room, I change out of conductor chic and into a thigh-length cobalt sweater and black leggings. Someone knocks on the door as I’m lacing up my combat boots. “One sec,” I call because I’m already rushing, okay? We only have four fitting rooms, which are very much one-person-at-a-time size, as they are, you know, actual closets.

I toss my duffle bag over my shoulder and pull the door open.

It’s not Fitz on the other side. Not Henry. Not even Reid.

It’s Dad.

“Hi—” I start.