While Rebecca cuts the brisket and Mom attempts to assist, Reid enters the dining room to help finish setting the table, looking casual in a long-sleeve Celtics shirt and wearing his retro oval wired glasses. The shirt is jarring, like Survivor Saturday and pretty much any reminder that Reid has a personality outside of music.

“Shana Tova, Natalie,” he says, taking a seat at the table next to me after we’re done.

Bold move, speaking to me.

“Hi,” I say, suspicious as I reach across the table for the challah basket.

“Thanks,” Reid says, picking the exact slice of challah I was about to take. It was the ideal thickness and had the perfect crust-to-soft-insides ratio.

“No problem.” I exhale, annoyed, and settle on a piece that’s too thin.

“So—” Reid rips his piece of challah in half “—is it have a heart, like, emphasis on art?”

I choke on challah.

Like I can’t process what Reid jus said because I am in survival mode choke.

I start coughing, but I swear my life flashes before my eyes! Delia hits my back repeatedly with gusto after I’m already coughing—inspiring little confidence in the effectiveness of her junior lifeguard training.

“How do you even—?” I try to ask but I am still coughing.

Reid refills my water. “Drink first. I will not be responsible for death by challah inhalation.”

I need water more than I need to prove a point, so I listen and sip water until the coughing subsides. Shit. I should have been prepared for this. We attend a small school. People talk.

“I overheard Makayla and Arjun talking during gym,” Reid says.

I frown. “Since when do you choose the real sport option?”

Reid makes a sarcastic ha face but otherwise ignores the comment. “I’d be organizing too, if the band was in jeopardy. I get it. And Boiled—”

“Reid.”

I am not in the mood for Melted slander.

“I’m feeling festive! So I just want to say… it’s really good. Melted. I hope you get to make it.”

Reid’s praise is so… earnest, I’m honestly taken aback. Suddenly it is too warm in here and I’m grateful that my hair is down, my curls masking the tips of my ears, which are surely pink. I don’t flush, but my ears? They have a mind of their own.

“You don’t mean that,” I say.

Reid rakes his hand through his hair, frustrated. “I do.”

I shrug, ripping my challah into smaller pieces. “So you’d support giving up some of the band’s budget to fund Melted?”

Reid’s jaw tenses and he looks at me like this is the first time this occurred to him.

It’s easy to be all talk.

“The band—”