Mom sits at the head of the espresso wood table, staring intently at her laptop screen. Reid’s next to my mom, his button-down now unbuttoned to reveal a white graphic T-shirt that says MUSIC IS MY FORTE, with a spoon in one hand and The Fundamentals of Musical Composition in the other. Dad sits across from Reid, sipping on coffee and sorting through papers that spill out of his Band Bible—a three-inch blue binder with his certified nonsensical organization system. Last year, I created the most beautiful color-coded filing system for his monster binder. He was not pleased. How Dad transformed Lincoln High School’s concert band and orchestra into a nationally recognized, award-winning program—yet cannot accept the convenience of alphanumeric order, page numbers, and labels—is beyond me. But no matter what, he’s always in band mode, his back-to-school haircut still slightly too short, his salt-and-pepper beard slightly too long.

My stomach clenches, witnessing the comfortable quiet that is the three of them together.

“How’s the solo coming?” Mom asks Reid.

Reid’s eyes flicker up from his reading. “More work ahead. How’s the book coming?”

Mom closes her laptop and smirks. “More work ahead.”

He nods and raises his coffee mug. “Solidarity, Aunt Shell.”

Reid is the only person who can get away with calling my mom any variation of “Shell.” Aunt Michelle was one syllable too many for toddler Reid. I wish he dropped the “Aunt.” It makes me feel like we’re related—which, no, we absolutely are not.

Being the children of dads who were childhood best friends does not a family make.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Dad says, looking up from his “organized” chaos. Is it the new music for the homecoming game? Is it a set for his jazz band, Lincoln Street Blues? Who knows! “Both of you.”

Reid brushes off Dad’s words with a shrug and looks up, his eyes meeting mine from across the kitchen. “Hey, Nat.”

Enter me, the girl who always seems to arrive before her cue.

“Morning,” I say, reaching for the box of blueberry Pop-Tarts above the stove. I take the entire box and slide into the chair across from my mom.

“You’re up early,” Mom says. Her hair is a messy bun of curls, now two shades darker than my own from the dye job masking her gray roots. Beside her laptop are a half-eaten apple and an elephant mug filled with what I’m sure is lukewarm coffee. Plastic purple reading glasses are perched on the tip of her nose as her eyes remain trained on her screen. “Nervous?”