He flips a page in his composition book and an out-of-place curl falls into his eyes. “Sure. Now this next one—”

“We should wait for Henry,” I say.

I check my phone for the millionth time and I have an update at last.

Henry Chao

DONE WITH THE SATS FOREVER

12:10 PM

ALSO Dani was talking about wanting to see the new Mindy Kaling romcom and I said we should go see it and she’s down!!

12:11 PM

… except she thought I meant we should see it NOW

12:12 PM

I’M SORRY. Stay strong! You’ve got this! It’s not like I’d be much help on the musical front anyways…

12:13 PM

I blink at my phone. Henry is ditching me and Melted for a movie date with Danica?

I mean, this tracks. I should not be surprised. Still. Henry promised he’d be here. To support. Consult. Those were his words. For the first time, I thought I’d be battling Reid from a majority alliance with Henry by my side. Instead, he chooses a movie with his new… best friend Danica? Girlfriend Danica? Senior solidarity Danica?

Does the label even matter?

Now I have to deal with the situation on my own. I stand and roll my chair across the room to the piano, in a better position to collaborate or whatever, and sit cross-legged.

“Can you play ‘Do You Wanna Build a Fire?’ from the top?” I ask.

Reid’s eyes met mine. They’re more brown than green today. “Sure.”

I place my phone facedown on the piano and wrap my arms around my knees.

Reid begins to play.

I stop him four measures in. “It’s too whimsical.”

Reid sighs. “I promise it’s not.”

“This doesn’t sound like grief,” I retort. “Maybe slow it down. Or—”

“Natalie, I will take any and all criticism after I play it through. Okay?”

“Fine,” I concede.

As soon as I focus on Reid, I remember why I avoid the studio. Why I don’t go to band concerts. Watching him play music makes me feel things in this disgusting way that is not compatible with the rest of my essence. His fingers move up and down the keys with ease, shoulders rising and falling with the melody. Curls keep falling into his eyes and it is so distracting.

So I close my eyes and force myself to separate the music from the musician.

I allow myself to hear the potential—from the warmth conveyed in “Do You Wanna Build a Fire?” to the emotional slow burn in “Hate Is a Closed Window” that crescendos into Adina accidentally burning down the only home she has ever known. I feel the intention in every chord progression, down to the quiet intensity of the motif that ties the song together.

I’m not sure I understood what Melted could sound like until now. But I do.

It’s the worst.