I consider Reid’s offer. Fitz is stress baking—and this is without knowing Henry’s tongue is in Danica’s mouth. The thespians took over my speakers and are staging a full performance to songs I will have to pretend I know, otherwise they’ll smell weakness. Nothing is worse for a director than a cast who thinks they’re in control. I don’t really want to deal with any of it.

And… truces with Reid are so rare. I can’t lose that advantage.

I finish my drink and slap the empty cup on top of the piano. “Not wasting a truce. Sorry.”

Reid nods and pulls up the Adina monologue on his phone, explaining his songwriting process to me. “You already did the hard part, Nat. But poetry and songs are all about minimal words, maximum impact. So it’s more about stripping the excess and fine-tuning the rhythm.”

“What if there is no excess?” I ask, rereading my words.

Reid shakes his head. “You’re still thinking of it as a script. Maybe first think of it as a beat?”

Then Reid begins to tap on the side of the piano in rhythm, a half note followed by two quarter notes. I rework the monologue, attempting to stay on beat, but don’t even make it two lines before I start laughing, unable to control the giggling that bubbles up from my stomach.

This is so ridiculous. We are so ridiculous. I am so not sober.

“We tried. Insert dramatic sigh here.”

“We are not Lin-Manuel Miranda,” Reid admits. “Which is why I got something for you.”

“What?”

“A peace offering. For your birthday.”

He pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket.

I shake my head. “No.”

Reid scrunches his eyebrows. “No?”

“I didn’t even invite you to my party,” I say.

Reid and I don’t do this. We don’t exchange gifts. Friends exchange gifts, and though we’re not mortal enemies at the moment, it’s only because of the musical. When the collaboration is over, when Dad’s job is secure, we will snap back into being competitive and insufferable Natalie and Reid, business as usual. Not people who give birthday presents to each other.

“Nat, take it,” Reid says.

Despite every fiber of my being screaming resist, my curiosity is too much. So I do. I take it. Inside the envelope, I exhale because there is no card, thank God. It’s two tickets to a production of The Lion King that’s running in Boston, for the matinee performance next Saturday. They’re paper-clipped together with a passive-aggressive Post-it note that makes me laugh.

Might help the adaptation process. We’re on a deadline, no pressure. —Reid.

Then I see the price on the tickets.

“Reid, I can’t take these,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

“It’s too much. How did you even—?”

His face flushes. “They’re comp seats. Selina’s dad works for—”

“Selina?”