It’s the first time I’ve called him that. We hold each other’s gaze twelve beats too long. Until I recover motor function and pull the door open, only to run right into Fitz. Mascara is smudged onto her cheeks and her bloodshot eyes shift from me to Reid, widening.

“Reid? Hey! I didn’t know Natalie invited you.”

Reid shakes his head. “She didn’t—”

“Hey! We’re in a basement full of theater folk!” Fitz says, her voice kicking up an octave too high. “Everyone in this room is going to audition. You should preview some songs for us!”

Fitz grabs Reid’s hand and I am immobile. Reid looks like a deer caught in headlights and he’s shaking his head, like, hell no. But Fitz’s grip is strong and her mission is relentless.

“Please,” she says. “Otherwise I’ll start crying again. Please please please please.”

Fitz wipes her eyes before dragging Reid to the other room and pulling the speaker plug, cutting the music before Reid can even say no.

“Hey, friends! Look who has graced us with his presence. None other than Reid Callahan, codirector and composer of Melted: The Musical, along with the birthday girl herself. After an admittedly bumpy start, its development is coming along quite swell, and Reid is going to give us a preview of some of the songs.”

Danica’s head snaps away from Henry’s so fast it takes him a second to realize they aren’t kissing anymore. Everyone claps and nods, totally down. It’s like their audition brains click on and sober them up and they’re ready for any hint of what they’ll be auditioning for. Henry’s head nod is smaller than the rest. His arm is still wrapped around Danica’s waist and Fitz is not looking in their direction.

“I’m not singing both parts of ‘For the Last Time Ever,’ ” Reid says in my ear.

I consider it. Singing. In front of everyone. With Reid.

I can’t let Reid take all the credit and glory for Melted.

“I’m not singing the soprano,” I say.

So the party concludes with twenty-five musical theater students I barely know sitting on the floor of Dad’s studio, in a semicircle around the piano, while Reid plays and we sing the rough draft. Our performance ends with roaring applause and for the first time I see a universe where Melted: The Musical works.

And plot twist: I don’t hate it.

“It’s becoming too, I don’t know. Jazzy?” Henry says the next morning, making exaggerated jazz hands over his cereal bowl.

“It’s a musical, Hen,” I say, popping two ibuprofens. “It’s supposed to be a little jazzy.”