The house, miraculously, does not look like every standard teen comedy shot of a post-party home. But earlier, Mom texted me that she and Dad would be back by early afternoon, which gives me not enough hours to transform myself into a not-hungover disaster.

“I know. It just, I don’t know—doesn’t it seem silly to you? Dancing dragons, power ballads, tap,” Henry says.

“It is silly. But that’s what makes it work.” Henry’s words sting. If he wanted to contribute, he could’ve joined any writing session. Considering he’s been invited to all of them.

Henry looks wounded. “Since when are you into this?”

“Since when is your tongue down Dani’s throat?” Fitz counters.

Henry chokes on his cereal. “I don’t even know. But she’s going to friend-zone me anyway, if it makes you feel better.” Henry’s shoulders slump forward. “I can feel it in my bones.”

I hate witnessing shifting friendship dynamics in real time. There is no way this ends well.

“Well, I like the songs, Nat. Who’s playing Adina?”

“You are,” I say.

She narrows her eyes at me, “I can’t sing.”

“Adina doesn’t sing. She’s a poet.”

I leave out that we’re still figuring out how that’s going to work, but it’s a worthwhile pursuit for the look on Fitz’s face alone as she throws her arms around me.

“You fought for me!”

“Of course,” I say. “You are Adina.”

“Huh. You and Callahan. Suddenly compromising. Not trying to kill each other,” Henry interrupts.

Apparently Henry will not be distracted.

“What choice do I have? I’m hanging out with Reid so much because I have to, because we have a musical to pull off.”

“Are you even capable of that? Because I really don’t want to stick around and watch you direct this show into the ground any more than you already have!”

Wow.

Henry and I get frustrated with each other, but fights are rare. When one happens, this is how it goes. It’s like he’s incapable of telling me how he feels when he feels it. Nope. He prefers to bottle it up and internalize until it all tumbles out in a heated moment.

And he knows how to hit where it hurts.

I blink. “Henry. What are you talking about?”

Henry throws his hands in the air. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Clearly you do,” I say.

“It’s her birthday, you fart face,” Fitz says.

“Do not backpedal.” Now that it’s out in the open I can’t just swallow it down anymore.