I can do this. I nod at the Jamie in the mirror, grab Gladys, and head downstairs to face my dad. My back barely aches at all right now. Good omen. That’s a good omen.

I’m shivering as I walk through the living room, anxiety humming through me in the most literal sense. I haven’t told Dad that I’m doing the gig with Duck Waterfall. I have no idea how he’s going to react or what his opinions on Jamie’s improv team are. The plan is to spring it on everyone there and hope for the best.

He’s waiting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and his phone again; that seems to be his natural stance.

I’m trying really hard not to let preconceived bias from my mother make me judgmental of his every move. I mean, he’s already proved me wrong. I know he’s rooting for Jamie. That’s something a good dad does. He set this up. He’s going to come and watch like he’s been doing with her comedy all along. That’s a good dad.

But looking at him right now, I’m having trouble seeing the dad I want to see. I see that insensitive email that was in my catfish inbox addressed to Mom this morning.

I stick my shaky hands into Jamie’s overall pockets. Today he’s wearing a white button-up collared shirt with a pair of blue slacks.

“Hey, Dad,” I say as I approach the table. “Morning.”

He looks up, taking in my appearance. “Hey, Jame! Wow, going colorful for your performance, huh? You feeling ready?”

Instead of taking a seat at the table, I head toward the fridge. “Yep! I don’t know if you were planning on going together, but Dawn’s picking me up early and we’re going to prep beforehand.”

I get to work making myself a brunch omelet to try to calm my rising nerves. I pull out the eggs and grab a frying pan from the cabinet.

Dad puts down his phone and gives me his full attention as I spin toward the island with a bowl to crack the eggs in.

“Whoa, Jame.” He smiles. “Whatchya doing there?”

“Making an omelet,” I say cooly. “I haven’t eaten.”

He chuckles from the table before wandering over as I start whisking the eggs. “Should I call the fire department?”

I shoot him a tight-lipped smile. “I think I’ll make it out alive, but thank you … I’ve been cooking with Grams,” I add by way of explanation as I snatch out the butter, salt, and pepper and put them on the island. “What did you need to tell me about the gig?” I ask.