“I’ll be right back.” I grab the phone and wander to an empty part of the restaurant.
“Hello?”
“Theo! Wow, you must be on top of the world right now!”
I remember Patrick Auber as a happy-go-lucky guy, which is why I’d told the Saints he’d make a good replacement for me, but his tone is beyond happy—Pat sounds thrilled.
I can think of nothing in my life that warrants “being on top of the world.” “Uh, Pat? Did you call the wrong person?”
He’s silent for a moment. “Hold on,” he says cautiously. “Do you not know?”
I glance back at Bryan and Gemma, who are watching me, and shrug. “Know what?”
“Dude. The Grammy nominations were just announced.”
As soon as he says it, I remember: today isthe day. I’d gotten so wrapped up in prepping for my bank meeting I’d forgotten to watch.
“And—” I stutter. “What did they—”
“Am I really the one telling you?” Pat’s voice is incredulous. “Oh, this is great. Theo, the Saints got nominated in every category we submitted them for. They’re sitting with five Grammy noms, man. The whole Manifest office is going nuts.”
The world tilts under my feet. I whip back to Bryan and Gemma. Bryan rises out of his chair, unsure what’s happening.
My Saints. My band. They’re Grammy nominees.
I could weep—right here, in a deli two blocks from Times Square.
“Congrats on ‘Family Fruit’ especially,” Pat continues. “How cool that you’ve got a Grammy nom under your belt too. I was calling to say—”
And that’s when Pat’s voice turns to white noise as I remember that it wasn’t just the Saints on the ballot. It was me.
Me. Theodore Ford Jr. A Grammy nominee. Not a middleman, but a cocreator.
Bryan’s gotten out of his chair to pace, his expression worried.
“—and it would be great to grab lunch sometime,” Pat is saying when I tune back in. “Give us a chance to catch up away from the office.”
“Yeah, sounds great, Pat.” I can’t get off the phone fast enough. “I’ll text you sometime—thanks so much—bye!”
I’m not even finished pressing the off button when I shout, “I just got nominated for a motherfuckingGrammy!” Gemma screams. The worried expression melts off Bryan’s face. “What?” He seizes me and lifts me off the ground.
“Bryan, my arm!”
“Oh, shit—sorry!” He drops me like a hot potato, then turns to the mostly empty restaurant and roars, “My best friend got nominated for a Grammy!”
“You’re going on the red carpet!” Gemma shrieks.
A few kind waitstaff applaud politely.
“Oh my god.” I try to get ahold of myself. But as soon as I focus, I go lightheaded again. “I should tell the loan officer about this, right? Wait, should I reschedule for a day when I can think straight?” “Um,norescheduling andyes, tell them.” Gemma looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Tell them the second you shake their hand.” “Theo.” Bryan’s voice has grown serious. “Are you going to call him?”
I know who he means. Bryan’s the only person who knows I’ve been holding on to that slip of paper with my dad’s phonenumber. And if there was ever going to be a time to stride back into my father’s life, it would probably be now.
I try to picture it: my dad in the quaint Cleveland four-bedroom I’d found while searching his address on Google Street View, getting my call out of the blue. Would he even answer? If he did, and he found out the son he left behind became a Grammy-nominated producer, would he tell me how much he regretted leaving, how he’d thought about me every day for the last fifteen years? Would we talk for hours, make plans to see each other? Would my whole life change?
I can’t picture it.
Instead, my mind drags up a memory of the day I got my Dartmouth acceptance. How I’d waited with bated breath for my mom to come home from her second shift at the Dollar Tree, ambushing her with the letter as soon as she walked through the door. The weary pride
