4. Savannah
Four
Savannah
Five years earlier
The first time someone described me as wholesome, I was eating cold pizza in a conference room at ten in the morning.
I had one foot tucked beneath me, cheese stuck to my thumb, and a bruise on my knee from falling off a mechanical bull at a radio-station party the night before.
“Wholesome,” Richard Greene repeated.
He said it with great confidence, as though the word had arrived from a laboratory after several months of testing.
I looked down at the pizza.
“Is there a less upsetting option?”
Across the table, Sophie Grant clicked to the next slide.
A photograph of me appeared on the screen.
I was standing in a field at sunset, wearing boots, a white dress, and an expression of surprised joy. The image had been taken for my first album campaign, though the field was located twenty minutes outside Nashville and smelled strongly of fertilizer.
Large words appeared beside my face.
AUTHENTIC. WARM. RELATABLE.
Underneath them:
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR WITH A VOICE BUILT FOR STADIUMS.
I stared at it.
“Which door?”
Richard smiled patiently.
“The point is that people feel like they know you.”
“They don’t.”
“That’s marketing,” Sophie said.
Rachel Donovan sat beside me with a legal pad, a black coffee, and the expression of a woman who had already decided several people in the room were wasting her time.
“Can we discuss what this actually means?” she asked.
Richard folded his hands on the table.
“It means the early numbers are strong.”
“How strong?” I asked.
“Very.”
“Is that stronger than good?”
“It’s significantly stronger than good.”
“Do I get a chart?”
Sophie clicked again.
I got six charts.
Streaming numbers. Radio growth. Audience demographics. Social engagement. Merchandise projections.
There were arrows.
All the arrows pointed upward.
I had been in Nashville for three years, signed for one, and recognizable in exactly four airports. My debut single had done well enough that strangers had started approaching me in grocery stores, usually while I was holding something unglamorous like frozen peas or toilet paper.
The second single was doing better.
The label had upgraded my hotel rooms, my wardrobe budget, and the number of people who emailed me when I changed my hair.
Apparently, success came with arrows.
Richard tapped one of the charts.
“You’re testing especially well with women between eighteen and thirty-four. They see you as aspirational but accessible.”
“I fell off a mechanical bull last night.”
“We don’t need to include that in the campaign.”
“There’s video.”
Sophie’s hand moved toward her phone.
“Where?”
“I was joking.”
She looked disappointed.
“That isn’t responsible.”
“I apologize.”
Richard continued as if none of us had spoken.
“The next six months are crucial. We have the album release, festival appearances, morning television, the opening slot on Cole Warren’s tour—”
“Cole Warren has never once worn a shirt with sleeves,” I said.
“He sells out arenas.”
“I’m not criticizing. I’m observing.”
“—and we want the image to remain consistent.”
I wiped cheese from my thumb with a napkin.
“What image?”
Sophie returned to the first slide.
AUTHENTIC. WARM. RELATABLE.
I pointed at the screen.
“That woman looks like she churns butter recreationally.”
“She looks grounded,” Richard said.
“She was standing six feet from a portable toilet.”
“Savannah.”
Rachel’s tone contained a warning, though the corner of her mouth moved.
I put the pizza down.
“Fine. Grounded. Warm. Wholesome. What does any of this require from me?”
Richard and Sophie exchanged a glance.
It was brief.
Polite.
Extremely visible.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Oh, good. There’s a second meeting hidden inside the first meeting.”
“There is no second meeting,” Richard said.
“This feels like a second meeting.”
Sophie closed the presentation and placed the remote on the table.
“We need to talk about your public profile.”
“I have one?”
“You do now.”
“Can I return it?”
“No.”
“Store credit?”
“No.”
Rachel put down her pen.
“What specifically are you asking her to do?”
Richard sat forward.
“Nothing dramatic. We simply need to be thoughtful about what the public sees.”
“I’m already thoughtful,” I said.
Sophie looked at my pizza.
“Not about breakfast.”
“It has tomatoes.”
“That argument has failed in several courts.”
Richard ignored us.
“We’re building a long-term career. Country audiences value authenticity, but they also respond to familiarity. They like to understand the story.”
“What story?”
“Small-town girl. Big voice. Family values. Hard work. Humility.”
“Does falling off the bull count as humility?”
“No one is releasing the bull footage,” Sophie said.
“There is no footage.”
“That’s what people always say before footage.”
Rachel’s gaze stayed on Richard.
“And her personal life?”
There it was.
The room did not become colder.
No ominous music played.
Nobody leaned forward and announced that this was the part where things became difficult.
The air-conditioning continued humming. Someone laughed in the hallway. My coffee remained terrible.
Richard chose his words carefully.
“We’re not asking Savannah to lie.”
Rachel’s eyebrows rose.
“That is not a reassuring opening sentence.”
“We’re asking her to protect her privacy.”
“From what?” I said.
Richard looked at me.
“From becoming the story before the music has a chance to be.”
For a second, I did not understand.
Then I did.
The pizza settled heavily in my stomach.
Sophie spoke gently.
“The press is going to ask whether you’re dating anyone.”
“They already do.”
“And your answer so far has been that you’re focused on the album.”
“I am focused on the album.”
“Good. Keep saying that.”
I looked from her to Richard.
“For how long?”
Neither of them answered immediately.
Rachel did.
“That’s the question.”
Richard exhaled.
“No one can predict the future. We’re talking about now. This moment. This album.”
“This tour,” Sophie added. “This audience.”
I sat very still.
At the time, Claire Reed and I had been together for nine months.
She was an assistant costume designer on a television series filming in Atlanta. She had dark hair, an alarming collection of ceramic birds, and an ability to fall asleep during any movie regardless of explosions, plot, or volume.
She also had a toothbrush in my bathroom.
A drawer in my bedroom.
A key to my apartment.
None of that appeared on Sophie’s slides.
“What exactly am I supposed to say if someone asks?” I said.
“That you’re single,” Richard replied.
Rachel’s pen hit the table.
“You just said you weren’t asking her to lie.”
Richard’s expression tightened.
“Then say she’s private.”
“She isn’t single.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
The room finally went quiet.
Richard was not a cruel man.
That would have made things easier.
Cruel men were simple. You knew where to put them. You knew which songs to write afterward.
Richard had believed in me before most people did. He had fought for my first single when radio consultants called it too quiet. He knew the names of every member of my band and always asked about my mother’s garden.
He also knew exactly how many albums I needed to sell to justify the money the label had spent.
“I’m not telling you how to live,” he said. “I’m telling you the reality of the market we’re entering.”
“The market sounds nosy.”
“The market is always nosy.”
Sophie folded her hands.
“There’s another option. You don’t answer personal questions at all.”
“That seems subtle.”
“It is subtle.”
“It will make people ask more.”
“Yes,” Sophie admitted. “But they’ll have nothing to print.”
Rachel looked at me.
“You don’t have to decide anything today.”
Richard’s gaze flicked toward her.
“We have television next week.”
“She still doesn’t have to decide today.”
I stared at my face on the dark screen.
The girl next door.
Warm.
Relatable.
Available, apparently.
“What happens if somebody sees us?” I asked.
Richard’s answer came too quickly.
“Who?”
I laughed once.
It was not a particularly happy sound, but it was still a laugh.
“Claire. My girlfriend. The woman whose existence we’re discussing without saying her name.”
Richard nodded.
“If you’re photographed together, Sophie handles it.”
“How?”
Sophie hesitated.
“We’d say she’s a friend.”
The bruise on my knee began to throb beneath the table.
Claire had driven four hours the previous week to attend a showcase no one would remember. She had stood in the back because we had decided it would be safer than having her beside my mother. Afterward, she had waited in the car for forty minutes while I shook hands with radio executives.
A friend.
“What if they ask Claire?” I said.
“We’d brief her.”
Something about that phrase made Rachel sit up straighter.
“You will not brief Claire without Savannah present.”
“Of course not,” Sophie said quickly.
I pushed the pizza box away.
The meeting had started with arrows.
I missed the arrows.
They had been simpler.
Richard softened his voice.
“This is temporary.”
“How temporary?”
“Until you’re established.”
“What does established mean?”
“A strong second album. Headlining numbers. More control.”
“So success.”
“Yes.”
“And after I succeed, I get to tell the truth?”
His mouth tightened slightly.
“You’ll have more choices.”
It was a very polished answer.
I would learn to give hundreds of them.
Rachel closed her legal pad.
“We’re done for today.”
Richard looked at the clock.
“We still need to review the festival plan.”
“Email it.”
“Rachel—”
“She has rehearsal.”
I did not have rehearsal for another two hours.
Richard knew it.
He also knew Rachel well enough not to argue.
We stood.
Sophie gathered her phones and tablet. Richard offered me the remaining pizza as if carbohydrates might repair the conversation.
I declined.
Rachel walked me to the elevator.
Neither of us spoke until the doors closed.
Then she pressed the button for the lobby and said, “You can say no.”
I watched the numbers above the door.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
“What happens?”
“They reconsider the campaign.”
“Meaning?”
“They worry.”
“Labels worry professionally. It’s one of their core services.”
Rachel turned toward me.
“Annie.”