4. Savannah #2
She only used that name when there were no other people around.
It made me look at her.
“I mean it,” she said. “You can say no.”
The elevator descended.
Fourteen.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
“And if I do,” I said, “does radio still play the single?”
Rachel did not answer.
She did not need to.
The doors opened into the lobby.
A woman near reception looked at me twice, then whispered something to the man beside her.
He turned.
Recognition moved across his face.
I smiled automatically.
Warm.
Relatable.
Wholesome.
He approached and asked for a photograph.
I took one.
Then another with the woman.
By the time we reached the front doors, they were both following me online.
Claire was waiting at my apartment when I got home.
She stood in the kitchen wearing one of my T-shirts and attempting to open a bottle of wine with a corkscrew she had somehow bent.
“This device is discriminatory,” she said.
I dropped my bag on a chair.
“Against whom?”
“People without upper-body strength or mechanical intuition.”
“You have upper-body strength.”
“Then it’s personal.”
I took the bottle from her.
Claire watched me remove the cork in three seconds.
“I don’t like what this says about our relationship.”
“That I should handle emergencies?”
“That you’ll be smug about them.”
“I’m never smug.”
“You’re smiling right now.”
“That’s warmth. I tested well.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bad meeting?”
“Excellent meeting. I’m wholesome.”
Claire looked at my boots, my smudged eyeliner, and the fading mechanical-bull stamp still visible on my wrist.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Wholesome. Authentic. Relatable. Possibly butter-adjacent.”
She took the wine from me.
“You fell off a mechanical bull twelve hours ago.”
“Apparently, we’re suppressing that information.”
“Cowards.”
She poured two glasses and leaned against the counter.
“What did they want?”
I considered lying.
Not because Richard had asked me to.
Because the truth would walk into the room and sit between us, and I had already spent the morning watching what happened when too many people tried to manage a difficult thing at once.
Claire saw the hesitation.
Her expression changed.
“Annie.”
I hated how quickly she knew.
“They want me to keep saying I’m single.”
Claire went still.
Only for a second.
Then she took a sip of wine.
“Well,” she said. “Technically, we never updated Facebook.”
I laughed.
I loved her for trying.
“That’s your response?”
“I’m processing.”
“You’re making a joke.”
“That is how I process. Also, Facebook still thinks I work at a frozen-yogurt shop in Knoxville. It is not a reliable legal authority.”
I put both hands around my glass.
“They said it’s temporary.”
“Of course they did.”
“Until I’m established.”
“Are the songs not enough?”
“They want people focused on the music.”
Claire looked toward the living room, where one of her ceramic birds sat on my bookshelf between two songwriting awards.
It was small, blue, and slightly cross-eyed.
“They’re very focused on your music,” she said. “So focused they’ve started managing who’s allowed in your bed.”
“They didn’t say that.”
“No. They used nicer chairs.”
I looked down.
Claire set her glass aside.
“Hey.”
“I haven’t agreed.”
“You haven’t said no.”
“No.”
She crossed the kitchen and stood in front of me.
“What do you want?”
It was the obvious question.
That did not make it easy.
“I want the album to work.”
“It is working.”
“I want the next one to work too.”
“Okay.”
“I want the tour. I want to headline someday. I want people to know the songs.”
“I know.”
“And I want you.”
Claire’s face softened.
“That sounded dangerously sincere.”
“I can make it less sincere.”
“Please don’t.”
She took my hands.
Claire had paint beneath one thumbnail from work. There was a tiny burn mark near her wrist from a hot-glue incident she refused to discuss because, according to her, “the glue had lawyers.”
None of it was strategic.
None of it had been tested.
“What if we’re careful for a while?” I said.
Her thumb moved across my knuckles.
“How careful?”
“No red carpets.”
“I hate carpets.”
“No public events.”
“I hate events.”
“No posting.”
“I post pictures of birds and badly plated food.”
“No being photographed together.”
Claire considered this.
“What about security cameras?”
“I don’t think Sophie controls those yet.”
“Give her time.”
I smiled, but Claire did not.
“We can do this,” I said.
It sounded optimistic.
Possibly too optimistic.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Temporary.”
“Temporary.”
“And when you become established?”
“I’ll tell them.”
“That you’re dating your friend?”
“That I’m in love with my extremely difficult girlfriend.”
Claire’s eyebrows rose.
“In love?”
I froze.
The words had left my mouth without clearance from legal, management, or common sense.
Claire’s expression turned slowly delighted.
“That’s interesting.”
“I said extremely difficult.”
“You also said in love.”
“Did I?”
“Very clearly.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“Say it again.”
“No.”
“Annie.”
“This feels manipulative.”
“It is.”
She stepped closer.
“Say it again.”
I looked at her mouth.
Then at the ceramic bird watching us from the living room.
It appeared invested.
“I love you,” I said.
Claire smiled.
“Well, that’s inconvenient.”
“Deeply.”
She kissed me before I could decide whether inconvenience was romantic.
It was.
For a while, the meeting disappeared.
The charts. The story. The version of me strangers were beginning to know.
Claire kissed Annie in the middle of the kitchen while the wine warmed on the counter and the cross-eyed bird judged our technique from the next room.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against mine.
“We’ll be careful,” she said.
“Very careful.”
“No mechanical bulls.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“It’s now part of my conditions.”
“You’re controlling.”
“I’m wholesome.”
I laughed.
She kissed me again.
Later that night, she fell asleep halfway through an action movie, one hand still resting on my leg. I lowered the volume and watched her breathe while explosions happened silently across the television.
My phone lit up on the coffee table.
A message from Sophie.
Morning-show prep attached. Personal answer highlighted. Please use exact wording.
I opened the document.
There were six pages of suggested answers.
On page four:
Are you seeing anyone special?
Savannah: Right now, my first love is music. I’m giving this album everything I have.
I looked at Claire asleep beside me.
Then at the sentence again.
It was not exactly a lie.
That was the clever part.
Music had been my first love.
It simply was not my only one.
I locked the phone and set it facedown.
On television, a car exploded without making a sound.
Claire shifted closer in her sleep.
The next morning, under bright studio lights, the host smiled and asked whether there was anyone special in my life.
I smiled back.
Warm.
Authentic.
Relatable.
“My first love is music,” I said.
The audience applauded.
And somewhere between the question and the applause, Annie Miller took one small step backward while Savannah Brooks learned how to stand perfectly still.