9. Savannah
Nine
Savannah
The strange thing about hearing your own name from a stranger was how quickly your body remembered what to do.
My shoulders settled.
My chin lifted.
The smile arrived.
Warm but not intimate. Surprised but not alarmed. Grateful without suggesting I had expected to be recognized.
It took less than a second.
“Savannah Brooks,” Jen repeated.
Not a question this time.
Beside me, Ellie’s fingers slipped from mine.
She did not pull away dramatically. Her hand simply fell back against her leg, and her thumb closed over the bracelet she had bought less than an hour ago.
I felt the loss of contact immediately.
“I am,” I said.
My voice changed too.
Only slightly. Half a note brighter. A little more open. The version designed to travel cleanly through crowds and phone microphones.
Jen made a sound that began as a gasp and ended somewhere near a squeak.
“I knew it. I knew it was you.”
Ellie had gone completely still.
I did not look at her.
That was cowardly.
It was also the only way I could keep the situation contained.
Jen pressed one hand to her chest.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re probably trying to have a normal day.”
“That’s okay.”
“You’re my favorite singer.”
“That’s very kind.”
“I saw you in Atlanta last year. My sister and I drove six hours, and our hotel had bedbugs, but the concert was incredible.”
“I’m sorry about the bedbugs.”
“They weren’t your fault.”
“Still. Not the ideal tour merchandise.”
She laughed.
Good.
Laughter kept people calm.
A calm fan was less likely to start shouting, livestreaming, or alerting the nearest group chat with fourteen exclamation marks.
Jen glanced at Ellie.
Then at the matching bracelets on our wrists.
Then back at me.
Something bright and curious moved across her face.
I knew that look.
Sophie Grant had built half a career around anticipating that look.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Jen said, which meant she desperately wanted to know what she was interrupting. “Could I get a quick picture?”
Every sensible answer crowded into my head.
No.
Not today.
Please don’t post my location.
Please don’t photograph Ellie.
Please don’t turn the best few days I had experienced in years into a caption.
But Jen was already nervous. Refusing could turn disappointment into a story. Agreeing could turn the photograph into evidence.
I glanced toward the market.
A few people were browsing nearby, but no one seemed to be watching us yet.
“Of course,” I said. “Can we do it facing the water?”
Jen nodded eagerly.
“Yes. Absolutely. The light’s better that way anyway.”
It was not.
The light would leave our faces slightly darker and, more importantly, keep Ellie out of the background.
I stepped away from the seawall.
Jen moved beside me and opened her camera.
Her hands were shaking.
“Do you want me to take it?” Ellie asked.
Her voice sounded normal.
Too normal.
Jen handed her the phone.
“Thank you.”
Ellie took it.
Our eyes met for the first time since Jen had said my name.
There was no starstruck excitement in Ellie’s face.
No disbelief.
Only a quiet question and the faint crease between her eyebrows that appeared when she was trying not to react too quickly.
I looked away first.
Jen moved close beside me.
I placed one arm lightly around her shoulders and smiled.
Ellie held up the phone.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” Jen said.
I was always ready.
That was part of the job.
Ellie took three pictures.
Not one.
She knew people blinked.
Of course she did.
She handed the phone back.
Jen stared at the screen.
“Oh my God. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I won’t tag the location,” she said quickly. “I promise.”
Relief came too fast.
I should have hidden it better.
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
“I won’t post it until tonight.”
My stomach tightened.
“Actually, Jen—”
She stopped.
I had managed live broadcasts, international schedules, award shows, and one mechanical-bull video Sophie still insisted did not exist.
Asking one kind woman not to share a photograph should not have felt difficult.
“I’m taking a few private days,” I said. “Would you mind keeping the picture to yourself for now?”
Jen’s excitement dimmed.
Only slightly, but enough to make guilt move through me.
“Right. Of course.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. I understand.”
She glanced at Ellie again.
This time, Ellie was staring toward the marina.
Jen lowered her voice.
“I didn’t mean to make anything weird.”
“You didn’t.”
That was a lie, but not one Jen deserved to carry.
She slipped her phone into her bag.
“My sister’s never going to believe me.”
“You have photographic evidence.”
“She’ll think it’s AI.”
“That’s difficult competition.”
Jen laughed.
Then she hugged me.
The movement was sudden, but years of meet-and-greets had trained my body to accept unexpected affection from strangers without dropping anything important.
I hugged her back.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“The songs.”
Those two words reached somewhere the smile did not cover.
“You’re welcome.”
She stepped away, eyes bright.
“I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”
I nodded.
“Enjoy your trip.”
“You too.”
Jen walked quickly toward the far end of the market, glancing back once before disappearing behind a stall selling painted signs.
The second she was gone, my smile fell.
Not dramatically.
It simply stopped being necessary.
Ellie still had not moved.
A vendor nearby called out the price of handmade soap. A child dropped a lemonade and began negotiating with gravity. A boat horn sounded from the marina.
Normal life continued with offensive confidence.
I turned toward Ellie.
“Ellie.”
She looked at me.
Her fingers were still closed around the bracelet.
“Savannah Brooks.”
There was no accusation in the words.
That was worse.
“Yes.”
“You’re Savannah Brooks.”
“Yes.”
“The Savannah Brooks.”
“I don’t know how many there are.”
Her expression did not change.
The joke landed between us and expired quietly.
I looked down.
“Can we go somewhere private?”
Ellie glanced around the market.
“Apparently privacy’s flexible.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The question was soft.
Not cruel.
Still, it landed.
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes came back to mine.
“For which part?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing useful arrived.
The name?
The omission?
The fact that she had asked what I did and I had made her assemble the answer from professionally coordinated toothpaste and suspiciously expensive shirts?
A shout came from behind us.
“Savannah?”
My entire body tightened again.
A teenage girl stood near the lemonade stall, staring at me with both hands over her mouth.
Beside her, another girl was already lifting a phone.
Jen had not said anything.
She had not needed to.
Recognition spread through crowds without permission.
The first phone pointed toward us.
Then a second.
“Oh,” Ellie said.
It was a small word.
A very Ellie word.
It somehow contained the whole problem.
The smile returned to my face.
The teenage girls approached at a speed just short of running.
“I’m sorry,” one of them said breathlessly. “Are you really—”
“Yes.”
Both girls screamed.
Not arena screaming.
Market screaming.
Higher. More concentrated. Dangerous around glassware.
People turned.
The man selling honey looked up. The wooden-bowl negotiator stopped mid-sentence. Two women near a jewelry stall whispered to each other.
One phone became five.
I could feel the situation expanding.
Ellie moved closer to me.
Not touching.
Close.
“Do we run?” she asked quietly.
“Not yet.”
“What’s the threshold?”
“Usually when someone calls local news.”
She looked toward a man typing rapidly on his phone.
“That feels close.”
The first girl held out her phone.
“Could we please get a picture?”
“Quickly.”
I took it from her before she could arrange us in front of the seawall.
Two photographs.
Return the phone.
Smile.
Thank them.
Move.
The second girl wanted a birthday video for her mother.
A woman asked me to sign a canvas tote.
Someone called my name from across the market.
More phones rose.
My training took over.
Control the pace.
Keep the group calm.
Never look trapped.
Never let the smile become effort.
I could do this.
I had done versions of it in airports, hotels, restaurants, gas stations, hospitals, funerals, and once outside a portable toilet at a music festival.
The problem was Ellie.
She stood near the seawall watching me become someone she had never met.
Every polished answer widened the space between us.
A woman carrying a baby asked whether I could record a birthday message for her husband.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Brandon.”
I looked into the phone.
“Hey, Brandon. Savannah Brooks here. I heard someone has a birthday coming up—”
The baby grabbed my bracelet.
Hard.
I stopped mid-sentence.
The mother gasped.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
The woven thread tightened around my wrist.
“It’s okay.”
Ellie stepped in.
“Hey, small criminal.”
She gently opened the baby’s fingers.
The bracelet stayed intact.
The baby stared at her, offended.
Ellie held up both hands.
“I respect your process.”
The mother laughed nervously.
I finished the video.
When she moved away, Ellie checked the bracelet.
“Still there.”
“Yes.”
The relief in my voice had nothing to do with thread.
Another person approached.
Then another.
Somewhere in the crowd, a phone began playing one of my songs at full volume.
That was never a good sign.
“Threshold?” Ellie asked.
“We’ve reached it.”
“How do famous people escape markets?”
“Usually with security.”
“You have security?”
“Not here.”
“That feels like poor planning.”
“It was the point.”
She looked around.
The crowd was not dangerous.
Only excited.
But excitement had momentum. A display rack shifted as people pressed closer. The honey seller was now filming. Someone shouted, “Is she doing a free concert?”
Ellie drew in a breath.
Then she stepped onto the low seawall.
“Everybody,” she called.
Her voice carried with the authority of someone used to stopping tourists from touching poisonous wildlife.
Several people looked at her.
I did too.
“Savannah has to leave,” Ellie announced. “There’s been a marine emergency.”
I stared at her.
The crowd quieted.