14. Savannah
Fourteen
Savannah
Four years earlier
Claire Reed could make any escape look criminal.
We were leaving an awards-show after-party through the service corridor of a downtown Nashville hotel, and she had chosen to wear enormous sunglasses.
At midnight.
Indoors.
With a silver cocktail dress that reflected every available source of light.
“You look subtle,” I told her.
She adjusted the sunglasses.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“I’ve decided it was.”
Bass vibrated through the ballroom wall behind us. Someone inside had started karaoke with the confidence of a person who had won something earlier that evening.
Claire pushed open a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Cold air hit us.
A hotel employee smoking beside a dumpster looked up.
Claire waved.
He waved back.
No recognition.
No alarm.
No request for a photograph.
“Perfect,” she said.
“We’re standing beside industrial garbage.”
“Privacy has a scent.”
“It’s ranch dressing.”
“Luxury ranch dressing.”
I pulled my coat tighter around my dress.
The gown had been selected by a stylist, approved by Sophie, insured by someone in Los Angeles, and designed without any apparent belief in weather.
Claire’s coat was waiting in the car.
The car was not waiting where Rachel had promised it would be.
“Where’s Marcus?” I asked.
Claire peered down the alley.
“Maybe he joined karaoke.”
“He has the keys.”
“You’re a famous country singer. Hot-wire something.”
“That isn’t one of the traditional skills.”
“You sing about trucks constantly.”
“I have sung about two trucks.”
“Two more than I have.”
My phone buzzed.
Rachel.
Car delayed at front entrance. Too many photographers. Stay inside.
I showed Claire.
She looked toward the door we had just closed behind us.
“Absolutely not.”
“Rachel said stay inside.”
“Rachel thinks granola bars count as lunch.”
“She’s wrong about some things.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You ate at the party.”
“I ate something placed on a spoon by a man wearing gloves.”
“It had mushrooms.”
“It had foam.”
“The foam tasted like cheese.”
“That sentence should require a permit.”
Claire took my hand.
The alley was empty except for the hotel employee and a delivery van with its rear doors open.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“There’s a diner two blocks away.”
“We can’t walk there.”
“Why?”
I pointed at myself.
Claire looked me over.
The gown.
The diamonds.
The professionally sculpted hair that had survived three interviews, one award presentation, and an aggressive blast of confetti.
“You do look overdressed for pancakes.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“I’ve decided it was.”
She tugged me toward the street.
I followed.
That was a recurring issue with Claire.
The first year we were together, hiding had felt like a private joke.
We used fake names at restaurants.
We entered hotels through kitchens.
Claire once climbed onto a catering cart and covered herself with napkins because a photographer appeared near the elevators.
No one had asked her to.
She had simply committed to the moment.
We ate in restaurants with terrible lighting because nobody carried a telephoto lens into places with laminated menus.
We drove instead of flying whenever my schedule allowed.
We stayed in motels where the artwork was bolted to the wall and the continental breakfast consisted of coffee, cereal, and one banana that appeared to have survived several administrations.
It was inconvenient.
It was also ours.
We kept to the quieter side streets.
Claire removed the sunglasses.
“Better?”
“Now you only look like you escaped an awards show.”
“I did.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“I was invited by you.”
“Officially, you were invited by Rachel as part of the styling team.”
Claire stopped walking.
“You told me I was your date.”
“You were.”
“Then why did my badge say wardrobe?”
“Because Sophie printed it.”
“It also said assistant.”
“You assisted me.”
“With what?”
“Not leaving.”
Claire smiled.
“That was emotional styling.”
The diner appeared at the corner, all fluorescent light and red vinyl booths.
A handwritten sign in the window advertised PANCAKES ALL NIGHT.
Claire pressed a hand to her heart.
“Finally. An institution that respects working women.”
The bell chimed when we entered.
Three people sat at the counter. An older couple occupied a booth by the window. A waitress stood behind the register reading a magazine.
Everyone looked at us.
Mostly because Claire’s dress was emitting light.
The waitress lowered the magazine.
“Prom?”
“Award show,” Claire said.
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You won.”
The waitress looked at me more closely.
Recognition flickered.
I prepared the smile.
Before it arrived, she shrugged.
“Congratulations. Sit anywhere.”
Claire leaned closer.
“I love her.”
We took a booth at the back.
The menu contained forty-three items, none involving foam.
Claire ordered pancakes, eggs, hash browns, toast, bacon, and a chocolate milkshake.
The waitress looked at me.
“Coffee.”
Claire closed the menu.
“She’ll have pancakes too.”
“I don’t want pancakes.”
“You’re wearing borrowed diamonds beside a highway at one in the morning. You want pancakes.”
The waitress waited.
“Pancakes,” I said.
When she walked away, Claire reached across the table and touched the trophy I had placed beside the napkin dispenser.
“You won.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t thank me.”
“I thanked my team.”
“I’m not the team?”
“You had wardrobe credentials.”
“Assistant wardrobe credentials.”
“I said I loved everyone who helped get me here.”
Claire narrowed her eyes.
“You thanked Rachel.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie?”
“Yes.”
“The label?”
“Yes.”
“Your high-school choir teacher?”
“Yes.”
“The woman who sold you boots in Austin?”
“She had a major impact.”
Claire sat back.
“I’m below the boot woman.”
“You’re above the boot woman in my heart.”
“That will look beautiful on our invitations.”
I traced a finger through the condensation on her water glass.
“I couldn’t say your name.”
“I know.”
The smile stayed on her face.
A little less easily.
“I wanted to.”
“I know that too.”
“Did you mind?”
Claire glanced toward the counter.
“No.”
The answer came a fraction too late.
The food arrived before I could ask again.
Claire poured syrup over her pancakes.
Then added enough to qualify as an environmental concern.
“You’re going to ruin them.”
“That isn’t possible.”
I cut into mine.
They were excellent.
Claire looked smug.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“You wanted pancakes.”
“I’m eating them to support you.”
“That’s why I love you. Sacrifice.”
The words still did something to me.
Not because they were new.
Because Claire said them easily.
Anywhere.
Even in a diner where the waitress might recognize me and the old couple could hear every word.
I looked toward the counter.
Nobody was watching.
“I love you too.”
Claire smiled.
There.
The private version of the evening.
Better than the award.
Better than the speech.
Better than the photograph Sophie had already approved for release.
My phone vibrated across the table.
Rachel.
Where are you?
I typed:
Diner.
Her response arrived immediately.
Which diner?
Claire leaned over the table.
“Tell her the one with food.”
I sent the address.
Three dots appeared.
Stopped.
Returned.
Stay inside. Marcus is coming. Photographers moved to side streets.
I placed the phone facedown.
“Rachel says stay inside.”
Claire lifted a forkful of pancakes.
“Rachel finally understands me.”
We finished slowly.
Not because we needed more time.
Because nobody had asked us to leave.
The waitress brought the check and a slice of pie we had not ordered.
“Celebration,” she said.
Claire looked at me.
“You’re famous enough for free pie.”
“I’ve reached the dream.”
The bell above the door chimed.
A man entered carrying a camera.
He was not looking at us.
Not yet.
My stomach tightened anyway.
Claire noticed.
Her hand disappeared from the table.
Mine did the same.
The man ordered coffee at the counter.
Then glanced toward our booth.
Once.
Twice.
Recognition sharpened his posture.
I reached for my phone.
“We should go.”
“Marcus isn’t here.”
“We can wait in the kitchen.”
Claire looked toward the swinging door behind the counter.
“Do you think they have carts?”
“Please don’t hide under napkins again.”
“It worked.”
“It delayed room service.”
The photographer lifted his camera.
The first flash filled the diner.
The waitress shouted something that sounded unprintable.
Claire moved first.
She stood, grabbed the trophy, and held it directly in front of my face.
A second flash.
“Congratulations,” she said loudly. “I’m a huge fan.”
I stared at her from behind the award.
“What are you doing?”
“Wardrobe assistance.”
The older couple applauded.
The photographer stepped closer.
“Savannah! Who are you here with?”
“No comment.”
Claire picked up her milkshake.
Another flash caught her drinking through the straw beside me.
“Are you two together?”
The answer left before I had time to think.
“She’s a friend.”
Claire stopped drinking.
Only for a second.
The photographer kept shooting.
A black SUV pulled up outside.
Marcus opened the rear door.
“Time to go.”
Claire carried the trophy.
I carried the pie.
Neither of us discussed the order of priorities.
The waitress blocked the photographer with a coffeepot while we crossed the diner.
“Come back anytime,” she called.
“We love you,” Claire shouted.
We climbed into the car.
Marcus pulled away before the door had fully closed.
I looked through the rear window.
The photographer stood on the sidewalk reviewing the pictures.
Claire placed the trophy on the floor.
The pie rested between us.
“Well,” she said. “That was exciting.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For the photographer?”
“For what I said.”
She looked down at the milkshake she had somehow carried into the car without spilling.
“You said what you always say.”
“I had to answer quickly.”
“You could have said nothing.”
“He asked if we were together.”
“We are.”
“Claire.”
“No, I understand.”
Her voice stayed light, but now I could hear the work beneath it.
“Strange man. Camera. Sophie’s blood pressure. Friend is easier.”
I reached for her hand.
She placed the milkshake in mine.
“Hold this.”
My phone rang.
Sophie.
I answered.
“What happened?” she asked.
“We went for food.”
“Why?”
Claire looked at me.
“Because we were hungry.”
“Photographs have been sent to three outlets. We need a response before they publish.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Go back to the hotel. Don’t post. Don’t stop anywhere else.”
“We weren’t planning a second dinner.”
“Who is the woman in silver?”
The question made me flinch.
“You know who she is.”
“I know. I’m asking what we say.”
I looked at Claire.
She stared through the window.
“Nothing.”
“The photographs look intimate.”
“We were eating pancakes.”
“One shows her holding your award.”
“She carried it.”
“Another shows you leaving together.”
“We arrived together too.”
Sophie exhaled.
“If we’re asked, we can say Claire was helping with wardrobe tonight. She had credentials. It’s plausible.”
Claire turned from the window.
She had heard every word.
“She wasn’t helping with wardrobe,” I said.
Claire lifted the badge still hanging from her wrist.
WARDROBE ASSISTANT
She gave it a small wave.
Sophie’s voice softened.
“I’m not trying to insult anyone.”
“No,” Claire said. “You’re doing it professionally.”
Sophie went quiet.
“Claire,” I said.
“What? That was almost praise.”
“I’ll call you back,” I told Sophie.
“Do not make a statement.”
“I heard you.”
I ended the call.
Claire removed the badge and placed it beside the trophy.
“Tonight was fun.”
“It was.”
“Right up until I became staff.”
“You know that isn’t what I think.”
“I do.”
“Then don’t say it like that.”
She turned toward me.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m ashamed of you.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Claire searched my face.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
I looked toward the dark window.
Our reflection moved with the car.
Me in diamonds.
Claire in silver.
Sitting close enough to touch, carefully not touching.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
She laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
“Everything becomes complicated when you don’t want to answer.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
We passed beneath a streetlight.
Her face appeared briefly beside mine in the glass.
“I thought this part would get easier.”
“It will.”
“When?”
“After the tour.”
Claire nodded.
“The tour ends in November.”
“Yes.”
“And then the album campaign starts.”
“That’s different.”
“Then another tour.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“We do.”
I placed the milkshake in the cup holder.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
There was no comfort in the words.
Claire straightened the bent corner of the pie box.
“You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I don’t mind being private.”
I waited.
“I like the bad motels. I like driving three hours because airports are impossible. I even liked climbing into that catering cart.”
“You complained for weeks.”
“There were forks under the napkins.”
“I remember.”
“I don’t need photographs or red carpets. I don’t need you to thank me in speeches.”
Her fingers stayed on the pie box.
“But how many times can I be your friend before I stop being your girlfriend?”
The car went quiet.
No phones.
No publicist.
No trained answer waiting to rescue me.
I reached for her hand.
This time, she let me take it.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Then we’ll fix it.”
Claire looked down at our joined hands.
“You always say we when you mean later.”
The SUV stopped at the hotel’s private entrance.
Rachel waited beside the door with her coat fastened incorrectly, which meant she had dressed while walking.
Marcus opened the car.
Claire let go of my hand before Rachel could see.
Not because Rachel did not know.
Because hiding had become reflex.
Claire picked up the pie.
I took the trophy.
Rachel looked between us.
“Everyone okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
Claire stepped onto the pavement.
“Wardrobe survived.”
Rachel’s face tightened.
She had already heard.
“I’m sorry.”
Claire smiled at her.
Not warmly.
Not cruelly.
Professionally.
“It’s fine.”
She walked inside.
Rachel watched her go.
Then she looked at me.
“It isn’t.”
“I know.”
Rachel took the trophy from me.
“You should go after her.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
I found Claire in the elevator.
The doors were closing.
I reached between them.
They opened again.
She looked at me.
“You forgot your award,” I said.
“Rachel has it.”
“I needed an opening line.”
“It needs work.”
I stepped inside.
The doors closed.
No cameras.
Just mirrored walls and the two of us reflected from too many angles.
“I don’t want you to stop being my girlfriend.”
Claire looked straight ahead.
“Then eventually, you’re going to have to let me be one.”
The elevator began to climb.
I stood beside her, empty-handed.
For the first time, hiding no longer felt like a game we were playing together.