19. Savannah
Nineteen
Savannah
Three years earlier
Claire was taking the good frying pan.
I noticed it before I noticed the boxes.
The pan sat on the kitchen counter beside a roll of packing tape, two wineglasses wrapped in dish towels, and the ceramic bowl we had bought at a street market because Claire said the uneven rim gave it character.
I had said the uneven rim gave it structural concerns.
We bought it anyway.
Now it rested inside an open box marked KITCHEN — FRAGILE, which seemed optimistic.
I closed the apartment door behind me.
“You’re taking the pan.”
Claire looked up from a stack of plates.
“You don’t cook.”
“I make eggs.”
“You make one egg and leave the pan in the sink until someone else develops a relationship with it.”
“That sounds like cooking with community involvement.”
She did not smile.
That was when I saw the rest.
Three boxes beside the dining table.
A suitcase near the hallway.
Half the books missing from the shelf.
The blue blanket gone from the sofa.
I looked toward the bedroom.
The closet door stood open.
Claire’s side was nearly empty.
My phone buzzed in my hand.
Rachel.
Car at 6:40 tomorrow. Radio at 8. Do not stay up.
Below it waited four unread messages from Sophie.
A photograph of Claire leaving our building had appeared online that afternoon. Her face was partly hidden by sunglasses, but the jacket was the same one she had worn backstage in Denver, and someone had connected the two images.
Sophie had spent the last hour asking how I wanted to describe her if the radio host brought it up.
I turned the phone facedown on the entry table.
“What is this?”
Claire folded another dish towel around a glass.
“I’m packing.”
“I can see that.”
“Then we’re starting from a useful place.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
She stopped wrapping the glass.
“Annie.”
The name changed the room.
She only called me Annie when we were alone.
Or when she was too tired to care which version of me answered.
“Where are you going?”
“I rented an apartment.”
I waited for the sentence to expand.
It did not.
“A temporary apartment?”
“No.”
“Why would you rent an apartment?”
Claire looked at the boxes.
“I was hoping the visual aids would help.”
My jacket was still on. One sleeve had twisted beneath my arm when I came in, but fixing it felt like admitting I planned to stay in the conversation.
“When did you do this?”
“I signed the lease three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks?”
“Yes.”
“You rented a place three weeks ago and said nothing?”
Her eyebrows lifted.
I heard the question properly after it left my mouth.
“That sounded bad.”
“It sounded familiar.”
“I meant you should have told me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The night of the Denver show.”
“We were in Denver for fourteen hours.”
“Yes.”
“I had press afterward.”
“You said we would talk at the hotel.”
“We got back at two.”
“And you said we would talk after breakfast.”
I remembered breakfast.
Room-service eggs.
Rachel calling because a photograph from the lobby had appeared online.
Claire eating toast while Sophie explained that she needed to leave through the service elevator.
“I was dealing with a problem.”
“You were always dealing with a problem.”
“That’s the job.”
“I understand the job.”
Claire said it without anger.
That was worse.
She placed the wrapped glass inside the box and reached for another.
I looked around again.
The framed photograph from the hallway was gone.
Not one of us together. We did not display those.
It had been the lake behind her parents’ house.
Her yellow-handled mug was missing from the drying rack.
The basket of blankets contained only mine.
“This isn’t because I was late tonight.”
“No.”
“I told you rehearsal ran over.”
“I’m not leaving because of lighting cues.”
“Then stop packing while I’m trying to understand.”
Claire pulled tape across the box.
“I’ve been trying to help you understand for two years.”
The tape made a sharp sound.
I hated how final it sounded.
“I can cancel tomorrow morning.”
“No.”
“The radio spot isn’t essential.”
“You promised the station.”
“I can reschedule.”
“This is not something you fix by moving another appointment.”
“I’m trying to give us time.”
“You’re trying to put us on the calendar.”
I took off my jacket and laid it over a chair.
Claire picked it up and hung it by the door.
Even while leaving me, she could not tolerate clothing on furniture.
“You could have told me before signing anything.”
“I told you I was looking.”
“When?”
“Denver.”
“That wasn’t a conversation. We had six minutes before Sophie came upstairs.”
“It was the six minutes you gave me.”
I rubbed both hands over my face.
“Is there someone else?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Are you sure?”
Claire stared at me.
I wished I could pull the question back.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to ask.”
“You could ask why I’m leaving.”
“Why are you leaving?”
She rested both hands against the counter.
“I don’t want this life anymore.”
“What part?”
A tired laugh escaped her.
“All of it.”
“That isn’t specific.”
“I have spent three years being specific.”
“Then tell me again.”
The request was selfish.
I made it anyway.
Claire looked toward the living room.
“This apartment is the only place I exist in your life.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Where else?”
“My band knows you.”
“They think I’m a friend from home.”
“Rachel knows.”
“Rachel knows where every person in your life is at all times.”
“My mother knows.”
“Your mother believes we share hotel rooms because you don’t sleep well alone.”
“That is not what she believes.”
“Have you ever corrected her?”
I had not.
Claire nodded once.
“Your publicist calls me wardrobe if someone sees us backstage.”
“I told Sophie to stop.”
“After the third time.”
“She was trying to protect us.”
“No. She was trying to protect Savannah.”
“And you.”
“I never asked for this much protection.”
The word sat between us.
Protection.
It sounded better than hiding.
More loving.
More adult.
We did not owe strangers access to our lives.
We did not need public approval.
Both things were true.
Neither explained why I had made every rule.
“We agreed to keep it quiet,” I said.
“At the beginning.”
“You understood what the second album could do.”
“I did. Then it came out.”
“The tour got bigger.”
“Then the tour ended.”
“The contract renewal was complicated.”
“And then it was the awards.”
“I needed the label behind me.”
“And then the third album.”
“That wasn’t planned.”
“There is always something.”
Claire started stacking the remaining plates.
“After the album. After the tour. After Richard feels secure. After Sophie finds the right language. After the next problem.”
“I meant every promise.”
“That’s part of what makes this so exhausting.”
I moved closer to the counter.
“I can tell them now.”
She stopped.
“I can call Sophie.”
Claire closed her eyes.
“I am not asking you to make an announcement tonight.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is now.”
The answer frightened me more than shouting would have.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Relief came before I could stop it.
Claire saw.
“That doesn’t change what I’m doing.”
“How can it not?”
“Because loving each other was never the problem.”
The refrigerator hummed behind us.
Tomorrow’s schedule was held beneath a magnet.
Radio.
Fitting.
Rehearsal.
Dinner with Richard.
At the bottom, in Claire’s handwriting:
Pick up dry cleaning.
Even her reminder had been fitted into the edges of my day.
“We can fix this,” I said.
“How?”
“I’ll talk to Richard.”
“And say what?”
“That I’m done pretending you’re my assistant.”
“That would have mattered two years ago.”
“I’ll bring you to events.”
“I don’t want to arrive as a correction.”
“That isn’t what I’m offering.”
“You don’t know what you’re offering. You only know you don’t want me to leave.”
“That should matter.”
“It does.”
“Then stay.”
“No.”
The word was soft.
Complete.
I reached for her hand.
She let me take it.
That made everything worse.
Her fingers were familiar. The silver ring on her thumb pressed against mine.
“I can change.”
“I hope you do.”
“For us.”
“For yourself.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I don’t want to become the emergency that finally makes you honest.”
“You aren’t an emergency.”
“I have been treated like one for years. Every time I ask for something, you manage the situation until I stop asking.”
I let go of her hand.
She turned back to the box.
“What about Seattle?”
“What about it?”
“You were supposed to come.”
“I canceled the flight.”
“You like Seattle.”
“I like you.”
The answer hurt more.
“You can still come.”
“No.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone.”
Claire looked at me.
There it was.
The entire problem offered as reassurance.
I looked down.
“That came out wrong.”
“It came out exactly the way you know how to love me.”
“I can learn another way.”
“Yes.”
“Stay while I do.”
Her face softened.
For one dangerous second, I thought she might.
Then she shook her head.
“I already stayed.”
The apartment went quiet.
A car horn sounded far below us.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Neither of us looked at it.
Claire closed the kitchen box and wrote across the top:
PANS / GLASSES / BLENDER
“You labeled that incorrectly,” I said.
She looked at me.
“The blender is not fragile.”
“It has emotional sensitivity.”
“It screams.”
“You overload it.”
“With spinach.”
“It has standards.”
“There was a neighbor complaint.”
“That was you.”
The corner of Claire’s mouth lifted.
Almost a smile.
“I’m taking it,” she said.
“I gathered.”
“You can keep the espresso machine.”
“I don’t know how to use it.”
“You press the only button.”
“There are lights.”
“You perform in front of twenty thousand people.”
“They don’t require descaling.”
Claire laughed once.
Then covered her mouth.
For a few seconds, we were still us.
The version that stayed awake in hotel rooms mocking instructional videos.
The version that ate pancakes after award shows.
The version that could turn an appliance into a three-year dispute.
Then the laughter ended.
Claire lifted the box.
I took it from her.
“You don’t have to carry this.”
“I packed it.”
“I can still carry it.”
She let me.
We walked to the front door.
Two more boxes waited in the hallway. I had not noticed them when I came in.
A set of new keys rested on top.
Claire pressed the elevator button.
“Is someone helping you?”
“My sister is downstairs.”
“Emily knows?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
She gave me a tired look.
“Right.”
The elevator arrived.
I put the kitchen box inside.
“Will I see you again?”
“Probably.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I can’t answer that tonight.”
“I can call.”
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
Her expression changed.
I heard the word as she did.
Tomorrow.
“Not tomorrow,” Claire said.
“Then when?”
“When I’m ready.”
The elevator chimed.
Claire stepped inside.
I held the door with one hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“I believe you.”
“For all of it.”
“I believe that too.”
“That sounds like forgiveness.”
“It isn’t.”
The doors tried to close against my arm.
Claire reached out and touched my wrist.
“Annie.”
I moved my hand.
The doors began sliding together.
“I do love you,” she said.
Then she was gone.
I stood in the hallway until the numbers above the elevator reached the lobby.
My phone buzzed again inside the apartment.
This time, I picked it up.
Three messages from Rachel.
Five from Sophie.
The latest included a document.
Morning host has added a question about the woman photographed leaving your building. Need approval tonight.
I opened the file.
Option one described Claire as a longtime family friend.
Option two did not mention her.
Option three redirected the question toward the tour.
I stared at the screen.
Then at the half-empty apartment.
The missing blanket.
The bare shelf.
The space on the drying rack where Claire’s mug had been.
I typed:
None of these. Her name is Claire, and we need to talk before anyone says anything.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
The interview began at eight.
Richard would object.
Sophie needed time.
Claire had just left.
I could explain it properly once I had slept.
After the interview.
When things were calmer.
I deleted the message.
Typed:
Use option three.
Then I sent it.
The apartment stayed silent around me.
I stood in the kitchen, waiting for the right time to call Claire.
I kept waiting.