22. Savannah #2
“I need several things. Most are not sold in this building.”
Her phone began vibrating.
Then Rachel’s.
Then mine.
The clip had already escaped the studio.
Sophie checked the first alerts.
“Twenty-three.”
“Efficient.”
“Do not sound pleased.”
“I’m not pleased. I’m relieved.”
That made her look up.
The distinction mattered.
Sophie studied me for several seconds.
“You did not discuss Ellie.”
“No.”
“You did not identify Claire.”
“No.”
“You acknowledged that previous narratives were encouraged.”
“Yes.”
“Richard will interpret that as an accusation against the label.”
“It was also an accusation against me.”
“He may not appreciate the balance.”
“He rarely appreciates nuance when it arrives near a financial report.”
Rachel checked her screen.
“The first headlines are live.”
She turned the phone toward us.
SAVANNAH brOOKS COMES OUT AS A LESBIAN: “I AM A WOMAN WHO LOVES WOMEN”
Another outlet had chosen:
SAVANNAH brOOKS REFUSES TO IDENTIFY FLORIDA WOMAN AFTER COMING OUT
A third read:
SAVANNAH SAYS PAST ROMANCE RUMORS WERE ENCOURAGED
Sophie exhaled.
“At least the quotes are accurate.”
“That feels like progress.”
“It is an alarmingly low standard.”
“We have to begin somewhere.”
Her phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
“Richard.”
“Please tell him I am inside a tunnel.”
“We are on the ground floor.”
“A metaphorical tunnel.”
She declined the call.
Before we left the building, another email appeared.
Sophie read it and frowned.
“What?”
“The Delaney campaign wants an urgent call.”
Delaney was a cosmetics company sponsoring the final section of the tour.
“Are they canceling?”
“They have not said that.”
“What did they say?”
“They would like to discuss whether today’s interview affects brand alignment.”
Rachel tore open the granola bar.
“It took them twelve minutes to discover principles.”
Sophie typed a reply.
“I told them we can speak Monday.”
“You did?”
“You have five days.”
Warmth moved through me before I could stop it.
“Thank you.”
“This is not kindness. It is scheduling.”
“Of course.”
She looked at me.
I corrected myself.
“Understood.”
The drive to the arena took twenty minutes.
By the time we arrived, the clip had several million views.
Messages filled my phone from band members, artists I knew, artists I had met once in elevators, and a former stylist who wrote only:
FINALLY. ALSO THAT SILVER JACKET WAS MINE.
There were supportive messages.
There were angry ones.
A radio station in a smaller market announced that it was “reviewing listener feedback” before deciding whether to keep my songs in rotation. Another added three tracks to an evening program titled OUT LOUD.
The country remained committed to disagreement.
My mother called.
I let it ring, not because I wanted to avoid her, but because I did not want our first conversation about this to happen while three people attached microphones beneath my clothes.
I texted:
I’ll call after the show.
Her reply arrived immediately.
I love you. Your father wants to know whether this changes the Christmas sleeping arrangements. I told him to calm down.
I laughed hard enough that Dani had to stop applying eyeliner.
“What happened?” she asked.
“My family is processing.”
“Supportively?”
“With logistics.”
The arena vibrated around us.
Crew members moved through corridors. Equipment cases rolled across concrete. Somewhere beyond the walls, the audience had begun chanting my name.
Rachel stood in the dressing-room doorway.
“How are you?”
The question did not feel like a trap.
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It means you have stopped pretending.”
Sophie entered with her phone pressed against her chest.
“Richard has called nine times.”
“Is that a record?”
“No. The record remains the awards-show seating dispute.”
“Luke Harper?”
“Luke Harper.”
I looked toward the stage entrance.
“Will any of this affect tonight?”
“The show is sold out,” Sophie said. “No one has organized a mass departure during the last forty minutes.”
“Reassuring.”
“There are supportive signs outside. There are also people arguing near the west entrance.”
“About me?”
“One argument concerns parking.”
“Normalcy survives.”
The band gathered in the corridor five minutes before the opening cue.
Usually, we formed a circle, placed our hands in the center, and shouted something increasingly ridiculous. The phrase changed every month and currently involved a private joke about a malfunctioning smoke machine.
Tonight, everyone looked at me.
Max, our drummer, broke first.
“Are we required to have a meaningful moment?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
He put his hand into the center.
The others followed.
Rachel joined from the edge.
Sophie did not, although she looked briefly tempted.
“What are we shouting?” someone asked.
“Diversified retirement planning,” I said.
Nobody understood.
That made it better.
We shouted it anyway.
Then the stage went dark.
The opening music began.
When I walked into the light, the sound hit with enough force to vibrate through my entire body.
Signs lifted across the arena.
Album titles.
Song names.
Messages I could not read from the stage.
Near the front, someone held a simple piece of poster board.
WE HEARD YOU. WE’RE STILL HERE.
I looked away before it could become the entire night.
The first song began.
Savannah arrived at full volume, not as a shield and not as the person responsible for everything Annie had been afraid to confront. She was the part of me that knew how to stand beneath the lights, hear thousands of voices rise, and love every second of it.
I sang for two hours.
I spoke less than usual because every sentence would be recorded and examined, but I did not become careful enough to vanish. I thanked the band, the crew, and the audience. I told them the tour had been exhausting, ridiculous, and better than I had known how to expect.
Before Hard Winter, I stood alone at the front of the stage with my guitar.
The arena quieted.
“This song has changed for me during the tour,” I said. “I used to think it was about reaching the end of a difficult season. Now I think it may be about noticing you are still inside it and continuing anyway.”
There was no mention of Ellie.
No hidden apology designed for one person.
The song belonged to everyone in the room.
I played it.
When the final note faded, the audience remained quiet for one breath before the applause rose.
The last encore ended beneath silver paper falling from the ceiling.
I stood with the band, arms around shoulders, looking at the crowd as the lights came up.
Eleven months ended without asking whether I was ready.
Backstage, people shouted, hugged, and began opening champagne.
Rachel handed me a bottle of water.
“Your five days start after the party.”
“I thought they began now.”
“You promised forty-five minutes.”
“I was under pressure.”
“You were surrounded by lawyers.”
“That is a kind of pressure.”
Sophie approached with her phone.
“Richard has reduced his calls to one every twelve minutes.”
“He is healing.”
“He wants a meeting tomorrow.”
“No.”
“I told him Monday.”
I looked at her.
“You did?”
“You have five days.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not make me repeat it.”
Rachel checked the time.
“Forty-four minutes.”
“Generous.”
My phone had remained in the dressing room during the show. When I finally picked it up, the screen held more messages than I could reasonably open.
One was from Claire.
I stared at her name before touching it.
That was brave.
Nothing else.
No reopening of the past.
No suggestion that bravery now repaired what fear had done then.
I typed:
You deserved that honesty years ago. I’m sorry.
I did not know whether she would respond.
That belonged to her.
Below Claire’s message was one from Ellie.
I saw the interview.
My pulse changed.
I began typing, deleted the message, and tried again.
Finally, I wrote:
I meant what I said. It wasn’t meant to put anything on you.
The answer did not arrive before Rachel announced that my forty-five minutes had begun.
I put the phone into my pocket.
For once, I made it through the party without checking every few seconds.
The reply was waiting when I returned to the dressing room.
Ellie: I know.
A second message appeared while I watched.
Ellie: You looked happy onstage.
I sat on the edge of the sofa.
Me: I was.
The typing indicator appeared, vanished, and returned.
Ellie: Good.
That was all.
It was not an invitation or forgiveness. It was Ellie seeing both parts of me without asking either one to become smaller.
Rachel appeared in the doorway.
“Your car is ready.”
“Where am I going?”
“To the hotel.”
“And tomorrow?”
She lifted her tablet.
Five blank days waited on the calendar.
“That is no longer my problem.”
The empty space still made me nervous.
This time, it also looked like mine.