Epilogue
Annie
Six months later
Ellie had been inside the limousine for eleven minutes when she removed her shoes.
“We haven’t arrived yet,” I said.
“I’m preparing.”
“For what?”
“The moment I have to put them back on.”
She placed the silver heels on the floor and stretched her toes against the carpet. Sophie had selected them after Ellie rejected four other pairs on the grounds that they appeared to have been designed by someone with a personal grievance against feet.
The fifth pair had been declared survivable for forty minutes.
We had already used twenty-three of those minutes taking photographs at the hotel.
“You told Sophie they were comfortable,” I said.
“I told Sophie I could walk in them.”
“That was misleading.”
“It was technically defensible.”
Rachel looked up from the opposite seat.
“That phrase has caused enough damage.”
Ellie wore a dark green dress that reached the floor and left her shoulders bare. It was elegant without looking as though someone had wrapped her in a marketing strategy, which had been her primary condition.
Her hair was pinned up loosely. She had removed one pin in the hotel elevator and threatened to remove the rest if anyone described the style as effortless again.
Nothing about the evening had been effortless.
For six months, Ellie and I had been seen in airports, restaurants, and once outside a hardware store where she spent twenty minutes explaining why my house required a different kind of exterior paint.
There had been photographs.
There had been rumors.
One entertainment site had devoted nearly eight hundred words to whether a famous singer purchasing a ladder with another woman suggested domestic commitment.
We had not denied anything.
We had not formally confirmed anything either.
Tonight would be the first time we arrived somewhere together on purpose.
Officially.
The word had followed us all week.
Our first official appearance.
Our first official red carpet.
My first official girlfriend since publicly coming out.
Ellie disliked it because it made our relationship sound as though it had been waiting for government approval.
I disliked it because I understood exactly why it mattered.
The limousine slowed.
Outside, barricades, lights, and crowds appeared through the tinted windows. The entrance to the American Music Honors was surrounded by cameras, reporters, assistants with headsets, and enough electrical equipment to power several small towns.
Ellie looked down at her shoes.
“Thirty minutes?” she asked.
“Possibly.”
“You promised thirty.”
“I said Sophie estimated thirty.”
“Sophie also estimated that these shoes were designed for standing.”
Sophie sat beside Rachel, checking her phone.
“They are.”
“Not by humans.”
“They are Italian.”
“That does not answer the concern.”
Sophie put her phone away and looked at us.
“Are we still doing this?”
The question was directed at both of us, although her eyes settled on Ellie.
She had asked it three times that day.
Once over breakfast.
Once while a makeup artist examined Ellie’s eyebrows with professional intensity.
Once before we entered the car.
Each time, we had answered yes.
Ellie picked up one shoe but did not put it on.
“No,” she said.
The entire car went quiet.
She slid her foot into the heel.
“I have not been comfortable since someone measured the distance between my eyebrows.”
“That was for symmetry,” Sophie said.
“It felt accusatory.”
Rachel covered a smile with her hand.
Ellie fastened the second shoe and looked at me.
“I still want to do it.”
The tension in my chest changed rather than disappearing.
“You can change your mind whenever you want.”
“I’m aware.”
“We can use separate entrances.”
“I know.”
“We can skip the carpet.”
“Annie.”
“Yes?”
“You have now provided every exit available in this vehicle.”
“There may be a service road.”
“Stop helping.”
I closed my mouth.
Ellie adjusted the skirt over her knees.
“I want to walk in with you,” she said. “I am also nervous, the shoes are hostile, and I reserve the right to refuse any question I don’t like.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“I may refuse every question.”
“Still reasonable.”
Her gaze stayed on me.
“Are you sure you want this?”
Questions about my own discomfort were easier to answer.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I loved her.
Because Claire had once entered buildings through kitchens while I smiled alone at the front.
Because six months of delayed flights, early-morning calls, weekends on Pelican Key, and disagreements about calendars had made Ellie part of my real life whether anybody photographed us or not.
Because I was tired of allowing public silence to resemble private shame.
All of those answers were true.
None belonged in a sound bite.
“I want to arrive with my girlfriend,” I said. “I don’t want to turn you into a statement, but I also don’t want to act as if standing beside you is something that needs to be disguised.”
Ellie considered the answer.
“Good.”
“I had six months to prepare it.”
“You usually waste preparation time.”
“I’m developing.”
The car stopped.
The crowd outside became louder.
Sophie leaned forward.
“One reminder. Neither of you has to answer personal questions. You can say Ellie’s name and move on. If anyone pushes, I step in.”
“And if I remove the shoes halfway down the carpet?” Ellie asked.
“I will attempt to block the photographs.”
“Thank you.”
Rachel looked between us.
“Both of you breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Ellie said.
“You are doing it manually.”
The door opened.
Noise and light entered the car at once.
I stepped out first.
My name moved through the crowd from one end of the carpet to the other.
Savannah.
Savannah, over here.
Savannah, look left.
Savannah, who are you wearing?
Savannah, is Ellie with you?
I turned toward the open door.
Ellie’s hand appeared first.
I took it.
For half a second, she remained inside the limousine, hidden from the lights.
Then she stepped out.
The sound changed.
It was not louder, exactly. It became sharper, more focused. Cameras fired in rapid bursts, and people called Ellie’s name even though most of them had never heard her speak outside a shaky video recorded on Pelican Key.
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“Still yes?” I asked quietly.
She looked toward the line of photographers, then back at me.
“Still yes.”
We started walking.
The first section involved photographs only. Stand on the mark. Turn slightly. Look toward the center. Look left. Look together.
Ellie followed the instructions until a photographer shouted, “Savannah, kiss her.”
Her head turned toward him.
“No,” she said.
The photographer lowered his camera.
I tried not to laugh.
Another called, “Can you put your arm around her?”
Ellie glanced at me.
“That one seems acceptable.”
I placed my hand at her waist.
She rested hers against my back.
The cameras accelerated again.
It should have felt staged. Instead, I was aware of the warmth of her palm through my dress and the way she moved closer without being prompted.
At the first interview position, a reporter named Camille welcomed us with a smile. She had interviewed me several times and had never asked about Luke Harper, placing her well above the industry average.
“Savannah, you look incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“And Ellie, welcome.”
“Thank you.”
Camille looked between us.
“This is your first red carpet together. How are you feeling?”
I turned slightly toward Ellie.
She gave me a small nod.
“Nervous,” I said.
Camille laughed.
“You?”
“Very.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
Ellie shifted her weight.
“I was told these shoes had undergone testing.”
Camille looked down.
“They’re beautiful.”
“That was not the test.”
The tension in my shoulders loosened.
Camille returned her attention to me.
“And who have you brought with you tonight?”
There it was.
A simple question.
One I had answered incorrectly in different forms for years.
Friend.
Assistant.
Someone helping backstage.
A local acquaintance.
I looked at Ellie.
She was no longer smiling, but she held my gaze.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“This is Ellie Parker,” I told Camille. “She’s my girlfriend.”
The word entered the noise of the carpet without music, fireworks, or a change in lighting.
Girlfriend.
Not mystery woman.
Not friend.
Not the person who had fixed me.
Ellie Parker.
My girlfriend.
Camille smiled.
“It’s lovely to meet you.”
Ellie glanced at me.
“That was less painful than expected.”
“We have several more interviews,” Camille warned her.
“Then I retract my assessment.”
The conversation moved on to the nominations, the tour, and the album. Camille asked Ellie whether she had a favorite song.
“Am I allowed to choose one that isn’t nominated?” Ellie asked.
“You are,” I said.
“Then the third track on the second album.”
I stared at her.
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
“That song has a terrible bridge.”
“It does.”
Camille laughed.
“Why is it your favorite?”
“Because she knows the bridge is terrible and sings it as though nobody else has noticed.”
I looked toward the cameras.
“I would like to revise the relationship status.”
Ellie squeezed my hand.
“You had permission for one introduction.”
At the next interview position, someone asked how long we had been together.
“Six months,” Ellie answered.
“Depending on how you calculate,” I added.
She looked at me.
“We agreed on six.”
“We had an administratively complicated beginning.”
“We are not explaining the paperwork.”
The reporter smiled.
“So was it love at first sight?”
“No,” Ellie said.
“Yes,” I said at the same time.
We turned toward each other.
“You thought I was irritating,” I reminded her.
“I thought you were attractive and irritating.”
“That supports my position.”
“You spilled breakfast on yourself.”
“The sandwich had structural weaknesses.”
Sophie appeared at the edge of my vision, making a subtle circular motion that meant move before the conversation became a headline.
The third interview began well.
The reporter asked about the tour, the award, and the possibility of another album. Then she turned toward Ellie.
“Ellie, were you the reason Savannah finally decided to come out?”