Epilogue #2
Ellie’s hand went still in mine.
“No,” I said.
The answer came before Sophie could intervene.
The reporter looked at me.
“But the timing—”
“My decision was mine,” I said. “Ellie did not owe me a transformation, and she is not responsible for explaining one.”
The reporter opened her mouth again.
Sophie stepped between the microphone and us.
“That’s all for this position. Thank you.”
She guided us toward the next section of the carpet.
Ellie kept walking, but her fingers had loosened around mine.
“We can leave,” I said quietly.
“We’re not leaving.”
“You don’t have to continue.”
“I need a minute.”
Sophie heard and immediately changed direction, leading us through a black curtain into a narrow service corridor.
The sudden quiet made my ears ring.
Ellie leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Why?”
“For bringing you into that.”
“You didn’t ask the question.”
“I brought you to the place where people ask it.”
“And I agreed to come.”
“That does not make it pleasant.”
“No.”
She opened her eyes.
“I knew someone would say something like that. Knowing did not improve it.”
“We can go inside through the private entrance.”
“What happens if we skip the rest?”
“Nothing important.”
“Sophie?”
Sophie stood several feet away, pretending to inspect her phone.
“We can finish here,” she said. “You have enough photographs. The main interviews are done.”
Ellie looked at me.
“Would you be disappointed?”
“Yes.”
Her eyebrows rose.
I continued before she could misunderstand.
“I would be disappointed that it was made unpleasant for you. I would not be disappointed in you.”
“That was almost too well phrased.”
“I had media training.”
“Suspicious.”
She looked toward the curtain.
“How many more?”
“Four minutes,” Sophie said.
“Actual minutes?”
“Actual.”
Ellie breathed out slowly.
“I want to finish.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving anything. I dislike leaving because a stranger asked a stupid question.”
“That sounds like proving something.”
“It may be a related activity.”
I smiled.
She held out her hand.
“Four minutes.”
I took it.
We returned to the carpet.
The final interviews stayed on the music. Ellie’s hand remained in mine, though she placed less weight on her left foot with every step.
As soon as we reached the corridor inside the theater, she leaned against the wall and removed both heels.
Sophie joined us.
“You made it.”
“I am never wearing these again.”
“They photographed beautifully.”
“They can continue wearing them in the photographs.”
Rachel appeared with a pair of flat shoes in one hand.
Ellie stared at her.
“You had those the entire time?”
“Emergency planning.”
“Why didn’t you give them to me in the car?”
“You said you wanted to try.”
“I was vulnerable.”
Rachel handed them over.
“I am protecting company assets.”
Ellie slipped on the flats and exhaled.
“This relationship may not survive your management team.”
“They improve with prolonged exposure,” I said.
Sophie looked at me.
“That is generous.”
Inside the theater, our seats were near the aisle.
Ellie examined the cards placed on them.
Mine read SAVANNAH brOOKS.
Hers read ELLIE PARKER.
She ran one finger over the printed letters.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The answer came slowly enough that I trusted it.
“It’s strange.”
“Bad strange?”
“No. More like seeing your name on a classroom door when you didn’t realize you had enrolled.”
“You can leave after my category.”
“I’m staying.”
“You dislike award shows.”
“I dislike carpets. Award shows have chairs.”
The ceremony began.
For the first hour, we watched performances, applauded people we knew, and listened to presenters deliver jokes that had clearly survived several committee meetings.
Ellie whispered commentary into my ear.
“That man thanked his dog before his wife.”
“The dog may have contributed more.”
“That dress has no visible means of attachment.”
“Fashion relies on faith.”
“Your publicist can hear us.”
Sophie sat three seats away and kept her eyes on the stage.
“She has developed selective hearing.”
When Tour of the Year appeared on the screen, my stomach tightened.
I had been nominated before.
I had lost before.
I had won before.
Still, the seconds before the envelope opened refused to become ordinary.
Ellie found my hand.
The presenter read my name.
The room rose around me.
For one confused second, I remained seated.
Ellie nudged my shoulder.
“You won.”
“I heard.”
“Then move.”
I stood.
She did not try to follow me, and I did not pull her into the aisle as proof of happiness.
I kissed her cheek.
Then I walked to the stage.
The award was heavier than expected.
At the microphone, the room became a field of lights and faces. Ellie sat near the aisle in flat shoes, clapping with her hands close to her chest.
I thanked the band.
The crew.
Rachel, Sophie, and everyone who had carried the tour through eleven months and more cities than I could remember without assistance.
I thanked the audiences who had filled the rooms and sung the songs back to us.
I did not turn Ellie into the final sentence of a speech intended for television.
When I left the stage, she waited near the aisle.
“That was a good speech,” she said.
“You sound surprised.”
“You had no notes.”
“I have concealed talents.”
“You thanked the crew before Richard.”
“They did more lifting.”
Richard was seated two rows away.
He heard.
His expression suggested Monday would contain a meeting.
Six months earlier, that possibility would have occupied the rest of my evening.
Now I sat beside Ellie and watched the next award.
At the hotel after the ceremony, the trophy stood on the table beside an open bottle of champagne.
Ellie sat barefoot on the bed wearing my dressing gown and examining the room-service menu.
“You won a major award,” she said. “Your hotel still charges thirty-two dollars for a sandwich.”
“Success has limitations.”
“We could order from somewhere else.”
“It’s midnight.”
“You live in New York. Food is the city’s primary infrastructure.”
“This sandwich includes artisanal pickles.”
“Do you like pickles?”
“No.”
“Then we are paying for hostile garnish.”
We ordered two sandwiches anyway.
While we waited, Ellie opened her phone.
The photographs were already everywhere.
The first showed us stepping out of the limousine.
The second showed my hand at her waist.
The third had captured the moment before I introduced her.
One headline read:
SAVANNAH brOOKS MAKES RED-CARPET DEBUT WITH GIRLFRIEND ELLIE PARKER
Another:
MEET ELLIE PARKER, THE DIVE INSTRUCTOR BESIDE SAVANNAH brOOKS
A third had chosen:
SAVANNAH brOOKS AND GIRLFRIEND SHARE SWEET RED-CARPET MOMENT
Ellie stared at it.
“Which moment was sweet?”
“Possibly when you threatened the shoes.”
“That was private.”
“There were two hundred cameras.”
She continued scrolling.
“Someone has identified the dress.”
“That was expected.”
“They have also identified my earrings.”
“Sophie selected them.”
“They have identified my lipstick.”
“The sponsor will be relieved.”
Ellie’s expression shifted as another article appeared.
“What?”
“The question about your coming out is already a headline.”
I moved closer.
The screen displayed:
SAVANNAH brOOKS SHUTS DOWN QUESTION ABOUT GIRLFRIEND’S ROLE IN COMING-OUT DECISION
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Stop apologizing for other people.”
“I answered before checking with you.”
“You answered about yourself.”
“And about what you did not do.”
“That was accurate.”
She read the first few lines and closed the article.
“Do you want Sophie to ask them to change it?” I asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but I don’t want to spend the evening deciding which strangers are describing me incorrectly.”
She placed the phone facedown on the nightstand.
“Is it always this strange?”
“Yes.”
“Does it become normal?”
“No. You become faster at closing the application.”
“I have natural ability.”
I looked toward the award on the table.
“At least you survived.”
“I completed the carpet. Survival suggests a lower standard.”
“You removed your shoes in private.”
“I showed discipline.”
A knock announced the food.
I brought the tray inside and set it between us on the bed.
The sandwiches were held together by wooden sticks and excessive confidence.
Ellie removed hers carefully.
I did not.
The top half slid sideways, releasing tomato, sauce, and one artisanal pickle onto the front of my dress.
Ellie looked down.
Then at me.
“You dropped it again.”
“This one had structural problems.”
“You have blamed two sandwiches, one stove, and several pieces of furniture.”
“I’m beginning to suspect a pattern.”
“That is encouraging.”
“Recognizing patterns is important.”
“So I have been told.”
She took a napkin and wiped sauce from the dress.
I looked at her bare feet, the discarded heels beside the chair, and the name card from the theater partly visible inside her open bag.
“Are you keeping the name card?” I asked.
“No.”
“You put it in your purse.”
“For recycling.”
“The hotel has bins.”
“The cardstock is excellent.”
I kissed her shoulder.
She stole the unbroken half of my sandwich.
“You have your own,” I said.
“Mine has hostile garnish.”
“So does mine.”
“Not anymore.”
She ate it.
The award stood on the table.
The photographs continued moving across the internet.
Tomorrow, Sophie would explain which headlines mattered. Richard would request a conversation. Someone would identify the brand of room-service pickle and publish a link.
Tonight, Ellie sat beside me in my dressing gown, stealing my food and pretending she had no intention of keeping her name card.
Outside, cameras still waited near the hotel entrance.
Inside, she moved closer and rested her head against mine.
Savannah had walked the carpet beneath the lights.
Annie got the sandwich afterward.
For once, neither of us had to leave by the kitchen.