In my twenty-eight years, I’ve never seen a wound as deep as the one I see on Hannah’s face when her mask slips. I’m left staring at her, raw and unfiltered and vulnerable, and for a moment, I feel like I’ve done something terrible—robbed a gas station or punched a stranger. Something unforgivable. An apology leaps to the tip of my tongue. But then the mask fits back into place. Fury takes the place of pain, dark and crackling—anger so potent it’s a natural disaster, a funnel cloud on the verge of touching down.
I take a step back.
“It’s a good thing I’ve never cared what you think.” She remains still, but the anger swirls around her. “Otherwise, you might’ve hurt my feelings.” She lunges past me and takes off down the path without another word.
It’s only when her back disappears and the spectators put down their phones that I remember how to breathe.
Chapter 18
Hannah
Saturday, May 4, 2024
I’m drawing thick circles of black liner around my eyes, minutes away from getting onstage at the Dolby Live, when Ginny walks into my dressing room. She watches me in the mirror.
“You ready?” I smudge the liner so it’s messier. “You always wanted to do Vegas the right way, remember? Here we are.”
Ginny studies me. Her voice is uncharacteristically grave. “It’s radiating off you.”
I drop the eyeliner. “What is?”
“Rage.”
I look back at my darkened eyes in the mirror. This time, the liner looks like a warning.
“Hannah.” Ginny’s voice is quiet. “Why are you keeping me tethered here?”
My heart races. I turn around to face her. “Why would you ask that?”
“What is it that you want?”
The liner pencil rolls off the vanity and drops at my feet, but I don’t move.
There was a time when I could’ve answered Ginny’s question a million different ways. I had so much I wanted. Ambition burned bright in me to create music that moved people, to prove I had talent. The sheer magnitude of my wanting compelled me to write endlessly, to go on tour after tour, to practice until my calloused hands bled.
To sustain that kind of wanting requires something powerful inside you. If I had a nickel for every time someone told me that the odds of becoming a successful musician were slim, I’d be rich. My parents, teachers, friends. Even other musicians told me. Getting up every day and trying anyway, against all that logic, required me to believe in my core that I was right, not them, that I did have a shot. It requiredfaith. Unreasonable and illogical faith. And that faith and wanting hasn’t disappeared from my life. It’s just refocused on my sister. How does she not understand that what I want isher?
Bowie pops his head into the dressing room, startling me. “Hannah? It’s time to go.”
I clear my throat and walk into the hall, Ginny hot on my heels. Bowie’s hand on my elbow directs me through the maze of the Theater’s backstage, and I try not to think about the way Theo led me by the elbow out of the Caesars pool. Ginny’s eyes burn into the back of my head, still waiting for me to answer her question.
“Crowd’s massive,” Bowie says, as we sidestep members of the crew. “There was a surge in ticket sales after the, um—” He clears his throat. “TMZ live stream. So we’re pretty close to capacity.”
I laugh, loud and wheezy. “Really? My irresponsible behavior sold tickets? You know what, can you tell one of the techs to send Roger Braverman some flowers from me? Tell them to write,You’re welcome for the ticket sales. Love, Hannah.”
Bowie lets out a nervous, high-pitched laugh I recognize from our college days, when we’d try to convince him to come skinny-dipping with us. “Whatever you say, boss.” In a lower voice, he says, “I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt.”
I sigh. “Et tu, Brute?”
“Hannah Cortland. Just the woman I wanted to see.” A tall, beefy guy with bleached blond hair and a perma-tan saunters out of an office.
As we pass it, I glance at the title etched into the glass door: “Dillon Diehard, Talent Booker.” There’s no way that’s this guy’s real name. The T-shirt he’s wearing—merch from a metal band famous for being assholes—tells me he and I are probably not going to be fast friends.
“Mr. Diehard,” Bowie says, shaking his hand. “It’s an honor. Please, walk with us.”
Diehard hustles to keep up. “I’ve listened to your back catalog, you know.”
I arch a brow. “Thanks.”
