“I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I am verifying outfit integrity,” she replies seriously.
“You’re verifying boots.”
“These boots are important,” she says. She turns toward me like I should already understand that.
“I never doubted the boots.”
“You doubted the boots earlier.”
“I respect the boots.”
She spins once in front of the mirror again anyway. Just once.
“Too much?” she asks.
“No.”
“You didn’t even look properly.”
“I looked properly,” I say.“You look perfect.”
She narrows her eyes at me like she’s deciding whether I’m allowed to say things like that yet. It still surprises me even now because after everything we’ve already been through together, hospitals and ice and fights and confessions and secrets, it still matters to her what I think when she asks questions like that.
“You’re biased,” she says finally.
“Yes,” I agree immediately.
“That doesn’t help.”
“It works for me.”
When we leave the hotel, Nashville is already alive in a way Chicago never quite is at this hour. The sidewalks are warm with evening noise and open doors spilling music into the street. It’s as if every building is trying to outplay the one next to it. Lisa slows down without meaning to as we walk because she keeps turning her head toward every sound at once, like she doesn’t want to miss any of it.
“You’re doing the thing,” I tell her.
“What thing?”
“The overwhelmed-but-happy thing.”
“I am not overwhelmed.”
“You just stopped walking in the middle of a crosswalk.”
She laughs, grabbing my sleeve so she doesn’t actually stop walking again.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” she says quietly.
“I can.”
“You planned this.”
The closer we get to the venue, the louder everything becomes. It’s not just the music, but the crowd energy, the hum of people already lining up outside, the sound of boots on pavement, and voices layered over each other. The whole block feels like anticipation instead of a street. Lisa slows again when the sign finally comes into view.
“Oh my god,” she breathes.
