Only slightly. Half a note brighter. A little more open. The version designed to travel cleanly through crowds and phone microphones.
Jen made a sound that began as a gasp and ended somewhere near a squeak.
“I knew it. I knew it was you.”
Ellie had gone completely still.
I did not look at her.
That was cowardly.
It was also the only way I could keep the situation contained.
Jen pressed one hand to her chest.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re probably trying to have a normal day.”
“That’s okay.”
“You’re my favorite singer.”
“That’s very kind.”
“I saw you in Atlanta last year. My sister and I drove six hours, and our hotel had bedbugs, but the concert was incredible.”
“I’m sorry about the bedbugs.”
“They weren’t your fault.”
“Still. Not the ideal tour merchandise.”
She laughed.
Good.
Laughter kept people calm.
A calm fan was less likely to start shouting, livestreaming, or alerting the nearest group chat with fourteen exclamation marks.
Jen glanced at Ellie.
Then at the matching bracelets on our wrists.
Then back at me.
Something bright and curious moved across her face.
I knew that look.
Sophie Grant had built half a career around anticipating that look.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Jen said, which meant she desperately wanted to know what she was interrupting. “Could I get a quick picture?”
Every sensible answer crowded into my head.
No.
Not today.
