The answer was quiet enough that Sophie looked away and began checking one of her phones.
I smiled at Rachel.
It was the right smile. Reassuring. Warm. Effortless.
I had been practicing it for years.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Rachel did not look convinced, but a knock sounded at the door before she could argue.
“Five minutes to stage.”
The room changed instantly.
The makeup artist powdered the side of my nose. Someone checked the transmitter hidden beneath my jacket. A sound technician clipped the battery pack more securely to the waistband of my terrible pants. Sophie began listing the interview points I was supposed to remember after the show.
New single doing well.
Tour sold out.
Grateful to the fans.
Excited about what came next.
Always excited about what came next.
That was important.
Savannah Brooks was never tired of anything.
Not the travel. Not the interviews. Not answering what her dream collaboration would be for the four hundredth time. Not being asked how she stayed grounded while standing in boots that cost more than the first car my mother had driven.
Savannah was grateful.
Savannah was blessed.
Savannah could not believe she got to do what she loved every night.
The irritating part was that the last one was still true.
The opening chords of my entrance music shook the walls.
The crowd roared.
It moved through the concrete, through my boots, through every exhausted inch of me. Something inside my chest woke at the sound.
There she was.
Not the woman in the mirror.
Not the woman Rachel managed or Sophie protected.
The other one.
The girl who had stood on a kitchen chair at nine years old with a wooden spoon for a microphone. The teenager who had played to twelve bored people at a barbecue restaurant while ablender screamed through every chorus. The twenty-one-year-old who had driven to Nashville with two hundred dollars, four songs, and an engine light that had been on so long it felt decorative.
The stage manager held up three fingers.
