I looked at her.
“That’s emotional support.”
The arena felt better.
It always did.
The narrow backstage corridors were crowded with cables, equipment cases, security staff, dancers, musicians, and people wearing headsets who moved quickly without appearing to touch the floor.
No one asked me how I felt.
They asked whether I wanted the white guitar or the black one for the second set.
Whether the lift was working.
Whether I needed the monitor level adjusted.
Problems with answers.
I understood those.
The dressing room contained sandwiches cut into rectangles.
I chose not to take it personally.
While hair and makeup worked around me, the television replayed the market clip with the sound muted.
Ellie appeared every seven minutes.
On the seawall.
At my side.
Holding my hand.
Each time, someone had added a different headline.
A makeup artist named Dani followed my gaze.
“She’s cute.”
Rachel looked up from her tablet.
“Dani.”
“What? She is.”
I watched Ellie disappear from the screen.
“Yes.”
Dani smiled.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No questions,” Rachel said.
“I’m applying mascara.”
