Radio adds.
Merchandise sales.
International expansion.
My name passed around the table more frequently than the bread.
Savannah was outperforming projections.
Savannah had tested strongly with younger listeners.
Savannah should consider a deluxe version of the album.
Savannah needed to capitalize on momentum.
I ate three green beans and half a roll while six people discussed how much more of Savannah the market might absorb.
Rachel sat beside me, occasionally changing the subject when my expression became too honest.
Richard raised his glass.
“To the biggest tour of the year.”
Everyone lifted their drinks.
I did too.
“To Savannah.”
“To Savannah,” the table repeated.
The name sounded different there than it had in the arena.
Smaller.
More expensive.
After dinner, they went to a private bar on the hotel roof.
I claimed I needed vocal rest.
That was not entirely false. Speaking to another human being felt increasingly ambitious.
The hotel suite was on the thirty-second floor and large enough to host a small wedding or a deeply uncomfortable corporate retreat. There were two bedrooms, three bathrooms, a dining table for eight, and a living room no one would ever live in.
A welcome basket waited on the counter.
Wine. Chocolate. Fruit. A handwritten card from the hotel manager.
WELCOME, SAVANNAH!
Someone had placed one of my albums beside it.
I turned the album facedown.
Then I ordered grilled cheese from room service.
The woman on the phone called me Ms. Brooks four times.
