“Yes.”
“And then the album campaign starts.”
“That’s different.”
“Then another tour.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“We do.”
I placed the milkshake in the cup holder.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
There was no comfort in the words.
Claire straightened the bent corner of the pie box.
“You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I don’t mind being private.”
I waited.
“I like the bad motels. I like driving three hours because airports are impossible. I even liked climbing into that catering cart.”
“You complained for weeks.”
“There were forks under the napkins.”
“I remember.”
“I don’t need photographs or red carpets. I don’t need you to thank me in speeches.”
Her fingers stayed on the pie box.
“But how many times can I be your friend before I stop being your girlfriend?”
The car went quiet.
No phones.
No publicist.
No trained answer waiting to rescue me.
I reached for her hand.
This time, she let me take it.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
