“She put her phone beside my lunch and pretended that didn’t count as interference.”
“That sounds like Rosa.”
“You looked happy.”
“I was.”
“I thought Savannah might be something you endured because other people expected it.”
“No.”
“I see that now.”
She met my eyes.
“You looked like yourself.”
The words hit harder than any review.
“I am myself onstage.”
“Then why do you talk about Savannah like she keeps ruining things for Annie?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
“Because blaming her is convenient.”
“For what?”
“The attention. The schedule. The people who decide what I should say.”
“But you like the stage.”
“Yes.”
“You like being successful.”
“Yes.”
“You like people knowing the songs.”
“Yes.”
“Then Savannah doesn’t happen to you.”
“No.”
The admission was uncomfortable.
It was also true.
“I think I’ve spent years pretending Annie is innocent,” I said. “Savannah makes the compromises, Annie suffers them, and somehow neither one is responsible.”
“And now?”
“Now that sounds as convenient as it is.”
