Me:Yes. Send it to Reef Rascal. I’ll give it to her mother.
Annie:Thank you.
Then:
Annie:I own stationery.
Me:Why?
Annie:I once thought handwritten correspondence would make me mysterious.
Me:Did it?
Annie:I never sent any. The mystery remains intact.
I smiled and set the card beside my keys.
Me:Keep the recording private.
The typing indicator appeared.
Annie:I will.
Me:Even if you finish the song.
This answer took longer.
Annie:Even then.
I believed she meant it tonight.
That was what I had.
I saved the recording inside a folder with no useful name and placed Lexi’s card where I would remember to take it back to the shop.
Before going inside, I played the final minute once more.
The melody reached for an ending, missed it, and stopped.
For two quiet seconds, only the room remained.
Twenty Two
Savannah
The final show of the tour began with a radio interview in a room that smelled like dust, electrical equipment, and someone else’s lunch.
I had imagined the last day would feel ceremonial. There would be meaningful looks between band members, champagne waiting backstage, and a sense that we had reached the end of something enormous.
Instead, Rachel was arguing with a vending machine.
“It took the money,” she said.
A row of granola bars remained behind the glass, secured by metal coils and indifference.
“You chose a product with no structural integrity.”
“I chose lunch.”
