“Yes.”
The admission still sounded difficult for her.
It was difficult for me too. Taking responsibility had not changed the past. It had only removed the convenience of imagining I had been carried through it without participating.
A producer opened the door.
“Two minutes.”
Rachel stood and adjusted my jacket sleeve, although nothing was wrong with it.
“Do you want me inside?”
“Yes.”
She nodded as though I had asked something practical.
Sophie rose.
“If he moves into anything marked red, decline. You do not owe him an explanation for refusing.”
“I remember the policy.”
“You wrote the policy.”
“That explains the familiar tone.”
She gave me the look she reserved for moments when affection and professional exhaustion became indistinguishable.
The studio was smaller than the last one I had visited. Daniel sat behind a wide desk with headphones around his neck, smiling as though we were old friends who had not spoken since the last time he asked me an invasive question.
“Savannah Brooks,” he said. “Final night.”
“Unless the band has organized a quiet rebellion.”
“Have they?”
“They are waiting until after payroll.”
Daniel laughed. A red light appeared above the window, and his voice shifted into the warm confidence of a man speaking to several million people.
He introduced the tour, the expanded album, and the sold-out concert scheduled for that evening. The first ten minutes remained comfortably green.
We talked about the final set list, the songs that had changed most over nearly a year of performances, and the habits that developed after too much time on the road.
“I no longer trust a room without blackout curtains,” I said.
“Even at home?”
“Especially at home. Natural light has become suspicious.”
“What will you miss?”
“The band. The audience. That moment before the first song when thousands of people are waiting for the same thing.”
“And what will you not miss?”
“Eating dinner from a container while someone adjusts my hair.”
