Behind the glass, Rachel lifted a granola bar she had somehow obtained.
I pointed at her.
“That is not dinner.”
Daniel looked through the window.
“Your manager appears to disagree.”
“My manager survived the tour by lowering her standards.”
The conversation moved toward the album. Daniel asked aboutHard Winter, and I answered without measuring every word because music remained the easiest truth in my life.
I loved the song more now than when I had written it. During the first tour, I had sung it as though surviving meant reaching the end of something. After hundreds of performances,I understood that survival could be repetitive. You woke up, did the work, and discovered much later that the season had changed while you were occupied with getting through it.
“That sounds almost optimistic,” Daniel said.
“Please do not damage my reputation.”
He smiled, then glanced at the notes in front of him.
Through the glass, Sophie straightened.
Yellow.
“I want to ask about something you said in the television interview last week.”
“You may ask.”
“You refused to describe someone in a way she had not approved. The response was enormous.”
“That is a polite description.”
“Did the scale surprise you?”
“No. Some of the details people invented did.”
“I read that you had secretly married in Florida.”
“I hope there was cake.”
“You still have not clarified the relationship.”
“No.”
“Do you plan to?”
“No.”
Daniel waited, likely expecting me to soften the answer.
I had become better at letting silence remain someone else’s responsibility.
He looked down again.
“There is a wider conversation happening around that interview. For years, the public narrative about your personal life has involved men, even though you almost never confirmed any of those stories.”
Sophie moved toward the studio door.
