“Forty-four minutes.”
“Generous.”
My phone had remained in the dressing room during the show. When I finally picked it up, the screen held more messages than I could reasonably open.
One was from Claire.
I stared at her name before touching it.
That was brave.
Nothing else.
No reopening of the past.
No suggestion that bravery now repaired what fear had done then.
I typed:
You deserved that honesty years ago. I’m sorry.
I did not know whether she would respond.
That belonged to her.
Below Claire’s message was one from Ellie.
I saw the interview.
My pulse changed.
I began typing, deleted the message, and tried again.
Finally, I wrote:
I meant what I said. It wasn’t meant to put anything on you.
The answer did not arrive before Rachel announced that my forty-five minutes had begun.
I put the phone into my pocket.
For once, I made it through the party without checking every few seconds.
The reply was waiting when I returned to the dressing room.
Ellie:I know.
A second message appeared while I watched.
Ellie:You looked happy onstage.
I sat on the edge of the sofa.
Me:I was.
The typing indicator appeared, vanished, and returned.
Ellie:Good.
