Still, the seconds before the envelope opened refused to become ordinary.
Ellie found my hand.
The presenter read my name.
The room rose around me.
For one confused second, I remained seated.
Ellie nudged my shoulder.
“You won.”
“I heard.”
“Then move.”
I stood.
She did not try to follow me, and I did not pull her into the aisle as proof of happiness.
I kissed her cheek.
Then I walked to the stage.
The award was heavier than expected.
At the microphone, the room became a field of lights and faces. Ellie sat near the aisle in flat shoes, clapping with her hands close to her chest.
I thanked the band.
The crew.
Rachel, Sophie, and everyone who had carried the tour through eleven months and more cities than I could remember without assistance.
I thanked the audiences who had filled the rooms and sung the songs back to us.
I did not turn Ellie into the final sentence of a speech intended for television.
When I left the stage, she waited near the aisle.
“That was a good speech,” she said.
“You sound surprised.”
“You had no notes.”
“I have concealed talents.”
“You thanked the crew before Richard.”
“They did more lifting.”
Richard was seated two rows away.
He heard.
His expression suggested Monday would contain a meeting.
