I got six charts.
Streaming numbers. Radio growth. Audience demographics. Social engagement. Merchandise projections.
There were arrows.
All the arrows pointed upward.
I had been in Nashville for three years, signed for one, and recognizable in exactly four airports. My debut single had done well enough that strangers had started approachingme in grocery stores, usually while I was holding something unglamorous like frozen peas or toilet paper.
The second single was doing better.
The label had upgraded my hotel rooms, my wardrobe budget, and the number of people who emailed me when I changed my hair.
Apparently, success came with arrows.
Richard tapped one of the charts.
“You’re testing especially well with women between eighteen and thirty-four. They see you as aspirational but accessible.”
“I fell off a mechanical bull last night.”
“We don’t need to include that in the campaign.”
“There’s video.”
Sophie’s hand moved toward her phone.
“Where?”
“I was joking.”
She looked disappointed.
“That isn’t responsible.”
“I apologize.”
Richard continued as if none of us had spoken.
“The next six months are crucial. We have the album release, festival appearances, morning television, the opening slot on Cole Warren’s tour—”
“Cole Warren has never once worn a shirt with sleeves,” I said.
“He sells out arenas.”
“I’m not criticizing. I’m observing.”
“—and we want the image to remain consistent.”
I wiped cheese from my thumb with a napkin.
“What image?”
Sophie returned to the first slide.
AUTHENTIC. WARM. RELATABLE.
I pointed at the screen.
