“I want the tour. I want to headline someday. I want people to know the songs.”
“I know.”
“And I want you.”
Claire’s face softened.
“That sounded dangerously sincere.”
“I can make it less sincere.”
“Please don’t.”
She took my hands.
Claire had paint beneath one thumbnail from work. There was a tiny burn mark near her wrist from a hot-glue incidentshe refused to discuss because, according to her, “the glue had lawyers.”
None of it was strategic.
None of it had been tested.
“What if we’re careful for a while?” I said.
Her thumb moved across my knuckles.
“How careful?”
“No red carpets.”
“I hate carpets.”
“No public events.”
“I hate events.”
“No posting.”
“I post pictures of birds and badly plated food.”
“No being photographed together.”
Claire considered this.
“What about security cameras?”
“I don’t think Sophie controls those yet.”
“Give her time.”
I smiled, but Claire did not.
“We can do this,” I said.
It sounded optimistic.
Possibly too optimistic.
She looked at me for a long moment.
