It was not exactly a lie.
That was the clever part.
Music had been my first love.
It simply was not my only one.
I locked the phone and set it facedown.
On television, a car exploded without making a sound.
Claire shifted closer in her sleep.
The next morning, under bright studio lights, the host smiled and asked whether there was anyone special in my life.
I smiled back.
Warm.
Authentic.
Relatable.
“My first love is music,” I said.
The audience applauded.
And somewhere between the question and the applause, Annie Miller took one small step backward while Savannah Brooks learned how to stand perfectly still.
Five
Annie
By six-fifteen, I had changed clothes three times, lied to Rachel twice, and discovered that a woman could survive sold-out arenas, live television, and one wardrobe malfunction involving a zipper and national exposure, yet still be defeated by the question of what to wear for fried seafood with a dive instructor.
The first outfit looked too expensive.
The second looked like I was trying very hard not to look expensive.
The third was a white sundress I had bought that afternoon from a shop where every item was displayed beside a decorative anchor.
According to the saleswoman, it was “very island.”
I had no idea what that meant, but it fit and did not contain rhinestones, so I had bought it.
Rachel had called while I was changing.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At the rental.”
“What are you doing?”
“Resting.”
“You sound vertical.”
“I’m resting upright.”
