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“We have a flight in three hours.” Bow smiles nervously, eyes darting to my reflection and back at me.
“We? You’re not coming with me.” My fingers stop on the zipper of my right boot. I face her head-on, not through the mirror, and watch her shift her weight from one foot to the other.
“Yes, I am. Your show in Dublin is in two days, and—”
“I did not agree to a fucking show in Dublin.” My voice rises an octave, and I don’t care. The zipper on my boot snags halfway down, and I yank at it harder than I need to. The leather pinches the skin on my swollen ankle, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. “I’m flying to Bali tomorrow morning.”
Bow opens her mouth, and I can already see the apology forming behind her teeth. I’m sorry, Echo. I’m only following instructions. We both know I’m about to take this out on her. We both know it isn’t fair. But I’m going to do it anyway, because I’m tired and my ankle hurts, and she is talking about another tour date when all I want to do is catch my flight to Bali, alone, find a sun lounger in the shade, and sleep for forty-eight hours straight.
“I am going on vacation,” I say, my voice deadly low as I rise from my chair.
Bow’s voice is unnaturally calm as she speaks. “The label thinks, because the tour was so successful, and we missed some major cities in Europe—”
“Because I only agreed to forty-five stops,” I cut in.
“Right, but we didn’t even go to Rome—” she tries again.
“I did not agree to extend the tour during my first break in eight years.” I sound calm, but not in the holiday-mode sense; this is more the calm of a serpent about to strike its prey.
“Well, not exactly—”
“NICKI!” I scream, shoving past Bow without looking at her and yanking the dressing room door open. The hallway light hits me in the face and my ankle buckles under me for half a second before I lock my knee and keep walking. I can feel a blister from my heels burning into the side of my foot as I storm through backstage.
Nicki is down the hall, phone pressed to her ear, free hand cupped over the receiver. She turns at the sound of her name. Her face does that thing it does, the quick reset, the smooth flat expression she puts on when she knows she did something wrong and thinks I have no way of getting out of it.
“Hold on,” she says into the phone. Then, to me, sweet as berry pie, “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t baby me,” I snap, closing the distance between us. “A show in Dublin? You scheduled a show in Dublin and didn’t think to tell me?”
“I’ll call you back,” she says into the phone, and hangs up without waiting for an answer. She tucks the phone into the inside pocket of her blazer and crosses her arms. “Sienna, lower your voice.”
“No.” I cross my arms too.
“People can—”
“I don’t care,” I cut her off. “What is Bow talking about? Why do I have a show in Dublin in two days?”
She doesn’t even blink. “We can talk about it in the car.”
“We’re talking about it now,” I say. “Did you tell the label I would extend the tour?”
“I told the label we would do what was best for your image,” she replies, choosing her words carefully.
“That is a yes.”
“If an extension is best for your image, then yes,” she repeats.
She knows what she is doing. She’s buying time. She’s letting the conversation drag on until I’m tired enough to give up, and the next thing I know, I’ll be sitting in a hotel suite at three in the morning signing a piece of paper that says I’ve agreed to ten more shows in six more countries. This is how every important decision about my career as Echo has been made.
“I am taking a month off,” I say slowly, so that she cannot later pretend this conversation didn’t happen. “We agreed to this six weeks ago. I reminded you again three weeks ago. I told you on the plane to New York, and I am telling you now. I am taking a break. Bali. A month. No phone. No press. No Nicki.”
“Sienna—”
“You didn’t tell the label, did you?” I narrow my eyes at her. I don’t even have the energy to yell.
Her jaw tightens. “Be reasonable.”
“Did you, Nicki?” I push.
