Run, Rose, Run(56)

“I try to look reasonably nice most days,” Ruthanna allowed—an understatement if there ever was one.

“But I’m not actually a celebrity,” AnnieLee pointed out.

“You will be,” Eileen said firmly.

“You got a crystal ball in your purse?”

Eileen looked at her very seriously. “No, AnnieLee, I don’t. I can’t see into the future. But I’ve been in the business for a long time, and I’m excellent at seeing what’s inside a person. Talent’s not enough, I know that for sure. You’ve got to have something else. Something bigger and deeper. People call it star power, I guess, but the fact is, you’ve got to have it in spades before you’re a star.”

Poppy unclipped AnnieLee’s hair and came around to inspect it from the front. “Almost done,” she said.

Eileen perched on the edge of a glass-topped table and crossed her long legs at the ankles. “My job, AnnieLee, is to help the world see that you’re that star. We’ll start with social—Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter—and build you a following. ACD’s very big on social, and you want to show them that you’re a team player. Then we’ll focus on interviews with magazines and late-night. Eventually we can get endorsement deals, too; those are great. I’ll make good things happen, AnnieLee.” She ran a hand through her glossy bob. “And if bad things happen—like if you trash a hotel room or shoplift a six-hundred-dollar scarf from Bergdorf’s—I’ll keep it out of the tabloids.”

AnnieLee nodded slowly, taking this in. She’d spent a decade of her life dreaming of being up on a stage, but she’d never thought about anything beyond the music. She hadn’t imagined that trying to make it as a singer would involve so many other people and so many new obligations.

She closed her eyes as Poppy began blow-drying her hair. Eileen’s chatter sounded like a lot of promises to her. A lot of things that didn’t have anything to do with songwriting.

“The question is,” Eileen said, “what story are we going to tell the world about you?”

No one said anything for a while, and AnnieLee realized that they were waiting for her to speak. She opened her eyes to find Eileen gazing at her.

“Who are you, AnnieLee?” the publicist asked.

AnnieLee felt a sudden jolt of adrenaline. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, as calmly as she could. This was a professional question, wasn’t it? There was no way this woman could actually know any secrets about her past.

“Can you turn that dryer off for a minute?” Eileen asked Poppy.

Poppy obediently clicked it off.

“Are you the girl next door, AnnieLee?” Eileen asked. “Are you country music’s Cinderella story? Or Ruthanna’s anointed successor? Or just a backwoods innocent, stumbling into superstardom?”

AnnieLee swiveled around to look at Poppy. “Actually, could you please finish the blow-dry?” she asked quietly.

As the hot air rushed around her head, AnnieLee squeezed her eyes shut again. She’d only come to Ruthanna’s for a haircut, and this line of questioning felt overwhelming. Eileen was tough and smart, but did she expect AnnieLee to pick out a persona the way she could pick out a dress? And what was wrong with who she was right now? Did she have to put a label on herself for the world to understand her?

She could hear Eileen talking about how important it was to take the image aspect of her career seriously—that social media was a necessity these days, and that building a brand identity was the best way to keep ACD happy.

AnnieLee remembered the night she’d sung “Two Doors Down” for Spider, and how she’d left the bar that night feeling like she’d been part of something new and bright and real. Would any of those people care if she posted selfies on Instagram? If she had an endorsement deal with Vitaminwater?

The dryer whined, blowing a D and a B flat simultaneously, as Eileen went on about maximizing followers and building synergistic partnerships.

“Is she even paying attention?” she heard Eileen ask eventually.

Ruthanna gave a low chuckle. “Oh, believe me,” she said, “AnnieLee’s tracking every word.” She paused. “She’s going to take it all in and turn it all over. And she’ll do whatever she thinks is right.”

The blow-dryer finally shut off, and Poppy appeared in front of AnnieLee with a handheld mirror. “Behold the glory that is you!” the stylist said, without even a trace of irony.

AnnieLee’s dark hair fell in smooth, luxurious waves over her shoulders, while a sweep of a shorter layer slipped teasingly down in front of her right eye. She looked sultry, innocent, and defiant all at once.

“Prettier than a picture,” Ruthanna said.

“Speaking of pictures,” Eileen said, pulling out her phone and snapping one. “It’s perfect for your Insta.”

AnnieLee was about to protest, but then Eileen knelt down and looked her in the eye. “We can handle the social media. Just think hard about who you are,” she said gently. “And who you want to be. The truth—whatever that may look like—doesn’t really matter. There’s only what you tell us, and what you’ll have us believe.”

AnnieLee rubbed her hip, where there was still the faintest ghost of a bruise, a visual marker of a past that didn’t want to leave her alone.