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Not this.
Not today.
If you keep going, eventually, something happens.
The objections don’t stop. But one day you become strong enough to say, I hear you, world, but you’re wrong.
Yes, me.
Yes, this.
Yes, now.
Through initiatives like this one, we’re reminding women who want to be singers, songwriters, producers, anything, that it’s possible.
“All right. Look toward the slot machines. Beautiful.”
Click, click.
“Lower the hand, Rae.”
I do.
Buzz.
My phone again.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
I’ll get back to you in a sec, Callie.
Unless it’s Leni saying they decided to order a train of elephants for the reception.
Or Harrison showing me the armada of security he probably hired for the occasion.
The pressure in my chest builds. I press a fist against my stomach.
The photographer grunts. “What’s up? You went tight all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine.”
He turns to talk to his assistant, and Annie’s at my shoulder in an instant. “You good?”
“Just preoccupied with the mystery bachelorette party tonight,” I fib.
“Don’t worry, I’m not making glitter T-shirts that say ‘Bride’ and ‘Bridesmaids.’”
“Too bad.”
“Really? You want the tiara and penis straws and strippers?”
Celebrating the last night before my wedding like any other girl, surrounded by friends with no designer clothes or security, sounds perfect.
A television in the corner advertises a cheap buffet at the other end of the Strip.
