Page 67 of Falls From Grace
Savannah: Yes, as you saw from her publicist’s response, she’s out from the beginning, which is a strong, brave move.
NPR: After Longing, which the two of you co-wrote and performed, the question on everyone’s lips is of course-
Savannah: No. We are not in a relationship. But thanks for asking!
Chapter Twenty-Four
The week Savannah’s album dropped, Brynn was almost comatose with relief. Somehow she’d done the impossible, and both written and recorded her own album under immense pressure and time constraints and seen it through to completion. In a way, the crushing deadline was the best thing that could have happened to her. There’d been no time to overthink what she was doing, and no time to do anything other than live and breathe music.
She and Noah had hunkered down in a rented cabin in the Nevada mountains and written hard. At first, it was an incredibly strange experience to write songs without Savannah; to write songs for herself and not for Savannah.
“Brynn,” Noah had said one morning, as they sat out on the porch with a view out over the valley. “I think you need to just give up pretending this whole thing isn’t about Savannah.”
“Ugh…” Brynn all but flung her guitar down. “Am I that obvious?”
“Duh.”
“I can’t write a whole album of songs about her. That’s way too tragic, even for me.”
“Or it’s just absolutely musical tradition,” Noah shrugged. “Love, loss, heartbreak: it’s every great song ever. Look,” he continued when she sighed. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but we have an incredibly limited amount of time. And every time you try to write something generic… well, that’s how it comes out sounding.”
“Great…” groaned Brynn. “This is a great pep talk.”
“Yeah, but then you write something about Savannah and it’s…” he made little explosion gestures with his hands. “I say lean into it. Write it all out. Only you and I need to know that it’s essentially a concept album.”
Brynn looked at him flatly.
“What if she ever listens to it?”
“Yeah,” he said, looking her in the eye. “What if she does?”
Brynn had to admit that had worked on her. The writing had been at worst an incredible catharsis, Brynn allowing herself to absolutely drown in her own feelings, and now she was out the other side she found she could experience some level of peace with her loss of Savannah.
Mostly.
It took her another full week to get to it, but her first runthrough of Savannah’s album was her last. She lay on her living room floor with the record playing and found herself ravaged by emotion as it played. The songs felt like a journey through everything she loved about Savannah, as well as everything that had grown and then shattered between them. She was so damn proud of her, of the absolute work of art she’d achieved and unbelievably honored to see her own name in the song-writing credits - and, even thanked in the liner notes - and yet she found she almost mourned the fact that now it was out in the world. Savannah was singing these songs to millions, when once, in a basement band room, she’d sung them just to Brynn.
She lay there, long after the final notes had faded, wishing like she’d never wished before, for a drink. Afterward, she’d gently returned the vinyl into its sleeve and hid the album behind the back of her collection. And then she’d rung her sponsor.
The aftermath of the album release had been out of this world. She couldn’t get in an Uber or through the grocery store without hearing the two of them serenade each other. Even worse was the wall-to-wall PR and media coverage. Not only did Brynn pass billboards of Savannah’s face and body plastered across the city but she couldn’t turn on the TV, scroll through the news or flick through social media without her being everywhere, glowing with professionally put together beauty, though seeming to Brynn’s eyes a little too thin. She’d worried. Was the pressure getting to her? Was she getting any rest?
While she’d shopped for dinner ingredients on Friday evening, she’d dialed in for her daily FaceTime with Lane and Tucker, but when she’d tried, subtly, to check in on Savannah’s wellbeing Lane refused to play ball.
“She’s great,” they’d said noncommittally. “Hey Tucker, tell Brynn your new word!”
Tucker had grinned and stayed silent despite Lane’s encouragement, prodding and whispering, until they’d finally blurted, “he can say brontosaurus!”
“Sure he can,” Brynn needled but she’d felt distracted. In the early days of their conversations, Lane had gone to great pains to detail exactly how crushed Brynn had left Savannah, but for months now, they hadn’t volunteered a single word. She wondered if Savannah had moved on with someone new and Lane was being deliberately evasive to spare her feelings.
She’d looked up as she passed the magazine rack, and raised her eyes skyward for strength. Savannah was on the cover of Rolling Stone in black leather skintight pants and looking like a quintessential rockstar. The gossip mag next to it also featured her name, with a grainy paparazzi shot of Savannah laughing with her hand on the arm of a striking brunette runway model as they dined in a restaurant together, the headline salivating. Brynn squeezed her eyes tight and turned away.
“You know when you drop the phone like that all Tucker and I can see is your left boob.” Lane’s voice had pulled her back to reality. She’d jerked the phone back up.
“Did Savannah ask you not to talk to me about her?” Brynn had blurted. “Because I’m not after any details - ever - I just want to know that she’s okay.”
“Or what? You’ll swoop in and rescue her?” Brynn had fallen silent. They had a point.
Rolling Stone
