Dance With Me (With Me in Seattle 12)

Of course, I’ve been moody for about five years now.

Finally, a couple of days ago, I called my producer and asked him to recommend someone. A physician excellent at caring for vocal health, who also understands the art of discretion.

“A couple of months,” I reply and cough into my hand. My voice is still raspy from the tour I just wrapped up. “It didn’t happen often at first, but it’s getting worse. And the last week or so, it’s happened on stage, and I can’t have that. Everything is choreographed down to the tiniest detail, and I can’t be off. I don’t want to get hurt.”

“I agree with you there,” he says and finally looks me in the eyes and smiles. “Let’s figure this out, shall we?”

“Yes, please.”

He pokes and prods, checking out my glands, looking up my nose, listening to me breathe. The usual routine at the doctor’s, whether you’re there for a headache or the plague.

I cough again when he asks me to breathe deep.

“How long have you had the cough?”

“It’s a side effect of my job,” I say, clearing my throat. “I just came off of a thirteen-month tour, singing pretty much every night of the week.”

“And that’s finished now?”

“For about two weeks,” I confirm with a nod. “And then I go back into the studio.”

“When was the last time you took a break?”

I shake my head. “I don’t take breaks.”

He sets his computer aside, pushes his glasses up his nose, and looks me dead in the eyes.

“Starla, everyone needs to take a break. Especially someone like you, whose job is so physically demanding.”

“I have a career to manage,” I reply simply. “I have a staff to pay.”

“What about your family?”

I raise a brow. “That’s none of your business.”

He lets out a sigh. “I’m not trying to be nosy here. What I’m saying is, you need to rest. Your vocal cords, your body. Even emotionally, you need it. I’d also like to address your weight.”

“I’m not overweight,” I say immediately. “I’m muscular.”

“You’re underweight,” he says. “Do you have a chef?”

“I have catering for everyone,” I reply, evading the question.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I eat when I’m hungry. I don’t drink coffee or alcohol. I’m not unhealthy.”

“You need to sleep and eat, and you need a break,” he says firmly. “I’ve worked in this industry for years, Starla. You’re not the first famous singer to walk into my office. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I’m telling you, this is classic exhaustion.”

“I don’t have a brain tumor?” I ask softly, finally expressing my worst nightmare.

“I highly doubt it,” he says. “You need to take three months off.”

“Three months?” I stand and pace the small exam room. “I can’t take that kind of time. Every day is scheduled. That would mean cancelling appearances.”

“No concerts,” he says again. “If you’re slated at awards shows, that’s fine, but no full concerts. No studio time. You’re a superstar, Starla. A few months off isn’t going to kill your career.”

No, but it might kill me.

“I don’t believe this,” I mutter and sit in a chair when the dizziness comes. “I hate being dizzy.”

“It’s not fun,” he agrees. “And your voice sounds overextended. All of these years of hard work have taken their toll.”

“I’m only thirty-six,” I remind him. “I’m hardly ready to retire.”

“I’m not suggesting retirement,” he says with a kind smile. “But I’m writing a prescription for ninety days away from work. Go on vacation. Visit someone. Do anything, except sing.

“Come back after those ninety days, and we’ll reassess. If the dizziness doesn’t get better in the next week or so, call me. But I think after a few days, it’ll be much better.”

“Can it be that simple?”

“Rest isn’t simple. As you know, or you’d do it more often.”

I nod, and after he prescribes me sleeping aids that I won’t take, I put my hat and sunglasses on and hurry out to my car.

I didn’t see any paparazzi when I arrived, but we’re in Hollywood. You never know when and where they’ll pop up, and I don’t need TMZ splashing Starla leaves renowned doctor’s office—is her career over? all over the place.

Once I’m in the car and headed toward my house in the hills, I call Meredith.

“How did it go?” she asks. It sounds like she’s chewing on something. “Sorry, hold on. Do not hit her with that!”

I laugh, imagining what’s going on in Meredith’s house in Seattle.

“Sorry about that. How was it?”

“Horrible.”

“Oh, God. Star, do you have a tumor?”

“I don’t think so. He says I need to rest.” I roll my eyes and turn up the road to my house. “As in, no performing or recording for three months.”

“Awesome,” she says, making me scowl.

“Not awesome.”

“No, it kind of is. You need a break.”

I drive through the gate to my house and park in the garage.