Six ways to write a love.., p.16
Six Ways to Write a Love Letter, page 16
“Was it any good?”
Remy felt his lips betray him by curling into a smile. He exhaled. “Honestly, yeah. It was one of those songs that works a thousand different ways—we’d speed it up, or slow it down, change the words. It worked no matter what we made it about.”
“Golden,” Val said.
Remy lifted his eyebrows. “That’s exactly what she called it.”
“We’re twins,” Val mocked, but he seemed good-natured enough about it. He leaned back on his palms, looked at the sky for a moment. It was velvety black, not a star visible, given the light pollution. “Maybe we are twins. Me and the pop princess both keep playing the same old shit. Breakup songs and Quiet Coyote.”
“You’ve both got more to you than that,” Remy said.
“I know. I just wrote new stuff. I contain multitudes, little brother. Does your girl?”
Remy laughed again, the same barking one—it was a laugh for liars. “Hardly my girl.”
“Maybe she’s got multitudes you’re too thick to see,” Val answered, giving him a mysterious look.
“Are you writing lyrics or just being a pain in the dick?”
“Same thing,” Val said. Then, he strummed the guitar and sang, loudly, into the night, “Pain in the dick! I’ll make you fucking sick! I’ll be a pain in your dick! Hey, one plus one, the arithmetic says I’m gonna be a big pain in your—”
Celeste’s voice screeched through the house, out the door. “My hand to fucking God, I will cut both your dicks off if you don’t stop.”
“Sorry, lover!” Val called back then devolved into snickering, whispering laughter that Remy couldn’t help but match.
Vivi Stuns (and not just in her dress)
Singer is apparently still on again with Noel Reid
Vivi Swan appeared at the CMAs with the most surprising accessory of all—boyfriend Noel Reid. For weeks now, they’ve rarely been spotted together, and Noel hasn’t been shy about hitting on other girls. Vivi has a reputation for dating the wrong guy, but come on, girl—even we can see you need to end things with him, no matter how sweetly he can play the acoustic guitar.
The two looked gorgeous though, as per usual, and were arm in arm for most of the night. They even kissed quickly when Noel picked up an award for Single of the Year (shared with country star Waylon Focus, who provided the C to the win’s MA). Interesting, though, that other than that, our cameras never caught them looking at each other. Anyone else sense a new breakup song on the horizon?
Comments: 143
Author: Bianca Treble
Chapter Eighteen
“I like Vivi’s dress,” Celeste said, studying the photo the next morning moments after sunrise. “It’s one of the better ones from the CMAs. She’s sort of becoming a thing in the fashion world, you know?”
“Sure,” Remy said, turning away from the photo. He had to turn away—if he looked too long, he knew it would paralyze him, like one of those heroes turned to stone by mythical lady creatures. Even after he was focused on going through the variety of junk mail that’d arrived for him, the image was burned in his mind. Vivi, in a long white dress. Backless. It’d been backless, and the photo was posed such that he could see the curve of her spine and the peaks of her shoulder blades. He hadn’t realized he wondered what they looked like until that moment, and now, he couldn’t help but want to see them again.
He focused on tearing up a variety of credit card offers instead. Celeste didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, continuing to rapidly click through photos on Getty Images. Val was still asleep—having the bedroom meant he didn’t have to force himself awake when Remy (or Celeste) rose.
Remy took a long drink of his coffee and looked out at the orange-and-purple sky. “My sleep schedule is so jacked from that tour. If I’d gone to Europe, I’d be a wreck right now.”
“Probably. Sucks that you didn’t get to go,” Celeste said without looking up.
Remy paused then said offhandedly, “She asked me to go, sort of.”
Celeste’s eyes shot to him. “Wait, are you serious? Why the fuck are you here, then?”
Remy stepped back from her intensity. “I just…I didn’t want to take the other guy’s job by begging to join up last minute,” he said, settling on the simplest explanation. Saying, She sort of forgot I was her employee or I don’t know who I am when I’m around her, and it’s insane, to a woman literally working on her gossip website was probably unwise, near-family or not.
“Remy, that was an amazing gig you passed up,” Celeste said, shaking her head. “Is it because of Val? Because he’s fine. You know he’s fine. You both are, frankly, better than I’d thought you’d be after so long apart.”
“It’s not Val,” Remy said, surprised this was the truth. He followed it up with a lie. “It’s just the other drummer—”
“There’s always going to be another drummer. If she chose you, she wanted you,” Celeste said.
Remy considered this longer than he meant to; his eyes flicked to Celeste’s computer screen again. It was another image of Vivi, this time from the front. White dress, sharp shoulders, sparkling designs running up and down the bodice. And a man on her arm. Noel on her arm, her fingers delicately splayed across the fabric of his suit jacket sleeve.
“Well, next time,” Remy said.
“There probably won’t be a next time,” Celeste argued.
Remy shrugged and didn’t say what he was thinking—even as the thought made him nauseous. I’m counting on there not being a next time.
Val had arranged a homecoming show that evening at SALT, where Remy would make his triumphant return to the drum set. They arrived at six o’clock, which in some ways felt as much like coming home as going to their actual house had, for Remy. The place still smelled like beer and sweat and wood and ocean, and bartenders and regulars who were more or less just other-side-of-the-bar bartenders clapped him on the back and celebrated his return. Remy fell into work alongside Val, checking mics and lights and finding his brother’s obsession with both charming, for once, rather than exhausting. It wasn’t until they were in the green room that Remy realized he hadn’t felt compelled to double-check it for alcohol before Val got his hands on it.
“You still know the music, right? Don’t start playing that one and three pop shit,” Val said, bumping him on the shoulder.
“You know, Val, it’s worth mentioning it was the pop stations that played ‘Everything but the World,’” Celeste said, grinning, glowing. She looked new, refreshed to see Remy and Val back together—or maybe just to see Val like this.
Val laughed and kissed her quickly. “Are you trying to make me quit music entirely?”
“Obviously. Your true calling is so clearly being an elementary school teacher. Third grade,” Celeste answered. The lights flashed at eight o’clock, signaling their start time, and they made their way out onto the stage. Somehow, the crowd was louder than Vivi’s had ever been—perhaps because they were closer, perhaps because he could see faces, perhaps because they were chanting for them rather than a girl in gold. Val writhed in the sound, sang through their songs like an animal moves through trees, and it felt so different from what Remy had done for the past six weeks that it was almost impossible he’d been playing the drums on both occasions. Vivi’s music was a production, a play, polished and flawless. Val’s was moody and had to be tamed every few moments, lest Val run away with the song in his jaws.
But both pop songs. Both music. Both amazing, in very different ways, ways Remy didn’t fully appreciate until they rounded the final song before their intermission. Val didn’t like to talk during breaks—he felt it broke his focus—so Remy made himself scarce, lingering at the end of the SALT loading docks by himself. This place was so desolate during the in-between moments—not at all like the Sweethearts show, where the backstage flurry never stopped. He exhaled and leaned against the wall then slid to the floor and pulled out his phone.
Where was Vivi now? He pulled up her number to see their most recent text chain. Could he send her a message? What would he even say? I liked your dress but not your boyfriend? Or I’m mad you didn’t demand I stay for the Europe leg? Or Hey, sup?
Remy decided that, as wonderful as tonight was going, he hated everything.
“There you are!” someone said—one of the bartenders, a burly guy that straddled the thin line between hipster and lumberjack.
“Everything okay?” Remy asked, alarmed by the guy’s wide eyes.
“Yeah, dude, but my boss said they need you in the office. Like, now.”
“Is it Val—”
“No, no, I don’t know what it is. But they took me off the bar to find you, so it’s gotta be serious. I hope everything’s okay,” he said, looking almost frightened for Remy.
Remy leapt to his feet, mind running through scenarios. Did the house burn down? Was it Mercy? How would their parents even find them at SALT, though? If it couldn’t wait till after the show, it had to be intense—Mercy had to be dying. Or was it a collector? Some repo guy? They owned everything outright, but still, shit happened.
Remy nearly ran down the halls after the bartender; he called out for Val as he passed the green room, but his brother had headphones on and didn’t hear. Celeste lifted an eyebrow, but Remy was gone before he could explain. Down the hall, up the fire stairs, to a tiny, tiny office door covered in ancient band stickers and the occasional piece of gum. The lumberjack bartender had abandoned him at the turn, eager to get back to his bar and his tips; Remy lifted a hand and knocked hurriedly on the door.
It swung open almost immediately to the grinning, nearly chaotic-looking face of the SALT general manager.
“What’s going on?” Remy asked.
“Come in,” the manager said, stepping aside—
And revealing the reason Remy had been sent for.
“Vivi,” Remy said, the word louder than he intended, panic still on the syllables.
“Thanks so much for getting him,” Vivi said to the manager, who was still grinning almost clownishly over the fact that the Vivi Swan was in his club. “Can we borrow your office for a second?”
“Of course, Miss Swan. Make yourself at home. Sorry it’s such a wreck,” the GM said, flushing a little as he noticed a stack of pizza boxes, the top one open to reveal a handful of uneaten crusts. The room made Vivi glow like a beacon in the night. Or maybe a beacon in a dumpster.
“Thanks—Steven, right? I appreciate it so much,” Vivi said brightly. “And trust me, it’s fine. I’ve been on a tour bus for weeks. Anything not on wheels feels like a five-star hotel.”
This was unconvincing to Remy and, based on the GM’s expression, equally unconvincing to him. Still, he backed out of the room, almost jittery, and let the door latch shut behind him.
Remy turned back to Vivi, heart beating to the sound of her breath, which appeared to be moving to the house bass blaring downstairs.
“Hey,” Remy said, though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d decided on saying that. There was some sort of disconnect between his body parts—head to mouth, mouth to heart, heart to hands.
“Hi,” Vivi answered, lips curved a little, and the action reunited his organs. She was wearing a short skirt and tall boots, with a light-pink sweater which made her lipstick look particularly cherry-red. Remy fought the urge to run his eyes up and down her form.
“You’re here,” Remy said. “I thought you went to Europe today.”
“Later,” Vivi said, nodding, rapping the desk with her nails. “I was back in Nashville for the CMAs—”
“I saw,” Remy said.
“Yeah. And I just thought I’d stop by and see your show before I left the country,” she said cheerily, voice becoming a little false.
“Nashville isn’t exactly a stone’s throw from LA,” Remy said, furrowing his brow.
“Yeah,” Vivi answered, and she looked so unrehearsed, so unpracticed, that it felt as if Remy was seeing an entirely new model of Vivi Swan. “I guess,” she said then stopped for a long time. She studied some papers on the desk, an order for bulk maraschino cherries. “I guess I didn’t really get an actual chance to say goodbye to you. And that felt weird.”
Remy nodded, mentally calculating the distance between them. Six feet? Six miles? Six inches?
“And I was also thinking about what you said. About how you couldn’t ask me to come on the European leg because I’m your boss—”
“Vivi—”
“Wait, wait, let me finish,” she said, swallowing and lifting her eyes to his. “I should have asked you. Not because I’m your boss or whatever, but because I knew I wanted you with me basically from the night I got stuck on your bus. So I should have just said it aloud instead of waiting for you to say it.”
“Thanks,” Remy said, which sounded stupid as hell. He licked his lips and looked down, unable to keep his eyes on her, feeling crushed by the weight of her irises.
“And…I guess…that’s what I’m asking now. Will you come to Europe with me? Please? I’ll pay the other guy’s salary. All of it. He’ll be fine. But will you come?” Vivi said, voice softening.
Remy dared to look up and nodded.
“Okay. Well. Good,” Vivi said, taking a breath and smiling. “Great. I’ll call Walter and have him book your tickets. We can fly over together.”
The house music faded—Quiet Coyote was about to come back onstage. Remy glanced at the door, wondering where Val would assume he’d gone off to. Not here. Certainly not here, certainly not with Vivi Swan, certainly not with his hands sweating.
“Why didn’t you just call me?” he asked.
Vivi shrugged, a tiny movement that barely moved her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Really?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t answer,” she admitted.
“I would have answered,” he said, and Vivi smiled.
“I guess you should get back. I’m going to watch the rest of your show from backstage, okay?” Vivi said, looking winded—like the entire conversation had taken something out of her.
“Yeah. That’d be great, yeah,” Remy said, nodding. Vivi pressed her lips together then turned around and grabbed for the doorknob. It felt like the room was shrinking around them, forcing them closer together—especially when the doorknob stuck.
“Oh, there’s a trick to it. The place is all settled, and it doesn’t turn—pull—here, let me do it,” Remy said hurriedly and walked to the door. Vivi dropped her hand from the knob just as Remy slid his over it, but instead of pulling and turning and performing the alchemy required to get the door open, he froze. The room had shrunk again, and now his and Vivi’s arms were pressed together.
He kept his eyes on the doorknob, unblinkingly afraid to look anywhere else but likewise afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid the room would get smaller and kill them both. Vivi lifted a hand—she was staring down at the doorknob too—and let her fingers dance along the sleeve of Remy’s shirt before she took hold of a scrap of fabric.
It happened fluidly, like the entire movement was choreographed. Remy turned toward her, and Vivi sank against him, tucking her head underneath his chin, wrapping her hands under his arms to rest on his shoulder blades. Remy’s arms encircled her, and suddenly the feeling of the room shrinking wasn’t dangerous but welcome as it pressed them closer.
Vivi breathed a laugh that sounded disbelieving, which tempered Remy’s matching feeling. “I’m really glad you’re coming to Europe, Remy,” she said. He could feel her breath through the fabric of his shirt.
“So am I,” he said and didn’t even try to stop himself from inhaling the scent of her hair as he spoke. He didn’t stop himself from liking the way she felt small against him or the way he could feel the back of her bra underneath his thumb.
It felt like he was stumbling forward, forced to place each foot in front of the other—all the things he’d refused to dwell on too long, that he’d tried to talk himself out of: thinking of Vivi as a woman, not a boss, not a neon star, not even a colleague. Wanting to be close to her. Wanting her to want him back.
She tilted her head upward, and Remy leaned back so he could meet her eyes. Her hair rained away from her shoulders, brushing the side of his hand. This close, he could see the way her eyes were a kaleidoscope of blues, the inside edge of her lips where the lipstick didn’t quite reach, the piercing marks on her earlobes where she wasn’t wearing earrings. That, of all things, was what he was looking at when she rose onto her toes, slid one hand off Remy’s back and around to the side of his chin. She brought his head down, tilted her own back, and kissed him.
It wasn’t deep, or passionate, or hard; it was light, and nervous, and gentle. Tentative, and Remy returned it in kind. He was struck by a sense of disbelief, at how naturally her lips curved against his, but also a steady calm.
She pulled back the smallest amount; he could still feel the heat of her mouth, the sweep of her breath. Her hand slid farther up his cheek; there was a tremble there, one she was trying to hide. Or perhaps he was the one trembling? He couldn’t tell—he couldn’t truly focus on anything but the nearness of her.
“Sorry,” Vivi said quietly, perhaps even sincerely.
“It’s fine,” Remy answered just as softly then pulled her slightly closer and dared—because it felt like a dare, the gleaming, shouting, childhood playground kind of dare—to kiss her again.
The door flew open, banged against the back wall.
“Holy motherfucker,” a voice said. No, not a voice—Val’s voice. Remy and Vivi sprang away from each other, frantically putting space between them as Val’s mouth hung open.
“Um,” Val said.
“Hey,” Remy said, because this was apparently how he opened awkward conversations now. He hated everything once again.
