Six ways to write a love.., p.7
Six Ways to Write a Love Letter, page 7
“That’s a hell of a hook,” Vivi said, nodding along as the song played over the bus’s impressive speakers. The hook had been all Remy’s doing—an addition in the studio, synthesized brass instruments and the sound of hands clapping. The hook was what people remembered, was what kept people coming back and singing along and creating remixes and performing covers. The hook was what made their hit single a hit—which was perhaps why Val hated hooks now. He wanted his music to be a secret, special thing, rather than something the general population could pump their fists to.
Remy returned to the galley table and busied himself spinning his empty soda can around in his hands while he waited for the song to end. Vivi listened intently, appearing to pick out all the layers, to listen to the parts rather than the whole. When it was done, she grinned at him, and something in his core felt unlocked. Warmed.
“That was great.”
“Thanks,” he said, voice rockier than he’d anticipated—her smile was so different up close, in only the best way. He hurried to the sound system and unplugged his phone. In the silence that followed, Vivi looked out the window again. “Are the paparazzi still there?” Remy asked.
“Yep,” Vivi said. “They’ll give up eventually, though. It’s just that there’s no one else to follow around here. When I was just starting out, my friend Tuesday and I used to have a system—if one of us was being chased, the other would call in and say we were going to dinner or shopping or sometimes something dramatic, so they’d turn around and come to us instead. It was usually Tuesday being chased, since she was more famous back then, but I thought it was so much fun. Times have changed.”
She had to be talking about Tuesday Rivers—how many girls named Tuesday could there be in the world? She was one of those tragedy cases, a child star eager to prove to the world that she was a grown-up now; she seemed an odd choice for Vivi to call friend. Remy was about to say something—he wasn’t entirely sure what, he just knew he needed to keep the conversation going—when Vivi’s phone rang.
“Hey, Walter,” she said when she answered. “No, it’s fine. I’m on the band bus with Remy.” His name sounded different when she said it; there was no weight in it, like there was when Val said it, and it wasn’t the professional, nearly branded version of his name that he heard when colleagues at the studio said it. She said it the way someone like Celeste said it—someone who knew him, but not someone who attached a fat, loaded history to his name.
Of course, Vivi didn’t know him, Remy reminded himself. Not really—not beyond this conversation and whatever she’d read in the stalker file her people had assembled. Yet still, he liked the way the word sounded in her voice and was pleased when she said it again.
“Remy and I are just talking. No, it’s fine—let’s try to outdrive the paps. They’re not going to chase us forever, not if they think we’re going to drive through the night. Hey, tell David I’m going to eat all his Nutter Butters.”
There was a laugh on the other end of the line, loud enough that Vivi flinched and pulled the phone away. She went on, “Can Steve and Big John meet me when we change over though, just in case? Oh, no, tell them it’s not their fault! I’m not mad. It’s fine, really. Okay. Bye.”
She hung up and tossed the phone beside her on the couch. “You can go to sleep.”
Remy’s lips parted at the simplicity of the command, delivered with the same confidence as her command he play her something had been. When was the last time he’d been ordered to bed? When he was eight? Nine, maybe? He felt his face twisting, pride battling with professionalism—
“I mean, don’t feel like you’ve got to stay up and entertain me or something,” Vivi said, shrugging.
Oh. She’d meant can as in you’re free to go to sleep rather than an order. In retrospect, Remy couldn’t quite tell—had he interpreted it as an order because of how she’d said it or because there was a lingering expectation of that sort of behavior from her?
It’d been too long since he’d spoken, so he let words tumble from his mouth, hoping at least some were the right ones. “I don’t need to go to sleep yet. I’m fine.”
“I’m fine too,” Vivi answered and smiled a little. She smoothed her shirt, and Remy noticed she was still wearing her high heels. He considered telling her she could take them off, if she wanted, but it sounded weird even in his mind, so he refrained.
“Well,” Vivi said. “Play another song?”
It wasn’t a command—and now that Remy was thinking on it, he realized it hadn’t been a command the first time either, not really. He took a breath and looked at his laptop. There were a handful of unfinished songs there, sure, but it seemed a little much to play a second or third or fourth. He hated those musicians who sat back and played their half-baked tracks or poetry-slam read you their lyrics, waiting for you to recognize their genius. He hated the prospect of accidentally being one even more. He looked back at Vivi. “I have some stuff from our last album?”
“But I’ve already heard that,” she said. “It’s less fun when they’ve all been polished up and sleek.”
“That’s when they’re best! When they’re done,” Remy argued.
She shook her head. “No way. I like it when they’re still little baby songs and are ugly and weird.”
“I don’t have baby songs. I produce, I don’t write. When I’ve worked on a song, it’s done.”
“Seriously? You never write?”
“Nope, that’s my brother. He carves, I polish.” Or he used to, anyway.
Vivi looked skeptical. “Not one ugly baby song? Seriously? That’s basically ninety percent of what I have.”
“Well then, play me one of these beloved ugly and weird baby songs of yours,” Remy said, lifting his eyebrows.
Vivi’s lips parted into a perfect O, like she couldn’t believe his audacity—and honestly, Remy couldn’t believe his own audacity. He’d just forgotten for a moment that this wasn’t another musician—this was Vivi Swan. She probably didn’t even do nearly as much songwriting as she got credit for, despite her ability to play guitar. He was just about to backtrack when she closed her lips and gave him a smug look.
Vivi rose then slid down across from Remy at the galley table. “Alright. I’ll bite.”
Chapter Eight
Vivi pulled a notebook from her purse, a Moleskine with rubbed corners and wear-softened sides. It looked like nothing that would belong to Vivi—it was far too trashed and common. She held it such that only she could see the interior as she flipped to the back, finding the page she was after almost immediately. She laid the notebook on the table, where it flopped open easily; it was a page with graph paper lines, on which she’d written both music and a handful of lyrics in messy number charts.
“Okay, so, it should be this one…” she said, thumbing through her phone. She laid it beside the notebook; Remy saw her eyes bounce back to the sound system and knew she was confirming his phone was still over there—that there was no risk he’d record this and share it. Satisfied that he was leak-proof, Vivi hit Play on her phone screen. Guitar—bright and springy and very Vivi Swan—rose from the tiny speaker. Vivi took a breath and then began to sing along with it, voice low at first but rising with each line of lyrics she ran her finger across.
It was a breakup song, which was no huge surprise, though it felt oddly unspecific—it was more like a template, ready to be filled in with details when she finally had the heartbreak needed to finish it. Vivi only had a few lines here and there, opting to hum through bits that were incomplete, where a series of question marks were scribbled in the lyrics section of her notebook. The guitar part was good, and Remy felt a pull in his chest to add to it, that desire to polish the piece up. Without entirely meaning to, he began to tap out a beat on the table.
Vivi looked surprised then pleased, so he began to play it a bit louder and hum the counter melody along with her. It changed the tone of the piece—made the whole thing take on a cool, almost eighties feel. When the song ended, Vivi looked up and him and smiled then quieted her phone.
“See? The ugly baby song part is the best part. It’s the part that’s alive,” she said. She fluttered her fingers against the edges of the notebook affectionately, like it was a cat; the resulting noise even sounded like a tiny purr.
“The part that’s alive?” Remy answered, nodding. “That’s something my brother would say. He never minded the studio, but he liked live shows better. He said the music was alive there but trapped when you put it on a record.”
“Things in a zoo can still be alive, even if they’re trapped,” Vivi answered without hesitation.
Remy laughed once at Val’s expense. “Tell my brother the song can be like an animal in a zoo, and he’ll literally never record anything again and probably become a PETA activist,” he countered, though he instantly felt guilty for this—Val was his brother, after all. Remy took a big breath. “But Val is just like that. He’s different. But it’s good—it keeps him focused on the music.”
Vivi nodded and closed her notebook. “Oh. Yeah, sure—the music should always be the focus. I’m sure I’d still be playing guitar if I’d never sold a record. I’d be a guitar-playing veterinarian or marine biologist.”
“Marine biologist?” Remy asked.
“That’s what I wanted to be in middle school,” she said, and Remy realized middle school was likely the last time Vivi wanted to be anything other than herself—she became the Vivi Swan when she was fifteen, after all. “What about you? What’d you want to be other than a musician?” she asked.
“I…have no idea.”
“What? How do you have no idea?” Vivi asked with a look that told him she suspected he was lying.
Remy frowned. “Val wanted to be a musician from the moment he started playing guitar. I always sort of went along with it, I guess.”
“You never wanted to be something on your own? Seriously?” Vivi asked.
He shook his head. “Val’s persuasive.” That was the short version. The long version was that musician was the only job that didn’t involve the church, or the Lake City government, or the pastor’s son’s pool-cleaning business. Remy might not have known what he wanted to be, but he knew he didn’t want to be any of those things.
“What about now? Still want to be a musician?” Vivi asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Remy lifted his eyebrows a bit. “I guess it’d be nice to be both a musician and…I dunno. One of those people who teaches dogs to do unusual tricks? That seems fun.”
Vivi snorted—straight up snorted, and Remy couldn’t stop himself from laughing both with her and at her. She turned neon-red and tried to hide her face behind her hand, but it was no use—she was undeniably a mess of laughter.
“You laugh, but you’ll be calling me when you need a dog that’s trained to make the bed,” Remy said, feeling weirdly accomplished at how hard he’d made her laugh. She wiped at her face, still snickering, then sighed.
“Okay, okay. Dog trainer. Fancy dog trainer. Got it. I’ll let you know if I hear of any job openings,” she said, almost sincerely.
He smiled and studied the way her angel-carved cheekbones stood out on her face. She had freckles on her nose and across her clavicles; small and scattered and nearly covered by makeup, but freckles, just like many other girls in the world who’d spent a moment of time in the sun.
“What?” she asked, bringing a hand to her face worriedly. She turned to look at her shadowy reflection in the window—
“Nothing, nothing,” he said quickly, realizing that perhaps he’d been staring, not studying. “Sorry.”
She met his eyes for a second, almost suspiciously, then slid her Moleskine notebook back into her purse. “Okay, look,” she said, voice going weirdly hesitant for someone like her. “I’m going to ask you to do something with me that I don’t normally ask. But it’s sort of something I always do after shows.”
He blinked. “Sure…”
“I need you to watch House Hunters International with me. Or at least not care that I’m about to watch it, because I’m sort of getting antsy over the fact that I haven’t yet.” The words tumbled from her throat nervously—hilariously nervously.
“House Hunters International?” he asked, failing to keep a smile from his face.
“It comes on at eleven and basically plays all night. And it’s amazing. I mean, no, actually, it’s the worst, but that’s why it’s amazing.”
“I don’t see how I could get between you and something as amazing as a show about house hunting. Internationally.”
Vivi shook her head then made a sort of face at him, one that smudged her lipstick. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Nondisclosure agreement,” he reminded her.
She paused. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Remy promised, finally understanding just how sincere the worry in her eyes was. It was just a ridiculous show, but it was her ridiculous show, and if it got out that she watched it, there’d be mentions in magazines and producers asking if she wanted to make an appearance, and it would become another brick in the Vivi Swan Wall of Things. “I promise,” Remy added.
Vivi smiled as she rose, found the remote by the couch, and flipped the television on. She scanned the channels with expertise until she found what she was looking for.
Here was the “plot” of the show, so far as Remy could tell: People with a lot of money looked at houses then decided which one to buy. He had trouble understanding why anyone as poor as himself or as rich as Vivi would be interested—because for the two of them, the houses featured were out of the question. Still, he rose and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Vivi.
“Oh, I’ve seen this one. This couple sucks. They turn down the best house because of the paint color,” she said eagerly.
“I’m sorry, are we watching an episode where you already know which house they’ll choose?” Remy asked and smiled again, or maybe just didn’t stop smiling.
“The point is to make fun of the couple. Come on, Remy, figure it out,” Vivi said, and swung her legs onto the couch. Her feet were close to him—strangely close. Not touching; there was a nearly tangible distance between her feet and his legs, a no-fly zone that pressed him even closer into the arm of the couch. She inched her toes back, and it made Remy feel better that she seemed aware of the no-fly zone as well.
“Alright. I am making fun of…the fact that they are insisting on something with a new bathtub. Because that’s stupid.”
“Especially in Italy. Nothing’s new over there,” Vivi agreed. “Nice work, Remy.”
They watched the episode, then the next, and the next, until Vivi was slumped down on the arm of the couch, hair fluffed by her head. It was the most imperfect he’d seen her, which made it hard not to stare. Her eyeliner was the tiniest bit smudged, and she still hadn’t fixed her lipstick. If she were anyone else, he’d have offered her a T-shirt, since the glittery, fitted shirt she was wearing looked like it’d outstayed its comfort; she kept twisting and rearranging it, which revealed the angry red lines it left on her torso.
He forced himself to stop staring and turned back to the current episode—the fourth, so far. She wasn’t kidding about them airing it all night. “That guy is a douchebag,” Remy said. “And I think his mustache is drawn on. But seriously, he wants two offices? Who needs two offices in one house?”
“One’s for drawing the mustache on. The other’s for work,” Vivi said, voice wispy. She was fighting to keep her eyes open.
“That’s fair. I’d like to see a mustache-focused office,” Remy said but lowered his voice. She smiled a little—very little, mostly with her cheeks, and then her eyes drifted once, twice…and she was out.
Which meant Remy really didn’t know what to do. He was tired too—not as tired as she was, clearly, but tired enough. But it seemed wrong to leave her out here, unbuckled and alone. If the bus took a weird swerve, she’d hit the floor. There was a buckle on the seat, but he couldn’t get it without digging around behind her, which seemed like a great way to get fired. Instead, he carefully grabbed his laptop then slid onto the floor in front of the couch, leaning against it. She’d hit him before the floor if the bus swerved. Plus, this meant he couldn’t really see her anymore, which was probably for the best. He couldn’t seem to stop staring, especially now that she was asleep. Sleeping Vivi Swan looked so unlike Stage Vivi Swan—more delicate and gentler and beautiful in an entirely different way.
The house hunters continued for another two episodes while Remy mostly ignored them, instead sliding his earphones on and reading music blogs. It was nearly four thirty when Vivi’s phone rang, startling her awake and him out of the computer screen. He turned to look at her; she was rubbing her eyes, further smearing the eyeliner and clearly confused as to why she was on a couch. When she saw him, she startled—then seemed to remember why she was there.
“Where’s my phone?” she said, voice a little gravelly.
“I think—here,” he said, lunging for it and handing it to her. She cleared her throat before answering, turning her voice cheery and bright again. It was Walter’s assistant—they were pulling over up ahead so everyone could shuffle buses.
“The paps are gone?” Remy asked.
Vivi put her feet back on the floor, blushing a little as she adjusted her skirt. “Looks that way. Thanks for letting me crash on your bus.”
“Thanks for introducing me to the wonders of House Hunters International,” he said.
“You can pretend you don’t like it all you want, but I’m telling you, you’ll watch it again. It’s like a parasite. It gets in your skin,” Vivi said with a cautious smile then stood. She avoided his eyes as she collected her shoes then disappeared into the bathroom with her purse. Remy silently wondered if the bathroom was clean and free of embarrassing lotions or creams or magazines until she emerged. Her lipstick was fixed, her eyeliner perfect, and her hair sleek and polished. She looked exactly like she had when she’d accidentally boarded the bus four hours before.
