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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 becametheVivi 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 upsnorted, 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 watchHouse Hunters Internationalwith 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.”
