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“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 washerridiculous 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 Remyreallydidn’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 ofHouse 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.
“I thought…aren’t you just jumping on the other bus? Sans paparazzi?” Remy asked as she walked back out. She smelled like powder makeup and soap.
“Camera phones,” Vivi said knowingly. “People with camera phones are everywhere.”
Remy couldn’t argue with that. The buses turned in to a bright, shining gas station, and one by one, everyone who’d jumped on the wrong bus disembarked. Vivi put her sunglasses on and stood in the stairwell, waiting for security to wave her onto her bus. The doors opened; Vivi looked back at him and smiled.
“Thanks for the company, Remy.”
“Back at you,” he said, which after the words left his mouth, he decided were the stupidest words he’d ever said in his life. “See you later,” he added, attempting to recover.
And then she vanished, clipping down the steps in her heels and hurrying across the parking lot, head down, toward her own bus. Remy watched her go, knees on the couch, leaning over the back so he was nearly pressed against the window. He saw a few camera flashes—gas station patrons with camera phones, just like she’d worried about. She high-fived the other band members as she passed them (slightly awkwardly) then was swallowed up by her own bus. Her absence was so full, made the bus so empty, that for a moment Remy did nothing but blink and pick at his own fingers.
