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Chapter Nine
“Did you guys seriously get chased out of Portland?” Celeste asked excitedly over the phone. “You should have called me!”
“I didn’t know that was newsworthy. Doesn’t Vivi Swan essentially get chased everywhere?” Remy answered. His phone was smashed between his cheek and his shoulder as he sorted through the new sticks that had just come in—after two tour stops, he’d finally decided to ask for the brand he really wanted, more to see if Walter’s assistant would come through on the offer than out of real need. Yet here they were, a brand-new box full of sticks and brushes and mallets. He was organizing them around the drum set in the hours before the show. They were in Grand Rapids, and the sun was blinding in the clear blue sky above them.
Celeste sighed. “I mean, sort of. But still. I would’ve liked to blog a play-by-play. Vivi Swan: The High-Speed Chase, live.”
Remy snorted. “I couldn’t have done that anyway. Seriously, Celeste, I can’t give you anything for the site. She’s pretty serious about the nondisclosure stuff. She even supposedly has a spy on staff to let her know what people are saying about her or to other people or whatever.”
“Of course she does. Famous people don’t want the peons of the world to know what they’re actually like,” Celeste said breezily.
Remy felt something in him rise to defend Vivi—to tell Celeste that they’d played songs together, that Vivi had a real laugh that was harder to coax out than that fake one, to tell her aboutHouse Hunters—but Celeste would want to blog about all of that. Even if he’d sworn her to secrecy, though, there was something pleasant about keeping that time with Vivi to himself. He felt like an insider, like he was more than just a—
He rolled his eyes at himself. This was exactly what Vivi sold, nightly, onstage—the illusion of friendship, of a relationship, that she was somethingmorethan a singer the fans paid to see. Empathy. He’d bought into it, just like they did, and this was monumentally embarrassing. How long had he been in this industry? Too long to fall for shit like this.
“Ugh, fine. Fine,” Celeste said. “Hey, Val’s working on a song!”
“What?” Remy said too sharply. “Is everything okay?”
“Chill, yes. He’s fine. He moped around for a week and threatened to pull together a new band and name itBurrito Armageddon, but he got over it. Now he’s working on something. It’s been sticking around for a few weeks.”
“Oh,” Remy said. He couldn’t decide if he was embarrassed about his reaction or desperate to press the issue. Was shesurehe was fine? Really,reallysure?
“Remy, he’s writing music again. He’s not using. It’s a good thing,” Celeste said, voice becoming uncharacteristically gentle. “You act like I’m telling you he said yes to that ‘Everything but Colleen’ gig.Thatwould be something to worry about.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course,” Remy said.
Celeste went on. “Anyway—you got a birthday card from your mom, complete with Bible verse and plea for you to ditch Val and come back to Jesus-slash-Florida. Do you want me to save it for you? Val is pissed about it, of course. That they asked you, not that they consider him a lost cause.”
“Of course. Well, remind him that it doesn’t matter if they know where we are. I’m not going anywhere without him.”
***
During the show that evening, Remy watched the writhing, gleeful audience. Val was particularly good at working an audience. He’d pause to take a long breath before a song, and the people would take it with him, undirected, following their leader obediently. It felt like a kind of hypnosis, the way Val commanded them.
This was not the case with Vivi. She didn’t command them; she simply moved along, and they followed, because every few moments she turned back to them and smiled and waved, and they trotted behind like eager puppies. During one of her acoustic breaks, after she’d wandered through the audience and touched hands and taken gifts of flowers and teddy bears (which her security team took immediately), she sat on the edge of her gazebo, playing a simple melody on a ukulele, of all things.
“I got this ukulele from a friend, ages ago,” she said, pausing—the crowd filled the silence with a loud cheer, and she smiled, or smiled bigger, anyhow. “And I’ve always wanted to play it for you, but it’s hard to find a song that reallyworkson this instrument, you know?” They cheered, as if they each truly believed theyouwas them.
She went on, still strumming, still playing the melody. “So, a while ago, I thought I really needed to find a song. You know—enough excuses! Find something we can all sing along to.” They cheered. Remy was in total darkness, at this point—most of the band was sitting, though Parish and Michael had both dashed backstage, probably to grab a drink. They were still twenty minutes away from the intermission, but some nights it felt like the lights leached all the energy from you, and a bottle of water consumed in fifteen seconds felt like life force. David was sitting just offstage, but Remy stayed put, slouching over on his stool, enjoying the darkness that felt like quiet even though it wasn’t.
“And so, I wrote a song especially for the ukulele. The sort of song that makes me feel like I’m falling in love. Do you know what I mean?” She looked up at them each time she asked a question then parted her lips and grinned, admiring the size of the audience with wonder. “Anyway, I’d like to play it for you now, if that’s okay. It’s called ‘Count on Me.’”
She didn’t launch into the song—she waded into it, picking across notes carefully, the small instrument delicate in her hands. It was a song about love—the way love looks in movies and books, all sweet meet-cutes and perfect kisses in the rain. Not real love: perfect love, a difference Vivi noted in the lyrics. It was a pretty song, suited for both the ukulele and Vivi’s voice—she didn’t have the pipes for loud, belting songs. If he were being honest, Remy had heard plenty of better singers without record deals and world tours. Knowing this didn’t make him like the song any less.
In the finale, Vivi wove around the band, as per usual, pointing them out so the audience could cheer. They went wildest for the dancers and backup singers—the people in the sparkliest costumes—but cheered nonetheless for the band on Vivi’s command. The fireworks exploded, the lights clicked out, and the stage fell into a flurry of activity. Remy abandoned his drum set and went back to the band’s green room, where Michael was already sitting, mopping his sweaty brow with the white, 100-percent-cotton hand towels that were on the band’s tour rider for just this purpose. David lifted his eyes when he passed Remy on the way down the hall.
“Musician party tonight, friend,” he said kindly. “Just for a few hours, before we pull out.”
“Bus Three?” Remy asked, and David nodded.
As they packed, Remy slunk back to the bus and changed into riding clothes then slapped a ball cap on his head and went for Bus Three. He was nearly there when he heard the rushing sound of another bus door opening—
“Remy!” Vivi said—he knew it was her without looking at this point, as he spent so much time listening to her voice. She was darting down the bus stairs, still in heels and hair and makeup and the sleek blouse she always wore from the arena back to the bus. Her lipstick was, as always, perfect.
“Hey,” Remy said, stopping short, unsure if he was supposed to call her Vivi or Miss Swan. It had to be Miss Swan. Right? Only her actual friends and fans who thought they were her friends would call herVivi, and he was neither. How had he not sorted this out before now?
Vivi smiled a little but seemed a touch off-balance. “I saw you walking by—do you have a minute? I wanted to hear your thoughts on that song I played you when we were leaving Portland.”
