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“Whygolden?” Remy asked.
“Because they go with everything, obviously, like gold jewelry,” Vivi said a little teasingly, like this was a piece of fashion advice he ought to have known.
“Right,” Remy said. Without thinking, he stepped forward, and the door clicked shut behind him, automatic lock whirring as it sealed. To his surprise, with the door shut, the space did feel more like the bus—just the two of them, working on music together.
Vivi’s dressing room was really a series of rooms; there was a treadmill in a back room, along with a few of those giant exercise balls. In the main room, there was a table of fancy deli meats, the makings for nachos, water, and Diet Coke. It was softly lit and draped in fabric an almost white shade of pink, and there were two humidifiers whirring in either corner. Everything was intentional, displayed like they were in a store, almost—which, of course, Remy guessed was on account of a detailed performance rider.
Remy watched Vivi’s fingers running aimlessly back and forth across the guitar strings. “So…it’s a sad song, now?”
She exhaled. “I don’t know. Yes? Long story short, Noel was out with some girls at a club, and I tried to ask him about it, and we fought and just…” Vivi stopped, and when she spoke again, her voice was a little distant. “There’s this joke the media likes to make about the songs I write—that maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s all my fault.” She blinked. “They wouldn’t say that to a man, you know.”
“They wouldn’t,” Remy agreed then stopped. “Maybe that’s the song.”
“I’ve done two songs about the way the media treats women differently—youplaythem in the show, Remy,” Vivi said, looking both amused and offended.
“No—that’s it. Write a song about howmaybe it’s you.”
Vivi frowned, considering it, then played the first bit of their song, humming through the unwritten lyrics before singing it as the main line of the chorus: “It’s probably you, but maybe it’s me.”
“Golden,” Remy said, smiling at her.
“Genius,” she answered, nodding to him. “Although that makes it a breakup song, sort of. I’m trying to get away from those. I’ve got a million already, and honestly, they’re getting harder.”
“How’s that?”
She put her guitar down and fiddled with the tuning keys absently. “Don’t you feel like you get over your heart getting broken faster, now? I mean, compared to when you were, like, sixteen. It’s just another thing you do once you’re an adult.”
Remy snorted at her words then held his hands up in apology—her eyes said that she thought he was mocking her. He said, “No, it’s just, I don’t know that I’ve ever had my heart broken. Not really.”
She rolled her eyes. “Guys are always so afraid to call it that. You’ve been in love, right?”
“Uh—I don’t…no, I don’t think so.”
Vivi looked surprised. “Seriously?”
Remy shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “Not really. I mean, I’ve had girlfriends, but it wasn’t love. Not really.”
Vivi looked doubtful. “Just because you wouldn’t call it love now doesn’t mean it wasn’t love then,” she said, pulling a knee lightly to her chest. “You’ve at least had that moment when you didn’t know what you’d do next, because everything thatwassuddenlywasn’t. Right?”
He blinked at her, wondering if she was reading all this from the recesses of his mind. Thoughts of leaving Florida. Of Val using. Of the label killing their contract. Of realizing the life he’d thought stable was anything but. Even of Val secretly writing a new song without Remy’s help.
She was right: he’d never thought to call it that, but it was definitely heartbreak.
Vivi must have known by his expression that she’d proven herself. She went on, “So my point is just that all those emotions are harder and louder and more painful when it’s the first time. They’re almost easy to write about when you really do think your world is over. But now…it’s like I’m immune to the whole lost-love thing.”
“You’re in love with Noel?” Remy asked, voice foolishly doubtful. He immediately scolded himself. He shouldn’t have said that. It was too personal. It was too serious.
Vivi stared for a second, a moment too long—then seemed to snap awake and said, “Of course.” Her voice was clipped and cheerful.
She was lying.
Though, to be fair, Remy wasn’t entirely sure she realized it.Heonly realized it because he’d seen the same look in Val’s eyes when Val promised, swore, vowed that he reallywantedto get clean. Val hadn’t wanted to, not really. At that point, he truly believed the drugs fueled the music, and he’d have never traded one if it meant losing the other.
Vivi didn’t love Noel; she was convincing herself she did so that she’d be able to tap into that pain when they split up. That she’d be able to drum up some hurt and pain and turn it into a song. The other boys were the same, according to Celeste—they’d all served the same purpose. How far back did it go with Vivi? When was the last time shedidn’twant to get her heart stomped on and turn it into a Grammy? No wonder she was always writing in that Moleskine—she was always in pain, always in the song.
Vivi exhaled. She looked at the clock.
“Probably about time,” Remy said.
“Yep. We start makeup early,” she said. Remy looked at her and noticed the smallest bit of her lipstick had smudged onto the lip of the teacup. If he studied her bottom lip, he could almost, sort of, kind of see the natural color of her lips through the stain.
Remy rose. “Alright. See you out there.”
“Absolutely,” Vivi answered.
