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Chapter Eighteen
“I like Vivi’s dress,” Celeste said, studying the photo the next morning moments after sunrise. “It’s one of the better ones from the CMAs. She’s sort of becoming a thing in the fashion world, you know?”
“Sure,” Remy said, turning away from the photo. He had to turn away—if he looked too long, he knew it would paralyze him, like one of those heroes turned to stone by mythical lady creatures. Even after he was focused on going through the variety of junk mail that’d arrived for him, the image was burned in his mind. Vivi, in a long white dress. Backless. It’d been backless, and the photo was posed such that he could see the curve of her spine and the peaks of her shoulder blades. He hadn’t realized he wondered what they looked like until that moment, and now, he couldn’t help but want to see them again.
He focused on tearing up a variety of credit card offers instead. Celeste didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, continuing to rapidly click through photos on Getty Images. Val was still asleep—having the bedroom meant he didn’t have to force himself awake when Remy (or Celeste) rose.
Remy took a long drink of his coffee and looked out at the orange-and-purple sky. “My sleep schedule is so jacked from that tour. If I’d gone to Europe, I’d be a wreck right now.”
“Probably. Sucks that you didn’t get to go,” Celeste said without looking up.
Remy paused then said offhandedly, “She asked me to go, sort of.”
Celeste’s eyes shot to him. “Wait, are you serious? Why the fuck are you here, then?”
Remy stepped back from her intensity. “I just…I didn’t want to take the other guy’s job by begging to join up last minute,” he said, settling on the simplest explanation. Saying,She sort of forgot I was her employeeorI don’t know who I am when I’m around her, and it’s insane,to a woman literally working on her gossip website was probably unwise, near-family or not.
“Remy, that was an amazing gig you passed up,” Celeste said, shaking her head. “Is it because of Val? Because he’s fine. You know he’s fine. You both are, frankly, better than I’d thought you’d be after so long apart.”
“It’s not Val,” Remy said, surprised this was the truth. He followed it up with a lie. “It’s just the other drummer—”
“There’s always going to be another drummer. If she chose you, she wanted you,” Celeste said.
Remy considered this longer than he meant to; his eyes flicked to Celeste’s computer screen again. It was another image of Vivi, this time from the front. White dress, sharp shoulders, sparkling designs running up and down the bodice. And a man on her arm.Noelon her arm, her fingers delicately splayed across the fabric of his suit jacket sleeve.
“Well, next time,” Remy said.
“There probably won’tbea next time,” Celeste argued.
Remy shrugged and didn’t say what he was thinking—even as the thought made him nauseous.I’m counting on there not being a next time.
Val had arranged a homecoming show that evening at SALT, where Remy would make his triumphant return to the drum set. They arrived at six o’clock, which in some ways felt as much like coming home as going to their actual house had, for Remy. The place still smelled like beer and sweat and wood and ocean, and bartenders and regulars who were more or less just other-side-of-the-bar bartenders clapped him on the back and celebrated his return. Remy fell into work alongside Val, checking mics and lights and finding his brother’s obsession with both charming, for once, rather than exhausting. It wasn’t until they were in the green room that Remy realized he hadn’t felt compelled to double-check it for alcohol before Val got his hands on it.
“You still know the music, right? Don’t start playing that one and three pop shit,” Val said, bumping him on the shoulder.
“You know, Val, it’s worth mentioning it was the pop stations that played ‘Everything but the World,’” Celeste said, grinning, glowing. She looked new, refreshed to see Remy and Val back together—or maybe just to see Val like this.
Val laughed and kissed her quickly. “Are you trying to make me quit music entirely?”
“Obviously. Your true calling is so clearly being an elementary school teacher. Third grade,” Celeste answered. The lights flashed at eight o’clock, signaling their start time, and they made their way out onto the stage. Somehow, the crowd was louder than Vivi’s had ever been—perhaps because they were closer, perhaps because he could see faces, perhaps because they were chanting for them rather than a girl in gold. Val writhed in the sound, sang through their songs like an animal moves through trees, and it felt so different from what Remy had done for the past six weeks that it was almost impossible he’d been playing the drums on both occasions. Vivi’s music was a production, a play, polished and flawless. Val’s was moody and had to be tamed every few moments, lest Val run away with the song in his jaws.
But both pop songs. Both music. Both amazing, in very different ways, ways Remy didn’t fully appreciate until they rounded the final song before their intermission. Val didn’t like to talk during breaks—he felt it broke his focus—so Remy made himself scarce, lingering at the end of the SALT loading docks by himself. This place was so desolate during the in-between moments—not at all like the Sweethearts show, where the backstage flurry never stopped. He exhaled and leaned against the wall then slid to the floor and pulled out his phone.
Where was Vivi now? He pulled up her number to see their most recent text chain. Could he send her a message? What would he even say?I liked your dress but not your boyfriend? OrI’m mad you didn’t demand I stay for the Europe leg? OrHey, sup?
Remy decided that, as wonderful as tonight was going, he hated everything.
“There you are!” someone said—one of the bartenders, a burly guy that straddled the thin line between hipster and lumberjack.
“Everything okay?” Remy asked, alarmed by the guy’s wide eyes.
“Yeah, dude, but my boss said they need you in the office. Like, now.”
“Is it Val—”
“No, no, I don’t know what it is. But they took me off the bar to find you, so it’s gotta be serious. I hope everything’s okay,” he said, looking almost frightened for Remy.
Remy leapt to his feet, mind running through scenarios. Did the house burn down? Was it Mercy? How would their parents even find them at SALT, though? If it couldn’t wait till after the show, it had to be intense—Mercy had to be dying. Or was it a collector? Some repo guy? They owned everything outright, but still, shit happened.
