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“Really?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t answer,” she admitted.
“I would have answered,” he said, and Vivi smiled.
“I guess you should get back. I’m going to watch the rest of your show from backstage, okay?” Vivi said, looking winded—like the entire conversation had taken something out of her.
“Yeah. That’d be great, yeah,” Remy said, nodding. Vivi pressed her lips together then turned around and grabbed for the doorknob. It felt like the room was shrinking around them, forcing them closer together—especially when the doorknob stuck.
“Oh, there’s a trick to it. The place is all settled, and it doesn’t turn—pull—here, let me do it,” Remy said hurriedly and walked to the door. Vivi dropped her hand from the knob just as Remy slid his over it, but instead of pulling and turning and performing the alchemy required to get the door open, he froze. The room had shrunk again, and now his and Vivi’s arms were pressed together.
He kept his eyes on the doorknob, unblinkingly afraid to look anywhere else but likewise afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid the room would get smaller and kill them both. Vivi lifted a hand—she was staring down at the doorknob too—and let her fingers dance along the sleeve of Remy’s shirt before she took hold of a scrap of fabric.
It happened fluidly, like the entire movement was choreographed. Remy turned toward her, and Vivi sank against him, tucking her head underneath his chin, wrapping her hands under his arms to rest on his shoulder blades. Remy’s arms encircled her, and suddenly the feeling of the room shrinking wasn’t dangerous but welcome as it pressed them closer.
Vivi breathed a laugh that sounded disbelieving, which tempered Remy’s matching feeling. “I’m really glad you’re coming to Europe, Remy,” she said. He could feel her breath through the fabric of his shirt.
“So am I,” he said and didn’t even try to stop himself from inhaling the scent of her hair as he spoke. He didn’t stop himself from liking the way she felt small against him or the way he could feel the back of her bra underneath his thumb.
It felt like he was stumbling forward, forced to place each foot in front of the other—all the things he’d refused to dwell on too long, that he’d tried to talk himself out of: thinking of Vivi as a woman, not a boss, not a neon star, not even a colleague. Wanting to be close to her. Wanting her to want him back.
She tilted her head upward, and Remy leaned back so he could meet her eyes. Her hair rained away from her shoulders, brushing the side of his hand. This close, he could see the way her eyes were a kaleidoscope of blues, the inside edge of her lips where the lipstick didn’t quite reach, the piercing marks on her earlobes where she wasn’t wearing earrings. That, of all things, was what he was looking at when she rose onto her toes, slid one hand off Remy’s back and around to the side of his chin. She brought his head down, tilted her own back, and kissed him.
It wasn’t deep, or passionate, or hard; it was light, and nervous, and gentle. Tentative, and Remy returned it in kind. He was struck by a sense of disbelief, at how naturally her lips curved against his, but also a steady calm.
She pulled back the smallest amount; he could still feel the heat of her mouth, the sweep of her breath. Her hand slid farther up his cheek; there was a tremble there, one she was trying to hide. Or perhaps he was the one trembling? He couldn’t tell—he couldn’t truly focus on anything but the nearness of her.
“Sorry,” Vivi said quietly, perhaps even sincerely.
“It’s fine,” Remy answered just as softly then pulled her slightly closer and dared—because it felt like a dare, the gleaming, shouting, childhood playground kind of dare—to kiss her again.
The door flew open, banged against the back wall.
“Holy motherfucker,” a voice said. No, notavoice—Val’s voice. Remy and Vivi sprang away from each other, frantically putting space between them as Val’s mouth hung open.
“Um,” Val said.
“Hey,” Remy said, because this was apparently how he opened awkward conversations now. He hated everything once again.
“So we’re doing a show. If you’re done up here,” Val said, though not unkindly—not exactly kindly either. It was an actual question.
“We’re, um—”
“We’re all done,” Vivi said in a panicky voice. “I mean we’re not—I just—”
“Val, look, you can’t say anything—” Remy cut in.
Val held his hands up. “Trust me. This is too messed up even for me. I just need my drummer back.”
“Yeah,” Vivi said, swallowing. “Okay.”
Remy adjusted his shirt at his waist to hide the consequences of that kiss, and Vivi wiped at her mouth, trying—and failing—to tidy her lipstick. She stayed behind as Remy went to the door, shouldered past Val, fought to regain his breath. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard Val’s voice.
“Well?” Remy turned to see Val was talking not to him but to Vivi, now hidden from view in the office.
“Hm?” she asked, voice fractured.
“Are you going to sit up here, or are you going to come down and see a fucking amazing show?” Val asked.
