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Chapter Nineteen
Remy was going to Europe.
Val was sworn to secrecy—even from Celeste.
Vivi was seen at a Quiet Coyote show “to support her new producer,” and their sales spiked for forty-eight hours, which meant the van was getting new tires.
Even Vivi’s superstar powers couldn’t get Remy a seat on the flight to Europe with her. They didn’t kiss again before she took off for London, both because they didn’t have another moment aloneandbecause neither could remember just how to act in the other’s presence—they were both fidgety hands, sideways glances, and too-loud conversation all the way till the moment Vivi’s driver picked her up from SALT. The following day, Remy spent the entire flight to London watching HBO shows but accidentally picturing him and Vivi instead of the characters in each and every steamy scene.
It was a very long flight.
The band hotel was adjacent to the venue—Hyde Park. Remy had heard of the place plenty of times but was still surprised to see it was an actual park—with rolling green meadows and big, ancient trees. It wasn’t an arena, like the other shows—it was an outdoor concert. The stage was framed by massive fake trees on either side that held up one side of the video screens and hid some of the lighting rigs. The whole area was fenced off, making it feel as if they weren’t in a city but rather some sort of private, fairy-tale forest. That happened to have two dozen speakers hanging from tree limbs.
“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” a voice asked cheerfully as Remy walked up. It was David, and he was grinning. He strode across the stage, guitar patting against his chest as he moved. Remy smiled through his surprise at learning the band hadn’t been told he was returning then rose and hugged David lightly.
“Looks like I’m not leaving after all,” Remy said.
“Where’s Jason, then?”
Remy shrugged. “Don’t know.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, right?
The rest of the band filtered on, all equally surprised to see Remy but seemingly pleased. Laurel shrieked and hugged him, which made Parish roll his eyes a little. Even a handful of the dancers gave him welcome-back nods. It was like he’d never left.
At least, tothemit was like he never left. Remy himself had a blurry, almost out-of-body feeling about it all. He’d already mourned leaving the tour, returning home. He’d mourned whatever he had with Vivi. Getting it all back and then some was an unbalancing sensation, despite the fact it was also a pleasant one.
Vivi returned from her interviews just in time for sound check, but both she and Remy were too occupied with their professional responsibilities to do anything more than glance at each other and smile in small, secret ways. They played through four sound check songs, managing some acoustic gymnastics that were necessary for the outdoor venue. By the time Vivi went back for hair and makeup, the sun was setting, and the gray sky had been split into bright oranges and purples that silhouetted the handful of buildings stretching over the tree line. Venue employees had arrived with flashlights and were manning the faraway gates already packed with eager concertgoers.
It had been ages since Remy played a concert outdoors, and he’d never played one of this magnitude in the open air. Instead of feeling like the sound was sucked up by the audience, it seemed to spread out everywhere, absorbed by the people and the trees and the grass and the stars. The lights filled the night sky, and Vivi’s amplified voice could surely be heard across the city, her between-song inspirational speeches landing in the hearts and ears of London.
When the lights flared then extinguished at the end of the show, the world felt suddenly dark and cold—not at all like the muggy, summer black that he’d felt in the closing moments of the arena shows. He panted from exertion, and his hands vibrated—he wanted to play more. He wanted to keep going, for her to sing again and the crowd to roar and for him to inhale the power that was being a part of something he thought he’d lost.
But he couldn’t, of course. The curtains suspended from the tree limbs closed, sealing the stage off from the still-screaming crowd. Vivi was already gone, and the dancers were dropping their comically large, cheerful smiles as they hustled backstage. Parish unplugged and handed his guitar to a roadie; Remy finally rose, set his sticks on the snare, and backed away.
“Like you never left,” David called over from the keyboards then grinned.
“Yep,” Remy said, though this couldn’t feel further from the truth for him.
After the crowd was hustled out and they’d changed out of concert clothes, the Bus Three crew made their way to a late-night curry restaurant by the hotel. The place was little more than a hole in the wall, with a flickering sign and room for about ten people inside. They nearly filled the place—there were six of them all together—but they crowded around a tiny table and made it work. After they ordered all the menu items with five peppers pictured beside the name, they fell into standard shoptalk—complaining about the show, discussing past tours, about the costuming, about whether they should insure their voices and—
“Here’s what I want to know, Remy—what’s it like? Working with her? I mean,actuallyworking with her, not just singing behind her. Does sheeverloosen up?” Ro asked. It wasn’t an unkind question, but it was one asked with a certain expectation—like she couldn’t so much as anticipate anything but ano.
“She’s professional. We both are, so it works well,” Remy said. He had no idea if he was lying or not. Surely he was, right? But no, he and Viviwereprofessional…they were just also being hyper-unprofessional. Conversation paused while the waiter delivered steaming-hot bowls of curry—a few bright lemongrass-green, the other two red-brown and creamy—before them, along with an enormous bowl of sticky white rice.
“That’s true, you are professional,” David said, spooning rice onto his plate before slathering it with the green curry. “Which I mean as the highest compliment. It’s why I like you better than Parish.”
“Dude,” Parish said, offended.
David grinned. “Remyfollows the rule about disposing of condomsoutside the bus trash can.”
“To be fair, I haven’t had any condoms to dispose of,” Remy said.
“That’s probably not something to brag about,” Ro answered, looking sincere.
“Well, I’d like to point out that you’re both professional, but you’re the only one who’d dare to eat curry with us. She’s such a fucking ice princess,” Parish said, shaking his head then frantically fanning his mouth as the green curry spice kicked in—apparently in levels he hadn’t expected.
Michael rolled his eyes. “You’re like one of those little girls who gets bitter when people don’t come to her birthday party, Parish. Also, your eyes are watering.”
Parish snorted and took a long drink of his mango lassi then coughed. “Uh, yeah. Because my birthday parties are awesome. And also, who the hell doesn’t want to come to a birthday party? It’s aparty.”
