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“Did…Vivi not come to your birthday party?” Remy asked.
Everyone else cracked up, loud enough that one of the tables near them muttered something about “loud Americans.”
“No, no—Parish has a point though,” Ro said. “I’ve done plenty of tours, and Vivi is the only one who is like some sort of…I dunno. Precious art installation. We never see her, she never talks to us, she never hangs out with us. When I was touring with Mimi Martinez, it was totally different. Mimi would be here eating curry with us, if we were on her tour, because she understood we were part of her machine. If we stopped working, she’d stop working. But with Vivi, it’s like we’re not even her machine. We’re just set dressing.”
The conversation steered away from Vivi—which Remy was grateful for, as he didn’t like hearing her insulted and also didn’t trust himself not to slip up, saying something about the way she kissed or how her hair smelled bright. It was after midnight when they finished up and headed back to the hotel. Remy said goodbye to Michael and David, who were headed to their rooms, then Parish, Ro, and Laurel, who were setting up at the hotel bar. He stood at the door to his room, key card in hand, when his phone chimed with a text.
Vivi Swan: Do you want to go somewhere tonight with me?
Remy Young: Where?
Vivi Swan: I know a place where we won’t get mobbed
Remy Young: What time?
Vivi Swan: It has to be late, maybe 1?
Remy Young: Your place or mine
Vivi Swan: There should be an eye rolling emoji. I’m at the Dorchester. Meet me here.
