AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You don’t have to,” Remy said to her quietly, looking down and nodding toward their arms.
“Thanks. Maybe just…just not yet,” she said and withdrew her arm with a sad look his way. Remy had hoped she’d argue, remind him that she wastheVivi Swan, remind him that it was nearing one thirty and there was no one around to see, so who cared? But he knew better: Like she’d once said, camera phones were everywhere. One picture and there’d be nothing quiet or secret or precious about whatever was happening between them.
They walked along the edge of the river, so still and black and massive that it looked like a floe of obsidian ice reflecting brake lights and streetlights and even the dim glow of cigarette tips from smokers who leaned over the railing, gazing into it. It was so unlike anything Remy had seen before that it felt like a movie set or an alternate universe. Not a different world—the same one, poured into a totally different mold.
“Here. This is it. It’s my favorite place here,” she said, motioning to the left. It was hard to tell exactly what she meant, at first, as she more or less seemed to be pointing to a void in between an office building and a tall apartment building. As they neared, however, the space took shape. A tower, not entirely unlike the ones at Westminster, only smaller and cream gray rather than gold. Walls, the same type of stone, covered in ivy and trumpet flowers, not in a decorative way but in an aged, ruinous way.
“It was a church. It got bombed in World War Two,” Vivi said as they crossed back over the street, away from the Thames. “It’s great—no one’s ever here.”
“Likely because it closes at seven,” Remy said as they passed a placard posted on the exterior wall.
Vivi grinned at him mischievously and plucked the guitar case from his hands then brushed past the CLOSED AFTER 7 P.M. OR DUSK sign and into a courtyard. There was no ceiling left on the church, no glass in the windows—just mossy walls and crumbly arches and little altars with fountains or statues in the center. The space took up perhaps half a city block, but standing in the middle, it was difficult to measure it in terms of the city, or in years, or in people. It was the sort of space that seemed to exist outside of time, like it had been paused while the rest of the world played on.
“This is amazing,” Remy said, jumping a little at how loud his voice sounded in the secret garden. He turned around, taking it in. There was nothing in the States like this, nothing this old or wise. He walked to the nearest wall and brushed his fingers along the stone, letting it scratch his nails and not caring one bit. He turned back and saw Vivi had taken a seat at one of the benches in the middle, illuminated by the moonlight that bounced off the tiny, water lily–filled pool at her feet.
She lifted her eyes to his, pulling him toward her with her gaze until he sat on the bench, six safe and terrifying inches between their legs.
“I’ve worked on ‘Maybe It’s Me’ again. I changed some of the lyrics. Almost all of them, honestly,” she said. Her nose was pink from cold.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. And I took a few of the minor keys out. Hence why I brought the guitar. I want to play it for you.” She leaned down and gently set the guitar case on its back then opened it and pulled out the instrument. It was already a beautiful guitar, made more so by the pale of her fingers and the blue of the moonlight bouncing off it. Vivi took a deep breath then played through “Maybe It’s Me” at barely more than a whisper.
The words had changed—the words had changed entirely. It was a different kind of love letter now, one about kissing. About kissing him—about finding him in a place of salt and smoke, about all the moments before when they’d wanted to kiss but hadn’t, about holding hands on buses carving through long nights.
“Maybe It’s Me” was about hoping you were the one. The song bounced off the stone walls and path and spun into the sky. Vivi smiled at her echo then looked at Remy.
“I like it,” Remy said, voice low and quiet and unsure.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I wrote it so it sounds like you,” Vivi said, glancing down, blushing a little.
Remy stopped then smiled. “What do you mean?”
“When you talk to me, there’s a way your voice goes. It sort of sounds like everything is a question, but in a good way, and it feels…” She paused and looked particularly embarrassed; when she met Remy’s eye, she finally went on, “It makes me want to answer them.”
Remy swallowed, unsure how he hadn’t touched her yet, unsure how he hadn’t kissed her again. He worked hard not to stare at her mouth as he said, “I think we should change the lyrics to the chorus, then.”
“You think? I like them,” Vivi said, pouting a little, which made it even harder not to stare at her mouth.
“Yeah, but it’s not quite the same feeling. We should make the lyrics the question and the chorus the answer.Maybe it’s me, thenyes, it is.”
Yes, it is.
“That’s a great idea. I love that,” Vivi replied softly. Remy felt his cheeks heat and was relieved when Vivi took her eyes off him in order to duck and put the guitar back in her case. While she was leaning over it, Remy cracked. He placed his hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, fingers teasing at the end of her hair. It was almost an involuntary act—his hand was there before he’d even truly known he was going to move it. Vivi felt the touch through her coat and jumped.
“Sorry,” he said immediately, yanking his hand away.
“Don’t be sorry,” she said, pressing her lips together. She moved shakily closer to him, tilting her body toward his chest; Remy immediately pulled an arm around her then reached across his lap to take her hand, like her motion had unlocked a matching one in him. Vivi drew her knees in slightly against the chilled air then twisted and ran her still guitar-string-lined fingers along the side of his jaw.
He closed his eyes without meaning to, which made Vivi breathe the sound of a smile. She lifted her chin and lightly, very lightly, brushed her lips across his cheek, asking him without words to turn his head, to kiss her for real. He tilted toward her, found her lips, found they were exactly as delicate and lovely as he remembered. This time, though, there was far less fear, far less disbelief, just the chill in the air, her small and warm body, the vanilla scent of her skin.
“Vivi Swan,” he murmured when she pulled away, bringing up a hand to smooth her hair. “Did you bring me to a bombed-out church in the middle of London to get lucky?”
Vivi laughed, loud and barking and so unexpected that it slayed Remy as well. She play-shoved him, her face red and eyes sparkling and everything about her a thousand times more beautiful than she looked in any magazine photograph.
“I just wanted to prove that gentle acoustic guitar music works as well for women as it does for frat boys,” she teased back, and when she went to shove him again, Remy caught her arm lightly and, without reservation, pulled her closer and kissed her again. She swayed against him, locked her arms around his neck.
Everyone in the world seemed to know the words to her songs, and her array of exes, and her favorite brand of lipstick, and they thought that meant they knew her; like her being was the sum of her products and dating history. They didn’t know about her fears, or how she liked ugly baby songs, or how she worried about Tuesday, or how she kissed like she was searching for someone who kissed her back the way she wanted to be—needed to be—kissed.
So Remy kept kissing her, hoping to be that person. Hoping to bethe onethe song was about.
