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“Okay,” Vivi murmured, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel their movement. “So I did something today.”
“What?”
“I should have done it a long while ago,” she said, softer, lifting to one elbow. Remy couldn’t help but notice something gentle but worried in her eyes. He frowned, but then she smiled slightly and said, “I broke up with Noel. This afternoon. Officially. I mean, you know it wasn’t…it wasn’t a real thing, but now…”
He looked up at her, studied the way beads of water were pooling on her brow and cheekbones, making her sparkle. “You broke up with Noel,” he repeated and smiled.
Vivi laughed a little and dropped back beside him, pressing her bare body against his. “Yes. It isn’t becoming tabloid official for a few weeks, but yes. I don’t want any part of me to be with Noel instead of you. I just—I want to be with you. Only you.”
Hurt, and fear, and worry crumbled; he felt pieces of them fall away, chunks dissolve into warmth in his chest, and he lowered his lips to her forehead and held them there, breathing against her.
“Say something,” she said.
“I’m trying,” he answered, mouth still pressed to her. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her on top of him, the steam and her body making his skin almost uncomfortably hot—but he knew he wouldn’t let go anyhow. He really was trying to say something, but he wasn’t sure what, exactly, the appropriate response was. Relief? Excitement? Gratitude? Exhilaration?
Her leaving Noel wasn’t a cure for all the doubt in his heart, but it was something. It was something good, and it was something that hadn’t come without a cost for Vivi. He knew what would happen on the blogs—on Celeste’s blog, no doubt. Vivi being touted as the heartbreak queen. Questions as to what unreasonable action of hers had sparked the breakup. Accusations, slurs, laughter, pointed fingers. Leaving men they didn’t love hadn’t been easy for the women of Lake City Assembly of God, and it wasn’t any easier for Vivi Swan, no matter how different their lives, no matter how reasonable the leaving might be.
He kissed her and spoke against her lips the purest, simplest, perhaps the stupidest of the many thoughts sweeping through his head. “I love you.”
She pulled back, sitting on him, legs on either side of his hips and her hands pressed lightly against his chest. “Are you sure?”
“I am.”
She smiled then leaned back down to kiss him, sliding her body against his, bringing her lips to his ear. When she spoke, her voice was whispered—no, scared.
“I love you too,” she said, and something in Remy’s chest unlocked. He turned her mouth to his and kissed her, drinking in the moment, the feeling of being alone in the mist, exposed and vulnerable and absolutely flawless.
Then
“Here’s the plan,” the exec, whose first or last name was Miller, said to Val and Remy. The label’s offices were sprawling, taking up two floors of an old warehouse that, according to the signs up by the front, used to be where thousands and thousands of guitars were made in the 1950s. They were cheap things, which was what made them great—they were the guitars all the greats had learned to play on, had saved up their allowances to buy and strum on porches during the South’s heavy, heatstroke summer days.
Now, the walls were covered in gold and platinum records by artists so famous, they seemed impossible. There were remnants of the factory—conveyor belt wires and old switches—which had been polished bright bronze. The modern lighting fixtures were made to match, so it was almost impossible to tell the old from the new. Miller’s desk was one of those ancient metal tankers, the same sort some of the church elders had, but rather than beaten and scratched, it was pristine. Even the Formica top had been replaced with sleek, smooth wood. It all spoke to a time that moved much slower than the speed at which this whole “record deal” thing was moving.
“First, we release ‘Everything but the World.’ We want our producers to take a look at it, maybe make some adjustments to make it more accessible. We’ve already done some soft releases to station heads. We’re also thinking we’ll get you guys on with our summer tour series. There’re some groups you’ll pair well with. Sound good?” Miller said. He never stopped smiling.
“Sounds fantastic,” Val said, nodding. “What do we need to do?”
“You just need to be ready to come into the studio and do a cleaner recording—the one you have is great, I mean, it got my attention, but we can probably do one that’s a little higher-end. We’ll plan on you guys joining up with the first leg of the tour next week. We’re out of bus space, though—do you have travel means?”
“We have a van,” Val said, glancing at Remy.
“It’s a pretty shitty van,” Remy added. This was the first time he’d spoken at the meeting. He was somehow afraid that if he said the wrong thing, the whole deal would go wrong. Val seemed equally afraid, but his fear translated into a nervous, excitable energy. He was afraid it could go wrong, but he was more elated that it could goright.
“Okay, okay, we’ll see if we can get you a splitter—think the van can make it to the first few stops? They’re Charlotte, Raleigh, and Richmond. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday of next week.”
“Next week?” Remy asked, eyes widening.
“We have to move, Remy. The numbers are hot right now—this industry changes faster than you’d believe. So we’ll get a splitter van to you in Richmond and go from there.”
“What do we do with our van once it’s in Richmond?” Val asked.
Miller grinned—no, wait, he still hadn’t stopped smiling; he was just grinningbigger, like a Cheshire cat. “You can leave that piece of shit there, because Quiet Coyote is about to be a household name. Household names don’t drive Chevy Luminas.”
“How did you know it was a Lumina?” Remy asked.
“It’s always a Lumina,” Miller answered. “Okay, we’ve got your signatures on everything we need. We’ll see you here tomorrow, to rerecord. I’m traveling, but you’ll be in good hands. One of our house producers will be working with you—he’s got forty-seven number ones to his name, and we’re still sorting out who we should set up as your manager, but that’ll happen soon enough. I’ll swing by to see you two perform in Richmond, okay?”
“Okay,” the brothers said in unison. They wove out of the guitar-factory-turned-label-office, past antique office doors and vintage microphones behind glass. The secretary at the front smiled at them politely and waved them out. Outside, the Nashville sun was blistering and bright, making the world seem white and concrete and entirely unlike the warm woods of the label office.
“Did that just happen?” Remy finally asked, looking at his brother. It was a real question, because suddenly, it all felt very much like a fever dream.
“That just happened. We’re rerecording. We’re going on a tour. We’re fucking Quiet Coyote,” Val said, shaking his head. He glowed brighter than one would’ve thought his eyeliner would allow. “This is happening, brother. People want to hear us. People who don’t evenknowthey want to hear us want to hear us. Even if nothing comes from this—even if we’re back to being broke as fuck in a month—people will have heard us.”
Now Remy grinned back. “Should we call Mom and Dad?”
“Don’t be stupid, Remy,” Val said, shoving his brother’s shoulder, though not even the mention of their parents could bring him down at the moment. “We’re living the story everyone wants to tell. They won’t want to hear about it.”
