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Chapter Twenty-Nine
Of all the tour stops, Australia felt the most foreign to Remy. The birdcalls rising from the trees outside the hotel were different, the air smelled golden and cheerful, and everyone, from the shuttle driver to the hotel desk clerk, warned him to avoid “drop bears.” He had to resort to Google to figure out if they were real or not (not) and what that golden scent was (a flower called the golden wattle).
Vivi Swan: Come to the opera house with me?
Remy Young: Now?
Vivi Swan: Yes, only have two hours before radio calls but Ive never been
Vivi Swan: Im bringing a guitar, Ive heard the acoustics are crazy
Remy Young: Sure, be there in a second
Vivi Swan: Go to the employee parking deck and security will meet you, the paps here are nuts
Whoever had told Vivi the Australian paparazzi were nuts wasn’t wrong. They were pressed against the glass front of the hotel doors like a zombie horde when Remy exited the elevators. Camera shutters clicked a thousand times when he appeared, but he simply nodded politely, went to the front desk, then followed their directions to get to the employee parking deck as covertly as possible. Vivi was already in the back seat of a black-windowed car, writing quickly in her notebook, when he slid into the seat next to her.
“Hey,” she said. She stashed the notebook away then looked up at him. Her eyes softened, and he smiled immediately.
“Hi,” he answered and let his hand swing across the seats. They linked fingers for just a moment, too quick for the driver to see but too long for Remy not to feel the full effect of the lift in his heart. They hadn’t seen each other since the morning after the Tokyo concert, and the few hours had hardly been enough time together.
“Ready, Miss Swan?” the driver asked in a thick Australian accent.
“Let’s do it,” she answered then grabbed at a blanket on the floor. She ducked into the floorboards and motioned for Remy to do the same.
“Seriously?”
“They’re the worst here. They followed Figgy Blushing to the beach a year ago, yelling about her dead dog, trying to get her to cry for a picture,” Vivi said, rolling her eyes. Remy ducked onto the floorboards with her and allowed her to pull the blanket over his head. The car eased forward, swirling to the left as it wound out of the parking deck. It launched Vivi against Remy, and he seized the opportunity, putting one arm around her and pulling her mouth to his.
“Look at us in middle school, kissing under a blanket.” Vivi laughed against his lips.
“I didn’t go to middle school. Making up for lost time,” Remy answered, and she kissed him again. He could barely see her, but then the car broke out into the daylight, and she was illuminated in blue light from the blanket’s color. It was hot and stuffy, and her hair was ruffled against the fabric, but he nuzzled her neck until she sighed the smallest bit—
“Why did I suggest going somewhere public?” she mumbled.
“Terrible decision,” Remy answered then let his fingertips trace the small of her back, sliding under her shirt—until the driver took a surprise turn and they fell into a heap of elbows and knocked heads.
“Sorry, Miss Swan! Some hoon just cut me off,” the driver shouted back then unleashed a stream of obscenities at whomever the hoon was.
“No problem!” Vivi yelled back as she and Remy untangled themselves.
When they were eventually released from their blanket prison then the car, they were led through a staff entrance to the opera house. Remy had always thought it was a single stage, almost arena-sized, though he didn’t know why this was the case. It was actually a half dozen or so venues, according to the woman who met them at the door—the head of PR, she said by way of introducing herself.
“I wanted to see the concert hall and maybe play a little in it, if you don’t mind,” Vivi said pleasantly, lifting her guitar as proof of her intentions.
“Of course! We’d be honored,” the woman said, leading them through a series of balconies and hallways. Groups were passing by underneath them on various tours, oblivious to Vivi’s presence above. Outside, the white tiles of the opera house shined like opalescent fish scales.
The concert hall was warm-toned and beautiful, all curves and reds and teaks. The head of PR told them about the space and the designer, until Vivi expertly asked her for a few moments to play the guitar alone on the stage, promising she’d share a photo of the session and tag the opera house on social media in exchange for the favor.
“An opera house for a post,” Remy said, smiling at Vivi as they made their way down the red-carpeted steps to the stage. With the head of PR gone, they let their hands clasp together; she spun in, and he bent his head to kiss the top of her head.
“Should I have tried to get them to bring in a drum set for you as a bonus?” Vivi said then nudged him with her elbow as she walked away. She set her guitar case down on the stage and retrieved the instrument, while Remy sat on the stage’s edge.
“What do you want to play?” he asked as she tuned, standing before him.
“Our opus,” she said, smiling at him. “We started the tour with ‘Maybe It’s Me,’ so I want to end it like that. Just you and me and this song. But hey, I’ll take requests if you want to hear one of my standards.”
“No offense, Miss Swan, but I don’t need to hear anything from your set again for the next year or so,” Remy answered, and she nodded in complete agreement. She picked through the first part of “Maybe It’s Me” a few times.
