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“I thought you were done with tattoos,” Remy said, looking to Celeste, who was actually the one who had said Val was done with tattoos.
“I told him he could get one for his two-year sober date, since that would really be a new musical milestone,” Celeste said, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t know he was going to get something so stupid.”
“What’d you get?” Remy asked.
Val grinned broadly and pulled his pants down so his hip bones jutted out. Across his right hip was an enormous, full-color tattoo of a burrito, with the wordsBurrito Armageddonwritten across the top in sour cream and guacamole.
“Oh my god,” Remy said.
“Musical milestones,” Val protested, looking pleased at Remy’s horror. “I’m writing again, I’m clean, I’m getting shit done.”
“And all that’s best symbolized with Burrito Armageddon?”
Val gave Remy a wry smile. “It’s the end. The end of me rolling up all my shit and trying to hide it in my pale white exterior.”
Remy rolled his eyes. “That’s stretching it.”
Val laughed loud and hard, in a way bigger than that pale white exterior looked capable of. “I’m so fucking glad you’re back, brother.”
It was only a few days before Remy realized the rumors were true—you can’t just go home again. The house was too different now, toothemfor him to come in and crash on the floor, to wedge his life back into theirs.
He was different too—he missed Vivi, even though he didn’t want to, and it made him want to be alone in a way he had never wanted to be before. It was hard, seeing Val and Celeste together; watching them wordlessly duck around each other in the tiny kitchen, seeing them do each other’s laundry and know just what could go in the dryer and what couldn’t, listening in on Val’s list when Celeste called from the grocery store, asking him if he needed anything. Val and Celeste’s lives intersected so beautifully, and it made him distressingly aware of just how much his and Vivi’s lives had not.
Moreover, Val and Celeste’s lives intersected in a way that didn’t leave much room for Remy now.
“It’s just that this is your house. I don’t belong here anymore,” Remy told them after making up the couch a few weeks later—this couch wasn’t a sleeper like the old one, which meant he had to tuck blankets and sheets around the cushions to make it bed-like. Celeste and Val glanced at each other then back to Remy.
“We didn’t think about all this, man. We were just at the store and got sort of weirdly excited about a couch—I know, like I said, it was weird. We can get a sleeper sofa instead,” Val said.
Remy shook his head. “The second I left, it became your house—the two of you. I don’t think I should stay here. Besides, I can afford my own place now, and you guys can afford this place on your own.”
Celeste looked stricken, perhaps because the reason she and Val could afford the carriage house was because of the popularity of her Vivi and Remy story. “Are you leaving because of me?” she asked.
“It’s not because of you,” Remy said, and he was surprised to realize just how much he meant it given that he and Celeste had been tiptoeing around each other, routing messages through Val and making conversation about frustration-free topics such as brick pavers, the mailman’s schedule, and if that new conveyor-belt sushi place had finally opened or been sold yet again. But it wasn’t about Celeste, not really. Even the breakup hadn’t been about Celeste, when it came right down to it.
“Where are you going to move to? Not like…somewhere far…” Val said cautiously.
“No way. I’ve got too much producing work lined up in LA. I’ll rent something in the neighborhood. And you’ll help me move.”
“The fuck I will. Hire movers. You’re a producer now. Producers are too rich to let their brothers haul boxes around,” Val said, but he was grinning.
The apartment Remy ended up renting was indeed in the neighborhood—a few blocks away, a third-floor studio walk-up with a view of the ocean and, in the distance, the Santa Monica pier. It was tiny and bright and cool, and it was more than enough space for Remy. He didn’t have much to move, and Val helped him; they spent the afternoon hooking up speakers and cable and the internet. That evening, they sat on the balcony in dingy folding chairs left by the previous tenant, staring at the golden Ferris wheel lights as it spun in circles.
“Do you need me anytime soon, by the way? At SALT, I mean. I want to get my schedule together,” Remy said, trying to make his words boring and uneventful. The truth was, his schedule was packed. For all the heartbreak it’d caused, people were interested in him now that he had a Vivi Swan producing credit, even if the song had never been released. Sure, Remy had to take time to sort out the legitimate production asks from the gossip seekers, but still—he was getting work as a producer, and that was something.
“I haven’t really booked anything at SALT. If you want to play a little, I’m sure they can fit us in,” Val answered, as aggressively bored as Remy.
Remy fought the surprise that twisted in his stomach at Val’s words—SALT was the only place that regularly booked them. It was like hearing Val had quit his job. Too much time had gone by without Remy responding, so he finally said, “Nah, I don’t need to play a little yet. I just spent months playing.”
“Okay.”
“Are you booking another venue or something?”
Val smiled a little and took a sip of his soda, some locally made fruity stuff that smelled so strongly of strawberries, it made Remy’s breath short. “I’m not booking anywhere. I’m just focusing on writing,” Val said. “You’re focusing on producing.”
Remy exhaled. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Remy Young, producer.”
