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Chapter Thirty-Four
Celeste’s—well,Bianca’s, since she was still incognito for most of the world—interview with Vivi, post-scandal, was one of the most popular things she’d ever written. Remy managed to avoid reading it, though the questions he got from friends, other musicians, and the paparazzi more or less gave him the gist of the article. Work, once again, became a beautiful distraction; producing required enough brainpower that it didn’t allow his thoughts to drift to Vivi for more than a few scattered moments each hour.
He wasn’t particularly surprised but was still struck by how different being a producer was than being a session drummer. There wasn’t a daily routine, a single right way to play the notes, a system for each and every artist he worked with. No—as a producer, there was more ambiguity. There was looking at the artist and discerning what made him grin, or made her laugh, or made them look astounded and delighted and bob their heads to the beat. Producing was a puzzle, only he had to draw the final pieces himself.
But he was good at it—better at it than he’d been before the tour. He’d always known how to mold a song into something made of heartstrings and fist pumps, but now he knew how to look into the artist, to draw out whattheywanted the song to be. To ask the questions that told him what direction to take it, even when he didn’t know the artist all that well. Remy knew he wouldn’t be the last producer to touch the songs he worked on, of course—he was still too new for labels to let him put a bow on anything—but he did his part, polished them up, sent them on their way.
In two months, he had a fair amount of work, most of it based on his proximity to Vivi. In three, more and more people sought him out for his credit rather than his role in the tabloids. In five, the already-scant paparazzi outside various studios barely lifted their heads to snap photos of him, and it was rare an artist asked him about his Sweethearts days. He was almost, almost able to get through a morning without thinking about Vivi. Each day he timed himself, noting the first moment she sprang into his head.
At the month six mark exactly, he didn’t make it past ten o’clock in the morning—because that’s when Celeste called with Vivi Swan news.
“What’s the number?” he asked Celeste. They had an agreement—if there was Vivi Swan news that involved him, she would give it a number before sharing it. A one meant he was mentioned in passing—he usually passed on hearing news that ranked a one. A ten washoly shit, this article is totally about you and will come up, so you need to know what it says ASAP so you don’t look like an ass when someone asks you about it.
“It’s…uh…I guess an eight?” Celeste said.
“Fine, go,” Remy said with a heavy sigh.
Celeste launched forward. “Okay, so Vivi just released the titles of the tracks for her upcoming album. Good news is that I don’t think there are any songsaboutyou. Which is a win, with her, right? Most of the songs are about Noel, I think, based on the titles. I’ll text you the list—”
“Bad news?” Remy asked.
“She put ‘Maybe It’s Me’ on the album. It’s the last song.”
Remy meant to respond, but the words didn’t make it to his mouth. She was using the song? Their song? After all that had happened. Without so much as letting him know.
“Remy? Still there? Did you guys ever get a contract on it?” Celeste asked impatiently.
“Yeah, I’m here, sorry. No, we didn’t. I just never got around to getting a contract,” Remy said, voice trailing in and out. He remembered thinking he should get a contract. Everyone had even told him to get a contract. But then, he also remembered how precious and special writing with Vivi had felt. How the very idea of bringing a contract into it would have felt cold and stiff.
“Ugh,” Celeste said, groaning. “Look—you still have the file from when you recorded a demo, right? We can get that to a lawyer friend of mine, if you want. She’ll pay you royalties before she screws you over, I’m sure. No artist wants people to think she steals songs, not when they’re trying to rehab their image like Vivi is.”
Remy took a long breath, trying to give Celeste’s words and his own professionalism room in his brain, which was currently flooded with hurt and memories of Vivi. “Uh, I’ll think on it. I don’t know—you’re not writing about my response to hearing this, are you?” Remy asked.
“No, I promise,” Celeste said solemnly. She didn’t sound offended by the question; Celeste seemed to understand this was a question Remy would always ask for the foreseeable future.
“Cool. Thanks for letting me know,” Remy said and hung up a little more abruptly than he’d intended.
He stared at the empty recording studio in front of him, Oriental rugs and rich teak-colored walls, all warmer and gentler than the microphones and diffusers and cords and stands. The artist he was working with today would be in within the next half hour; he had plenty of work to do before she arrived. He had plenty to focus on. Plenty to worry about.
Vivi was using “Maybe It’s Me.” She was using their song, their love song, without asking him. No, without telling him. He was going to hear it on the radio, he was going to hear his music and her voice and a song that he’d cultivated while he loved her. She hadn’t even thought to tell him. It wasn’t something Celeste’s lawyer friend could fix, because the hurt wasn’t about the money. It’d be easier, in fact, if it were about the money.
Remy’s eyes blurred the microphone stands into pencil-thin lines, the rugs into blobs of red paint, his hurt into anger. He pulled out his phone, pulled up his messages, typed furiously and stupidly and ignored the fact he knew he’d regret this sooner rather than later.
Remy Young: Saw you’re releasing Maybe It’s Me.
He waited. She didn’t respond, but the message was read—was this even her number anymore, though? It wasn’t like they’d communicated since Sydney. Maybe she’d changed her number to ensure he disappeared from her life completely.
Remy Young: you could have at least told me
No response. He felt his heart beating fast and angry in a way it rarely had. She could at least respond. She could at least say something. She could at least send him an emoji, for fuck’s sake.
The message was read. Still no response.
Remy Young: I can’t believe you’d release a song we wrote together without even telling me. This is ridiculous.
Nothing.
Remy closed his eyes, tried to cool the heat growing behind them. He took a deep breath, another, another, trying to slow his heart and failing. Of course there wasn’t a response, he told himself as he tossed his phone on the table like it’d bit him. She was Vivi Swan, and he was just another ex-boyfriend now. Why would she message him?
Multitudes, my ass.
