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Chapter Thirty-Five
The package was delivered four days after his fruitless texts to Vivi.
It was delivered in the middle of the day to his new apartment’s office, shoved into his hands so casually by the manager there that he had no reason to expect it was anything special. When he opened it at his kitchen counter, however, his mouth went sticky and dry. It was a notebook—black, leather-bound. A Moleskine with worn edges and well-loved pages.
It was Vivi’s.
Remy stared at it, looking for signs he was mistaken—but knowing he wasn’t. It even smelled like her: vanilla and hair product and light, wafting up at him to break his heart. He laid it down on the counter for a few moments, like it needed to cool off before he could handle it again. It watched him. He watched it.
There was no explanation, no note, no card explaining why she’d sent it. Remy found himself balancing reason and emotions ineffectually; was it a reminder intended to hurt him for hurting her? Was it something she was throwing away and thought she’d toss unceremoniously at him? Was it supposed to be meaningful, something to tug his heart along as he fought to free it from her ropes? Some kind of test, to see if he’d violate her trust and read it?
Finally, he lifted it again and walked to his couch, sat back, and set the book on his lap. He opened it using the tips of his fingers only, like whatever was between the pages might poison him. She wouldn’t have sent it to him if she didn’t intend him to read it, right? And even if this was some sort of twisted trustworthiness test, he didn’t owe it to her to pass. He could read it. Heshouldread it.
He flipped open to the first page. Vivi’s tiny, perfect print screamed at him, right there at the start.
“Untitled (Favorite???) (They Said No???)”
It was an incomplete song about Noel—clearly, a song about Noel, one that had been scribbled out in multiple pens, probably over multiple days. It was little more than a few opening lines and a rocky chorus she’d crossed out and rewritten a handful of times. He read it over and turned the page.
“Make It Work”
Noel again, a song about how she and Noel would make their relationship happen, how it wouldn’t be easy, but they’d figure it out. No music—just lyrics. He turned the page again, again, song after song about Noel for the first third of the book. Some of the song titles he recognized—they were on her upcoming album. Others were so incomplete, he doubted they’d ever even made it to contender status, relegated to be ugly baby songs for the rest of their lives.
And then there it was, almost exactly a third of the way through—the golden song. The page she’d opened when they were on the bus out of Portland, graph lines and number charts. The song that eventually, slowly, cautiously became “Maybe It’s Me.” It was like looking at an old school picture. The notes were wrong, the words different, how had they possibly thought that chord progression made sense? His eyes picked through each pen mark individually. She’d started the song on her own, but he’d been able to join in so easily. It’d felt like this song was waiting for him.
Golden.
He turned the page. There was a revision of what would become “Maybe It’s Me” then a different song entirely called “That Night.” It was incomplete, but it was about…well, it was about that bus ride out of Portland. Remy saw himself in it, saw himself in the way she described sitting and talking and sharing and discussing and having no option but to find common ground. Saw Noel in it too—in the guilt over knowing there’s someone else out there waiting on you.
Next song—no title. It was about falling asleep on the bus, about falling asleep in front of someone for the first time. It was about Remy. So was the one that followed, and the one after that, and after that, and after that. There were bits and pieces of songs he’d heard her playing, he realized, some clever insults and some stinging accusations launched at her exes. Songs with descriptions of the garden in London and the Eiffel Tower and memories of the time they’d held hands on the bus and the first time she fell asleep curled against him. Songs about him and Vivi coaxing music from each other, about hiding from the world, songs about the space between heartbeats where no one could ever find them. About beautiful things being secrets, and about secrets being precious.
They weren’t breakup songs. They were love letters in song form, sappy and sweet and poetic and prowling along heartbeats. He felt himself growing weary and heavy with loss as he read through them, as he carefully hummed tunes and sang lyrics under his breath. He turned page after page, swimming through a musical diary of what felt like each day that they’d been together. Every few pages there was a new version of “Maybe It’s Me,” a chronicle of how the song had changed meaning so many times. First, the version that served as a clapback at the press. Then the version about worrying it was you that hurt your family, your friend, your brother. Then the version they’d recorded in Spain, when it’d become a song about hoping you were the one.Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m it, maybe we’re the ones that are going to be different.Six versions of the song, all together. Six letters about the way they’d fallen for one another.
He remembered how she’d looked singing that last version, the one from Spain. The way her eyes fell on him, the way he believed it with all his heart. The memory was a desperate sharpness, pain he didn’t want to be rid of but wasn’t sure he could manage. How had that look morphed into one of betrayal? Into a meeting with managers, into arrangements for them to avoid each other, into him wearing sunglasses so there was no chance anyone would see them make eye contact onstage?
It was her fault. She’d forgotten he was a mere mortal. That he couldn’t lock himself away with her and never make a mistake.
It was his fault. He’d walked away from her when he should have fought. He’d been annoyed when she was hurt by the very thing he’d always known would hurt her.
He turned the page. He had to turn the page, or else it would devour him.
There were more songs—songs about Paris and Cologne and arguing and waking up together and imagining what it’d be like to be together without eyes on them. Love letter after love letter. This was proof—she’d sent himproofthat he hadn’t been another breakup song waiting to happen; he’d never been a breakup song at all.
His stomach spun as he ran his fingers across the lyrics of their song, fingerprints sliding across the indentations of the pen marks.
The book wasn’t totally full—he came to the last song with a few blank pages to go. It was a sixth iteration of “Maybe It’s Me.” His eyes danced across the number charts first. It was still the same song, for the most part, only minor changes here and there. He realized it was meant to be played slower, like a ballad almost, rather than like the upbeat, cheerful version they’d recorded in Spain. He frowned and began to scan the lyrics.
They were different—totally different. It wasn’t a clapback to the press, or a song about fear, or a song about being the one. It was an apology. A song about knowing that it’s your fault, a plea.Maybe it’s me that broke us in pieces, maybe we could just go back in time, maybe I could find a way to tell you—
He looked away.
If she wanted to apologize, she could have called. She could have answered his texts. She could have written a letter, rather than sending the book. This was nice, but it was still their breakup song. It was still over. They were still done. An apology song—and apology, period—didn’t make them any more feasible, after all. She was still Vivi Swan.
She was still Vivi.
She was still the girl who loved him long before he realized he loved her.
She was still the girl he loved.
Motherfucker.
