Page 12 of Six Ways to Write a Love Letter

“Don’t be an asshole,” Parish said and grinned. “That crowd. It’s fucking crazy, isn’t it?”

Remy laughed back at them. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll give you that. I’ve never played to a crowd like that.”

“It was a good show,” Laurel mocked him. “Pyro! Lights! Screens! Dancers! It’s like a circus on steroids.”

“No one with a heart condition should attend,” Remy agreed then dared to add, “I’ve never felt like so many people would be fucked if I messed something up. The dancers and the talent and you guys…Christ. Drummers shouldn’t be given that kind of power.”

“And trust me, Vivi Swan’ll know if you mess something up,” Laurel said, with a little bit of an eye roll.

“Yeah?” Remy asked.

“Oh, yeah. I did her last tour with her, and she lost her shit when one of the other singers screamed after some maniac jumped onstage,” Ro called over.

“Seriously?”

Ro nodded. “Because it was a part where the backup vocals are piped in—the mix is better when it sounds like a chorus, so they doubled our voices, and we just lip-synched the chorus. So there were all these videos of the freak jumping onstage and Charlotte screaming and no sound coming through the mic.”

“And that was worthy of her losing her shit?” Remy asked.

“Yep. She’s psycho,” Laurel said.

“Hey, careful now. What if Remy’s her spy?” David interrupted. He’d ended his call and come in on the conversation.

“Her spy?” Remy said.

David went on, brows knitted in faux intensity, “Vivi always has a plant somewhere in the group—someone to watch us, make sure we aren’t selling her secrets. Could be you.”

Remy laughed. “I’m definitely not the spy.”

“Exactly what the spy would say,” David said, grinning. “Anyway, yes—the thing with the dude jumping onstage was worthy of her losing her shit because it made people think if the backup singers were lip-synching, she was too.”

“Ah,” Remy said, nodding. Everyone lip-synched at some point, but it was like trying to look cool—it was expected you do it but also that you never, ever get caught doing it.

“But she also might be a little psycho,” David said, giving Laurel an amused look. She shook her head in exasperation at him.

“Good to know. I’ll do my best not to get caught faking the drums,” Remy said, and the room tittered.

“Alright, everyone has a drink, right? Or water? Or something?” David asked. Destiny reached into the fridge and tossed a can of ginger ale to Remy, who barely caught it. With a beverage now in everyone’s hand, David lifted his beer into the air. “To the first show.”

“To popping Remy’s cherry,” Laurel seconded.

“What are you, thirteen?” Ro said.

“To Seattle,” Michael said.

“To psychos,” Ro said.

“To the psycho who’s paying us to be here,” David said but laughed as they clinked cans and plastic cups and bottles then downed their drinks.

Then

“I wrote something,” Val had said, holding up a piece of paper.

“A poem?” Remy asked. They were in their tiny bedroom, which despite its size wasn’t particularly cluttered by toys or books or clothes. There were beds, drawers, and matching nightstands with matching Bibles on them. Val flicked the light over his own Bible on and shoved the piece of paper across the space between the beds, where Remy could reach it.

“No, a song,” he said as Remy plucked it from his fingers.

It was short and written in pencil on paper torn from one of their spiral notebooks, the edges frayed on the left side. Remy read through it once, then again, then looked at Val.