Page 70 of Six Ways to Write a Love Letter

“I’d like to work on that one with you, Vivi,” Remy said carefully, meeting her eyes.

Vivi pressed her lips together. “We will. It’s not for lack of material, where Noel is concerned. I could record a whole album of breakup songs about him.”

“Then break up with him, Vivi,” Remy said. The words spilled from him, not desperate, exactly, but almost demanding—the way you speak to a character on a movie screen. He wanted to bring up Portugal, or the paparazzi, or the stupid haircut Noel had, but really all those points led to the same place:Leave him. Please, leave him. Be with me, in public and private and everywhere in between. Leave him.

Vivi answered, voice soft and worried, “I will. It’s just so much nicer to distract the whole world with something shiny and stupid than it is to give them you. And then, the minute they find out about you, they’ll wantourbreakup song instead of the love letter I want to write about being with you. It’s a loop. But this moment, this in-between time, it’s like the whole loop just freezes.”

Remy nodded at the countertop but said, “It doesn’t freeze, though, Vivi. This tour—it’ll end. It won’t be like this forever.”

“Right,” she said, so quietly, he nearly missed it. She was still for a few long moments. “When it’s over, Remy—what happens?”

“I don’t know,” Remy admitted.

Vivi nodded, and even though she smiled, it was broken. “It wouldn’t be easy. I’m not in LA. You are. If the world knows about us, your house is going to get staked out. They’ll know when you’re there. They’ll know everything that happens with your brother. They’ll go to your gigs, and people will hire you to mine you about me.”

“I won’t tell them anything—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Vivi said, shaking her head. “It’s not that I don’t believe inthis, Remy. It’s just thatthis, crazy as it is sometimes, is easier than real life. Even more so when the world thinks I’m really with Noel—”

She inhaled, like she’d been about to say more, but the oven timer dinged, signaling that the final batch of cookies was complete. Vivi retrieved them then washed her hands and surveyed the kitchen, silently counting the perfectly symmetrical rows, stalling as long as she could.

“Come on,” Remy said, meeting her eyes. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Vivi’s face lit up in sorrow and hope and relief, and she let her hand slide into his. They walked to the hotel bedroom together; Remy stripped off his shirt and fell into the enormous bed. Vivi took the time to wash her face and complete her complex nighttime beauty routine, which meant she smelled like lotion and honeysuckle when she curled up beside him fifteen minutes later. Her fingers and toes were freezing; Remy pressed her hands against his chest to warm them.

“Thank you,” she murmured, turning her hands over to warm the backs and nestling closer to him. He responded by kissing her lightly on the head, inhaling the scent of her, and wondered why in the world he’d advocated for unfreezing this particular loop.