Page 78 of Six Ways to Write a Love Letter

“We should write something else when we’re done with the tour,” Remy said, leaning back and looking up at the red-cloaked ceiling.

She kept playing but looked up at him. Her body curved around the guitar like she was protecting it, or perhaps it was the one shielding her. “Already over this song?”

“Not at all. I just want to do more. We’re good together,” he said.

Vivi’s fingers trailed down the strings, and she looked at him, eyes sparkling and cheeks pink. “We are. I’m usually so ready for the tour to be over, but this time I just…” She rocked back a little then played the opening chords again.

“It’s better with the drum intro, obviously,” Remy said, and she rolled her eyes but kept smiling, never stopped smiling. “When it’s over, Vivi—”

“Ugh, can we talk about something else? Please? It just depresses me.” She shook her head and played a little faster, let her feet wander a little as she did.

“Hey,” he said and waited; finally she lifted her eyes to his, and the music stopped. “I’m trying to tell you that when it’s over, I’ll go where you go. I’m in, Viv. Not just when we’re stuck together on tour. I’m in even once we’re done and are back to whatever regular life is.”

Vivi swayed a little, like she was still playing the song in her head. “It’s not regular, though.”

“I know.”

“I’m in Nashville—”

“I know,” Remy said, more sternly this time.

Vivi shook her head, smiled. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Honestly? My brother told me to. Or, more specifically, that I should tell you I’ve got no intention of being a breakup song—since I don’t,” Remy said, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. “I don’t know. Want me to call him, double-check the script?”

Vivi grinned. She swung the guitar over her shoulder, walked toward him, then extended a neon-yellow-manicured hand to help him up. Remy took it and stood, her head coming just to the tip of his nose, and looked into her eyes. He’d known her eyes were blue before, but suddenly they seemed even more so. Everything about her seemed even more so.

“Remy, are you telling me that your brother, the infamous Val Young, told you to keep hooking up with a…pop star?” Vivi whispered, faux serious.

“No,” Remy whispered back, grimacing. “I’m telling you my brother threw me out, so I’veliterallygot to go where you go or live on the streets of LA. I won’t make it out there, Vivi.”

She laughed, finally, and lifted her hands around his neck, letting him support her weight as she twirled her fingers against the nape of his neck. He slid his hands between her body and the guitar then kissed her forehead.

“I still don’t want this part to be over, though,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Remy said. “The important parts aren’t over.”