Chapter Four Vivian
Chapter Four
Vivian
The Firehouse Inn is a truly unique brick building on a tree-lined block at the very end of Main Street. It’s three stories, and even though it seems like great care has gone into preserving a lot of the original detailing on the exterior, the largest, most obvious change is the conversion of the fire truck garage door into a set of massive double doors leading inside.
My eyes scan over the building, taking in the old signage that says Rosewood Fire Station before I round to my trunk to grab my bag and guitar case.
The interior is just as beautiful as the outside, the exposed brick walls and high wooden ceiling giving off a feeling that is rustic and warm. I pause, wanting to take a moment to look at every detail, but when I see an elderly gentleman smiling at me from behind a desk in the corner, I decide a lazy snoop around can wait until later.
“Are you Vivian?” he asks, standing and stepping out to greet me.
I nod. “I am.”
“Welcome to the Firehouse Inn. I’m so glad we were able to accommodate you at the last minute. Normally we’re all booked up around this time of the year, but lucky for you, our suite was still available.”
Grinning, I dig my wallet out of my purse. “Oh yes, lucky for me.”
“I’m Errol, the owner. I’ll most likely be the one to help you if you have any issues or need anything.” He clicks around on his computer. “Where are you visiting from?”
“LA.”
“Oh, fun. We get a lot of people looking to escape the big cities for a little bit of a slower pace. There’s really nowhere better than Rosewood. It’s got all the amazing amenities like Napa and Sonoma, but in my opinion, a whole lot more charm.”
I laugh internally at Errol’s enthusiasm, but also understand exactly what he means. I’ve done plenty of trips to Napa before, and it feels very curated. Like everything is designed to accommodate people who want to spend a few days or a week visiting a spa and drinking bottles of wine.
Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things. I love a good girls’ weekend.
But as I drove through the adorable little downtown on my way over here, I got a different vibe. Like this is the kind of place that is filled with locals. The people here actually live here, they’re not just visiting. And based on the bustling busyness of Main Street and all the signs I saw sharing community events, I’d wager that they love the town, too.
Which is funny considering how long Murphy hated it before deciding to move back.
“I see you’re staying for two weeks! Anything in particular you’re looking to do while you’re in town?” Errol asks, looking up at me briefly before returning his eyes to the screen.
“I haven’t really looked into it yet. But for now I’m hoping to take a nice long shower, and then I’m heading to that café I saw as I was driving in to do a little work. It looked like it might be a good place to set up shop.”
“Our water pressure is amazing, and we installed those fancy water heaters that never run out, so I don’t doubt you are in for quite a treat. But I’d recommend Rosewood Roasters if you’re looking for a place to sit and work. It’s on the opposite side of the street, all the way at the end. The Carlisle—that’s the café—well, they can be a bit persnickety about customers who linger for too long.”
Then he jumps into explaining the hotel building, pointing out the stairs and the coffee machine in the lobby and the little take-one-leave-one library in the corner with a couple of cozy armchairs and cute decor.
“Your suite is on the top floor, so it’s an extra flight of stairs, but it does have a soaking tub that all our guests rave about.” He hands me my room key, which is a real, actual brass key instead of those plastic cards everyone uses.
I’m obsessed with the quaintness of it all.
“That soaking tub is why I booked the suite,” I tell him with a wide smile. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“Call down if you need anything!”
I head for the stairs, lugging my too-large bag and guitar case behind me, and making slow work of hauling it up. I wasn’t imagining a situation where I’d need to lug my belongings up several flights of stairs, but it’ll sure be good for my glutes.
And now that I’m single, keeping my ass in amazing shape suddenly feels a bit more important than it did a few days ago.
When I finally make it to the top, I turn down a long hallway before finding the door to my room. And when I shove it open, any doubts about walking up to the third floor disappear.
Because this place is gorgeous.
The room features the same kind of exposed brick and high wooden ceilings as downstairs, with beautiful contemporary furniture. The linens, in shades of cream and dusty rose, bring a light, breezy quality that I wasn’t expecting, and a massive king-size bed sits right in the center of the room, facing gorgeous windows that are letting in the glowing midday sun.
It’s the exact kind of place that I had hoped for—beautiful, bright, and comfortable.
A perfect place to escape.
I set my guitar case on the ground, hoist my bag onto a chaise lounge in the corner, and rummage through to find my toiletries.
When I step into the bathroom, I let out a dreamy sigh at the sight of the soaking tub. I wasn’t kidding when I told Errol it’s the reason I grabbed this suite when I saw it was available. It’s incredible, and I know I’m going to spend hours in it during this trip.
Candles. Bubbles. A little me-time to release some of the sexual tension that’s been brimming inside me for the past few months.
I am all about self-care, in all its forms.
But unfortunately, that will have to wait.
Right now, I want a long, hot shower, and then I want to wander around downtown Rosewood to scope out the little shops and find a good cup of coffee.
“Soon,” I whisper to the tub, and then I get about my business.
It doesn’t take long for me to get ready, and barely an hour passes by the time I’ve showered, shaved, and done my hair and makeup. Then I’m strolling out the front door of the Firehouse and onto the streets of Rosewood.
I take in as much as I can, from the strong oak trees lining the sidewalk, to the little benches scattered here and there, to the streetlamps with signs announcing the final night of the Summer Movies in the Park. I make a mental note to ask Murphy if she wants to attend.
I pass a bakery and a boutique. An exercise studio and a health food market. A music store and a flower shop. A bar, a café, a bookstore. And then ...
I smile.
The coffee shop.
I breathe in deeply as I push inside, the familiar scents of roasted coffee beans and pastries swirling together in a way that is simply magical.
And as I stand in line behind other patrons, I revel in my new surroundings.
It’s quaint and adorable, and I love that it’s walking distance from the inn. There are a few couches and armchairs in the middle, and plenty of tables along one wall where several others have set up shop with their laptops and headphones.
I’m not normally a scheduled worker—writing tends to be an organic process for me. But this looks like the type of place I could use as a home base. Maybe a spot at which to kick off my day and make a plan, even if I don’t end up doing the majority of my creative work here.
Even though I’m in town to get away from the drama of what happened with Theo, there’s still a deadline looming in the not-so-distant future. I still have obligations to my manager and my record label. And as nice as it would be to check out from all of that and disappear, the last thing I want to do is squander my dream just because I decided to waste three years of my life on a cheating asshole.
“What can I get you?”
The barista is a smiley brunette in her teens, and I offer her a returning smile before ordering a flat white and a croissant.
It only takes a few minutes for my order to come up. I take my drink and snack back outside to sit at one of the outdoor tables in front of the windows.
Then I tug out my notepad and pen and just ... sit and watch. Waiting for inspiration to strike.
I’ve been writing my own music since I was old enough to hold a pen, and my first song was a jolly little thing about our neighbor’s dog, Lily.
Lily, Lily, why are you so silly?
You love to sniff everything you see.
Lily, Lily, why are you so silly?
I’ll pet you all day for free.
I smile at the memory. It might not be my best stuff, but I was only five.
Even back then, I loved to write about what I saw.
As a five-year-old, I saw my neighbor’s dog. I saw my friends at school doing secret handshakes. I saw Christmas lights and the beach and Popsicles. So I wrote about those things.
Now, what I see is different. More nuanced.
Like now, sitting at this table and watching the slow calm of a lazy afternoon in Rosewood, what I see is ...
An elderly woman walking her dog.
A mother struggling to get her son into his car seat.
A little girl begging her dad to go into the bakery.
And while I might not write about those particular things, specifically, they might inform something I do write.
I write down a few key words and then play around in a thesaurus online.
Help. Comfort. Guide. Save.
Care. Protect. Trust. Guard.
The words get crossed out or erased or circled with arrows pointing in different directions, until I’m left with a few messy lines.
I thought you could save me.
Oh how I was wrong.
Instead you betrayed me.
Now my trust is gone.
It’s not the best. Far from it, actually. And I don’t even have my guitar. It’s tucked safely away in my room back at the inn. But every bit of music starts somewhere, is inspired by something.
I’m hoping Rosewood will provide me with that inspiration. That creative spark that can’t be forced.
What I don’t want is for this bullshit with Theo to be the only thing I think about when I’m writing. There are plenty of artists who use their bad breakups to inform their music, and I don’t judge them for it. I get it. It’s traumatic and emotional and can create a wealth of content.
But it can’t be my only inspiration. Not when there is so much that can guide the creative process.
My mind briefly flickers over the memory of my kiss with Memphis, and my neck grows warm. I wonder if our midnight moment can prompt something ... anything ... in my creative psyche.
With that thought, I flip to the next page, and start again.
I spend over an hour in front of Rosewood Roasters, letting my mind wander. Giving myself the chance to catch that inspiration. But in the end, apart from the few lines I wrote when I sat down, I only make a few notes about idle hands and what it means to sit around waiting for something to happen.
It feels very meta, and I’m worried that my initial desire to find inspiration in this town might have been half-baked. Most of the time, I have full faith in myself, but I wouldn’t be an artist if I didn’t face at least a little bit of impostor syndrome. Though I didn’t expect it to rear its ugly head during the collapse of my relationship and a period of intense creative block.
I can’t help the little prickle in the back of my mind that I won’t make my deadline. That I’ll have let this perfect storm of personal struggles ruin the most incredible opportunity I’ve ever had.
Just as I’m thinking it might be time to accept defeat and head back to the inn, my phone rings. And when I see my manager’s name on the screen, I groan, knowing I need to answer.
Reluctantly, I answer the call and put the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Todd.”
“Hey, Viv. How’s the writing coming?”
“Good. I’m actually sitting in front of a coffee shop with my notepad right now,” I tell him, honestly.
“Nice. Anything good coming to you?”
“Oh yeah. I’m really in the zone,” I tell him, not so honestly.
“Great. Glad to hear that. Especially with your studio time right around the corner. I’m thinking you should come in to the office and we can go over your songs, create a priority sheet for what we’d like to focus on first.”
My heart launches into my throat.
Shit.
“Well ... there might be a problem with me coming in.”
Todd’s silent for a beat. “Okay,” he eventually says, drawing out the end of the word. “What kind of problem?”
I sigh. “I’m not in LA right now.”
“Vivian. We talked about your schedule for this month, and you said you didn’t have any trips planned. ‘I won’t be going anywhere, I’ll be sitting at home, writing and focusing on getting ready for the studio.’ Those were your exact words.”
“I didn’t think I would be. I ...” The words are like tar on my tongue. “I caught Theo cheating, and I decided I needed to get out of town for a little while.”
He makes a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry to hear that, Viv.”
“It’s been a lot, and I wanted a break. From everything.” Then a thought occurs to me. “I’m visiting Murphy, though. So it’s not completely unrelated to work.”
Murphy is an incredibly talented songwriter and is responsible for several of the songs we’re considering for my album. She also writes music for my label, Humble Roads, so it isn’t totally outside the realm of work-related travel for me to be here, even if writing with Murphy hadn’t actually been the original plan. But Todd doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh! Well, tell her I said hello. You guys planning to write while you’re up there?”
I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah. Yes, we’re meeting up tonight, actually.”
A lie right now, but something I can turn into the truth if I reach out to my friend like I had already planned to do.
“Great. Listen, if you’re really working, I guess it’s not such a big deal for us not to meet. We can handle the priority list over the phone. Maybe next week?”
“That would be great, Todd. I just got here yesterday, so coming home right now ... I’d really like a chance to take a break and focus on myself.” I pause. “And my work, of course.”
“I get it. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Sounds good.”
“Talk soon.”
We get off the phone, and I drop it crankily on the table.
It never even occurred to me that I might be blindsided by my manager wanting an in-person meeting. I’d assumed that fitting in this last-minute trip right before I go into the studio would be a chance for me to spend two weeks writing and fully purging myself of Theo so that when I get back, I’m prepared.
I’m glad I don’t have to fly back to LA just yet. I don’t want to have to face the reality of returning home to a condo that is now tainted with the memory of what I saw.
And I definitely don’t want to have to go into the studio and bare my soul without getting a chance to sort through some things in my mind. Because I’ll have to sing those few songs that were written about a man who ripped my life apart, before he did. That music was written about someone I thought I loved. A man I thought loved me .
Though I doubt that was ever really true.
I collect my shit and tuck it into my purse, then begin the short walk back to the Firehouse, my mind scattered and unfocused.
It’s normal to rethink everything after a breakup. I think most people do. There’s a place your mind goes to after you realize you’re not going to be with someone for forever, after you realize they’re not at all who you thought they were.
Every action is scrutinized.
Every word recounted.
Every mistake rehashed.
Suddenly, the most important thing in the world is figuring out all the ways that you were never truly compatible. Because the real terror is realizing the person you thought was your soulmate isn’t .
Though even as I think it, I know the words aren’t true.
I never thought Theo was my soulmate. I’m not even sure I believe in such a thing.
He was a man who I connected with.
Physically, sometimes.
Emotionally, on occasion.
Apart from decent sex, though, toward the end of our relationship, it felt like we were existing around each other and nothing more. We had overlapping friends, a condo we shared, and the same taste in music, but I’m pretty sure that’s it.
And being with someone forever simply because you both enjoy jamming out to a shared playlist as you get ready for work in the morning does not a relationship make.
Errol gives me a wave as I walk through the front door of the Firehouse, but thankfully, he’s on the phone and I quickly pass him by and jog up the stairs. My bright and sunny mood from earlier has been officially soured by all these thoughts of Theo and our relationship, and I’m not in the mood for chitchat.
Instead, I flee to the privacy of my suite and crawl into bed.
I haven’t had much time to really grieve. I’ve mostly oscillated between rage and irritation or shock, clinging to this good riddance kind of attitude.
Right now, though, I feel less resilient than I’ve been since I found him naked in our bed five days ago with another woman. A bed I had promptly removed from the condo with the rest of Theo’s things.
We loved each other once. In the beginning, I know we did.
Or at least, I thought we did.
But now I can’t help but wonder if that was ever really true.
Maybe that’s the actual hardest part of breaking up.
Dissecting that love, and facing the fact that it was never as real as we believed it to be.