Chapter Fourteen Vivian
Chapter Fourteen
Vivian
Even after the complete disaster that was Theo showing up in Rosewood unannounced and unwelcome, I’m still spending long days writing music. My muse is still speaking to me. My time here so far has proven that my emotions—about both Memphis and Theo—need to be put onto the page.
I finish one of the songs I was working on. I still need to figure out a bridge for the second, and I’m feeling inspired enough to start a third.
Sure, there’s always the possibility that none of these will be what my manager or my label is looking for. But something inside me says they’re going to love what I have.
What’s coming out of me right now is raw. And painful. Like I’m bleeding onto the pages in a way I didn’t know I could.
And that’s saying something.
The songs aren’t about Memphis, exactly. Or even about the sex.
They’re about the kind of feelings that being with him evokes within me.
The one in front of me now that I’m tentatively calling “Safe for my Soul”... It’s slow, acoustic, heartbreak on the page. About desperately seeking a place to be yourself. About never feeling right.
I’ve known Memphis for a very short time. There’s no way I see him as that safe place. But that feeling of safety ... of knowing that I don’t have to temper myself with him the way I’ve had to with men in the past ... that I could sit next to him in the back of that truck and share the truth about what I’m going through ... It’s definitely an inspiration for the words I have on the page, for the melody and tempo of the song.
It reminds me of him.
It probably always will.
I work on that song at an almost frantic pace, the words pouring out of me to create a splashy mess on the page, the melody a clear and true thing in my mind, as if it’s a song that already exists.
So when Todd calls, I don’t ignore him.
“How’s the writing coming?”
“Actually, it’s going really fucking good.”
He laughs. “You know? I think that’s the first time you’ve ever told me it was going well and I really believed you.”
“Good thing I’m a singer and not an actress, huh?”
“I’ll say. Now ... tell me about what you’re working on.”
It’s surprisingly easy to explain my new songs to Todd, and I even play him a little bit over the phone. He seems into it, which is always a good thing, and encourages me to keep going.
“I booked you a flight for Sunday morning. Studio Monday, eleven a.m., all right?”
“Oh,” I say, realizing that’s only a few days away. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Todd says goodbye, and we hang up. I’m left ... unsettled.
Flying home Sunday morning means only three more days in Rosewood.
Which, admittedly, puts me at barely over two weeks.
That should be plenty of time.
Plenty of time to get out of town. To take a break from the rat race. To recharge and calm my soul. To write all the words and find inspiration.
And I did do all those things.
But I’m not done.
Even if I’m not entirely sure why.
“Are you sleeping with my brother?”
The question makes me practically levitate out of my skin. When my eyes connect with the woman who is currently doing my pedicure, I give her an uncomfortable smile. Then I turn to look at Murphy, who is sitting in the chair next to me, sipping a boba tea.
On the other side of her, also watching me with wide eyes, is Murphy’s childhood friend Quinn, who she reconnected with when she moved back home.
To say I’m mortified at all the eyes currently on me is an understatement.
We’re in Napa at a little boutique spa, enjoying some self-care in the form of some very necessary manis and pedis. But the relaxation I was feeling moments ago has officially fled the coop.
“What did you just say?” I ask, buying myself a second to consider her question.
And how I want to answer it.
Murphy raises an eyebrow and doesn’t repeat herself. Instead she stares at me, giving me a chance to gather the courage to tell her that, yes, in fact, I am allowing her brother to put his penis inside me.
Though I don’t phrase it that way.
“We’ve ... been intimate,” I finally say, my eyes flicking to the blonde at my feet again, though this time she is looking studiously at where she’s painting on a deep peach color. “Yes.”
Murphy makes a face. “Gross.”
“But it’s not serious, I promise.”
It feels wrong the minute I say it, like I’m some kid in high school lying about how much she likes a boy because she doesn’t want her friends to know.
But I don’t take it back.
Murph furrows her brow, a bemused look on her face. “In what world does it make it better if you’re not serious?”
“In a world where you would have to listen to sordid details about how big his penis is or how good the orgasms are. If it’s just a few bangs on vacation, I mean ... you don’t have to deal with any long-term repercussions.”
Quinn laughs, and I can’t help but join her, especially at the mortification on Murphy’s face.
“Did you really have to say all of that? Really?”
I shrug. “Just trying to paint a picture.”
“Please don’t. I don’t ever want a picture like that hanging anywhere in the house of my mind. Please.” She takes a long sip of her boba before she points the straw at me. “But also what you said surprisingly makes sense.”
I smile and adjust the button on the chair, closing my eyes and letting the massage against my lower back really work out those tense muscles.
“If you need to get under my brother to get over Theo, consider this my blessing.”
I burst into laughter. “I cannot believe you said that.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Me, either. It’s seriously so gross.”
“Theo’s the ex?” Quinn asks.
“He is. The cheating ex. So I can very much confirm that I’m not trying to get over Theo . I am already all the way over him.”
“Thanks to Memphis’s penis.”
Quinn and I laugh again, giving each other air high-fives as Murphy covers her face with both hands.
I instantly liked Quinn when I met her. She’s a lot quieter than I am, but she is such an optimist and loves to laugh. I’ve always considered that to be a great quality in a friend.
“Speaking of penises, Quinn ... Have you thought any more about finding your own postrelationship sexcapade?”
I gasp and lean forward, excited for the change in conversation and a huge fan of sexplorations.
But Quinn’s looking at Murphy with narrowed eyes. “I’m not ready yet.”
Murphy turns to look at me. “I’ve been trying to talk Quinn into meeting single men because she’s ...”
“She’s right here,” Quinn interjects, pointing to herself. “And she’s not ready.”
My eyes flick back and forth between the two of them, knowing there’s plenty more to be said that Quinn doesn’t want to talk about.
As much as I would love nothing more than to hear about Quinn’s dating mishaps, I also can tell when someone doesn’t want the attention on them.
So, after the woman painting my toes finishes and tells me to sit for a few minutes to let them dry, I reluctantly redirect the conversation back to Memphis.
“Hey, Murphy, how did you find out? About Memphis and me. I mean, he didn’t, like ... tell you, did he?”
“Oh no. Thank god, no.” Murphy shakes her head almost violently, her attention returning to me. “I don’t want to ever talk with Memphis about anything sex-related. We very briefly edged around the topic when I was first hooking up with Wes, and it was so awkward.”
I nod, thankful. Not because I want Memphis to keep secrets from his sister, but because telling her feels like something we should have decided on together.
“The night of the Harvest-Eve dinner, you said bye, but then I saw you walking out to your car, like, two hours later.”
I roll my eyes at my own stupidity.
“And Memphis walked in, like, five minutes after that, so ...” She shrugs. “I’m not a sleuth, I promise you. You guys are ... really not good at hiding it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m like a ninja.” I narrow my eyes. “A ninja assassin.”
“Make a joke about murdering my brother’s dick and I’ll turn into an assassin.”
We burst into laughter as all of us climb out of our chairs.
“Thanks for inviting me, ladies,” Quinn says once we’ve left the spa and settled in at a little sandwich and salad place a few doors down. “The past few months have been exhausting, and I really needed this.”
“Quinn just had a baby,” Murphy offers, beaming.
My mouth drops and my eyes widen. “Oh my gosh, congratulations!”
Suddenly, Quinn’s protests that she’s not ready to find a new relationship are cast in a new light. She has a whole other human to consider now.
“Thanks. Willow is thirteen weeks tomorrow.”
I blink. “I don’t know what that means.”
Quinn laughs. “She’s a little over three months.” Then she tugs out her phone and shows me a picture of a sweet little brunette with big, beautiful eyes.
“She looks so much like you.”
Quinn smiles and scrolls through a few more photos, and I ooh and aah as she does. Then the server arrives to take our order, and we all scramble to pick something, having not taken any time to look at the menu.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Murphy says, once the server has left to go grab ice waters, “and I would like to suggest ... again ... that you try that open mic night tomorrow at The Standard.”
“That’s right. Murphy’s been bragging about you nonstop since she moved back. I’d love to hear you play.”
“I’d be happy to play for you,” I tell Quinn, before pinning Murphy with an unamused look. “But I’m not playing at an open mic night.”
“Look, what Todd doesn’t know won’t kill him. Besides, you said you’ve been writing a lot, and this will give you a chance to test out your music before you go into the studio, right?”
It’s one of those frustrating things about signing with a label. To some degree, they own you. There are stipulations on what clearances you need from which people before you can perform, how large or small the venue size can be, and whether or not it can be recorded.
So even though it’s just an open mic night at a bar in the middle of nowhere, it’s still probably a bad idea.
I’ve thought plenty about it, though.
Performing is like serotonin straight to my veins. It’s been a few months since I signed with Humble Roads, which means it’s also been a few months since the last time I got up in front of an unfamiliar crowd, nothing but me and my guitar.
And this new stuff I’m working on ... I’m nervous about taking it to Todd and his boss, Jonas, because it feels like me, but different. Me on a different level.
I don’t know how they’re going to respond.
So, yeah. The idea of this super tiny, no big deal, open mic night at The Standard has been buzzing around in the back of my mind.
And if I’m honest with myself, I haven’t ruled it out completely.
At least not yet.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, hoping that will assuage her from continuing to pester me about it. “But I make no promises.”
When I spot Errol with a book in the little library inside the Firehouse, I veer his way, plopping down on the armchair opposite where he’s sitting.
He startles a little bit before he smiles.
“Hey there, sweetie. Having a good day?”
“Yeah. Had myself a girls’ day out in Napa with friends. Massages and pedicures and lunch.”
Slipping one foot out of my sandal, I lift it slightly so he can see the new polish.
“That is quite the color.”
I laugh. “I figure it’s a little bit wild and a little bit sweet.”
“Sounds like you,” he offers, slipping a bookmark into his book and setting it down on the table next to him, giving me his full attention.
“Ha! You don’t know me well enough to say if I’m sweet.”
He grins at me. “Something tells me that you are, even if you don’t always like to give off that impression.”
A pleasant thread of surprise laces its way through me at his words, ones that make me think he has a fairly good picture of who I am, even though we’ve only had a few interactions.
I tuck my hair behind one ear. “Look, Errol. If you’re going to keep giving me these lovely compliments, I’m going to have to start paying you.”
Errol chuckles, shaking his head. “If I remember correctly, you’re checking out soon, right? What fun things are you going to do with your last days in town?”
I blow out a breath, the reminder that I’ve only got two more full days in Rosewood a sad reality I’m not so sure I’m ready to face.
I booked my room at the Firehouse for two weeks, figuring it was a good starting point and not sure how long I was planning to stay. Now that my time in town is coming to an end, I’m starting to wish I didn’t need to go so soon.
But even as I think it, I’m sure it’s unrealistic to assume I could have stayed longer. I have a life to get back to. Studio time to get to. Responsibilities. And a cat that is probably not missing me at all.
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll probably go hang out with my friend tomorrow at her family’s vineyard. You know the Hawthorne family?”
“I do.”
“Murphy and I are besties, so ... probably gonna head over there and bug her a little bit. Maybe go on a drive.” I shrug. “I might perform at the open mic night tomorrow.”
Errol’s eyes light up. “I love open mic night.”
“Really?”
He nods. “My wife used to play the keyboard and sing, and she’d sign up to perform every so often. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to one.”
I try to imagine cutie pie Errol at The Standard, sitting in his little sweater vests with an Arnold Palmer, and suddenly I want it more than anything.
“If I decide to perform, will you be my date?” I ask him.
He claps his hands together, joy alighting on his face.
“I’d love nothing more.”