Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 2 Vin

Chapter 2

VIN

V in and Leo here,” I say into my phone.

As we round the corner behind the guesthouse, I put the call on speaker.

“Guys, it’s Greg. I have Jim on the line, too. How are our heartbreakers doing today?” our tour manager asks.

“We’re fine,” I reply. “But we’re kind of in the middle of something.”

Jim, our publicist, speaks next. “I’d say. We saw the photo and wanted to hop on a quick call.”

I shake my head, not following. “A photo of…”

“You and a mystery woman. You’re at Rita and Brent Sharpe’s party today, right?” Jim asks.

“Yeah, but the only person I’m here with is Leo,” I say.

“This livestream would say otherwise,” Greg jumps in. “Taylor sent us a screengrab. Who is she?”

Greg’s assistant happens to see me talking to a woman and the immediate assumption is that I’m dating her. It’s not the first time I’ve been linked to the nearest woman breathing within a five-foot range, but this is a reach.

“I guess it could be anyone. The mom of a kid here? Rita? Someone from the crew helping set up?” I offer. “You tell me. I don’t even know what photo you’re talking about.”

“She’s whispering in your ear,” Jim says. “You two look pretty close.”

“Look, we need to get back,” I say.

“Vin, we’ve gotta be ahead of the news. And when an eligible bachelor hasn’t been spotted with a woman in months, well, you know this makes headlines,” Jim says. “I just got a couple of calls for a comment.”

“Did you tell them there’s nothing to comment on?” I ask.

It’s quiet on the other end. “We can use this,” Jim says.

“Tickets have been live for three weeks, and it didn’t exactly sell out overnight,” Greg informs us. “We need butts in seats. All of them, if we can help it.”

“Something like a relationship would help us build hype,” Jim follows up. “We’ve been talking to a few people. We can get someone on board.”

I glance at Leo, who shrugs with disinterest. “On board with what, exactly?” I probe.

“A relationship,” Jim states plainly. “It’s not clear in the photo who this woman is, but we have a couple of debut singers who could use the press. We’ll feed the rumors from this livestream, get a couple of photos of you with Lacy or Adriana, whoever, and then you’ll end it.”

My teeth squeak from grinding so hard. “I take offense to that, Jim. I don’t need help finding women.”

Jim laughs. “Evidenced by your history. But then how do you explain your recent… singleness?” he asks.

It’s only been six months since my last relationship ended, if two weeks qualifies as an actual relationship. “Work? Preparing for the tour we’re all going to make a lot of money on?” I retort.

“ If we sell tickets,” Greg unhelpfully adds. “And your tour is literally called Heartbreak on Tour.”

“Let people read into whatever it is they think they saw,” I say. “They can use their imaginations. In fact, let them run wild.”

“We need a little more than a photo. You two haven’t had public relationships in a while, and we’re feeling the effect of that. Here’s what we’ll do. We’re going to pair you both up, and you’ll end the romances before tour, or during, whenever,” Jim strategizes. “A failed relationship will help stoke the embers of your reputation. It needs a good fanning every now and then to remind people you exist.”

I don’t agree with Jim and Greg all the time, but our star rose once we signed with them ten years ago. I go along with a lot. This, though, is pushing it.

“Chaobreakers know we exist. People listen to our music,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “We just put out an album two months ago.”

“I don’t think I need to remind you, of all people, Vin, that this world tour is important. It’s your biggest yet,” Greg says. “We got the green light this morning for the Colosseum, a bucket-list venue. Your words.” Those were actually Leo’s words, but I agree with the sentiment all the same. “Not just anyone gets to play there, but they made an exception for you guys. It’s going to be private. Exclusive. Expensive. We need to sell those pricey tickets, too. You know what will do that?”

“Good marketi—” I start.

“Your love lives,” Jim says over me. “And ultimately, your heart-breaking.”

I’ll have to process the win of securing the Colosseum later. I inhale fresh air deep into my lungs. Is this what it’s come to? Selling out to sell out? I know good sales help with getting better terms for our upcoming contract negotiations, but I’m not going to pretend to date someone to sell tickets. People already want to come to our concerts. The success of our tour shouldn’t come down to who we’re dating. No, who we’re pretending to date. That’s not what we’ve worked for our entire lives or what our parents sacrificed for.

But at the end of the day, we’re heartbreakers. I’ve accepted this fact years ago. We don’t get forever afters. We get the historical landmark venues, sold-out concerts, and a shit-ton of royalties.

“What about Leo then? Will he date someone?” Jim asks. “I think Lacy would be perf—”

“Leo’s not interested, either,” I interrupt when Leo doesn’t say anything. He’s fully distracted by kids whacking each other with pool noodles. He’s in no state to keep up appearances with anyone for pretend, or for real.

Jim makes a clicking noise. “I can’t sell you as heartbreakers if you’re not out there, you know, breaking hearts. Heartbreak sells, and people want that heartbreak on the road.” He adds a little laugh at the end to keep the mood light. “And certainly in your next album.”

“I hear you both, I do,” I say. “We, more than anyone, don’t want to perform to empty venues. For now, tell people you have no comment. You know how speculation feeds the media.”

“Think about—”

I hang up and exhale at the same time.

“Don’t you think that was a little rude?” Leo asks, finally speaking.

I shoot a glare at him. “ Now you know words,” I mumble. “They’ll get over it.”

“What? No. Not that,” Leo says. “With Chryssy.”

I scoff. “The person who unplugged us in front of a crowd? Who almost revealed… you know.”

Leo makes a face. “No one caught on.”

“Yet. Would you rather play for real?” I ask. “Because I’d gladly welcome that.”

Leo slides down to the ground against the guesthouse, the only area of the property not decorated to look like any of the seasons. “You sure you can’t go on without me? I’m useless,” he says, burying his face in his hands. “These kids couldn’t care less about us.”

I huff out an exasperated sigh and join him on the ground, leaning my head back against the wood siding.

“We’re the Chao Brothers. Plural. We do this together. Besides, we’re not here for these kids. We’re here for the very large, generous donation that Brent’s making to Soar for Strings,” I remind Leo. “ Those kids, the ones who actually want but can’t afford instruments, are the ones we’re here for.”

And because this party is for the son of the producer of the movie we recently scored, but that’s beside the point.

“You should be proud,” Leo says. “You not only came up with the plan to prerecord my part, but you’re also going along with it. That’s growth.”

“I could’ve played the chorus of ‘Cryin’’ better,” I mumble, tossing a rock into a bush. “And my bow work was weak in the second passage.”

“I thought you nailed it,” Leo says. “Are you grumpy because you never got one of these parties? We should’ve celebrated you being a prodigy more, I’ll say that.”

“Yeah, right. The balloons alone must’ve cost twenty thousand dollars. Did you see the party favors? They’re violins,” I say. “Though I wouldn’t have minded more cake.”

In the distance, kids smash into each other as they run around with buckets over their heads.

“That’s how I feel right now,” Leo says, watching the same scene unfold in front of us. “Like I’ve been rammed into with a bucket on my head.”

“When’s the last time you changed that shirt? Or eaten something?” I ask.

“Why do you care what I wear?” Leo finally says.

“I care about hygiene. And your mood. And clearly, your calorie intake,” I say, noticing Leo’s subtle weight loss over the past week. “Clean clothing and a big lunch would help.”

Leo shakes his head. “I’ll live in these clothes. I’ll die in these clothes. What does it matter anyway?”

“I need you properly fed. We need to work on our next album. Rehearsals for the world tour start in a couple of weeks,” I say, running through a fraction of our to-do list.

“Don’t forget the tour merch meeting,” Leo adds, his eyes following the fireworks exploding overhead as they burst like a star into purple and red streaks. “And do we still want to do a holiday album? Maybe I can pencil in ‘Get Over Heartbreak’ between the cover photoshoot and the documentary interview.”

I refrain from adding more, even though there is a lot, lot more on the list. “There’s still some time,” I reassure him. “Don’t forget our contract is coming up for renewal.”

It’s a day we’ve been waiting years for. We can afford lawyers now. We can negotiate our own terms. We have the album purchases, the streaming numbers, and the ticket sales to prove that we’re valuable to them. And thanks to our reputation, we’re high earners. They’re not going to want to mess with that. We’re not going to want to mess with it.

Everything changed when we went from the Chao Brothers to the Heartbreakers. Fans even started calling themselves Chaobreakers.

We’re at the top of our game. We play music for a living and get paid a lot of money doing it. We can support our parents and live up to our potential. We’re getting a new generation excited about string instruments. We’re pretty much living the dream. Maybe not in this exact moment, but generally.

“Don’t remind me,” Leo says, looking over at me. His hair is disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. “Especially not after…” His eyes become glossy.

“I’m sorry about Aubrey,” I say, turning to face him.

“Don’t say her name,” Leo grumbles, covering his ears.

“Right,” I say, holding my hands up. “I’m sorry about… her.”

“Two years together. Why say yes to a marriage proposal if you’re just going to break it off days later? I know the proposal wasn’t flashy, but you know what flashy draws? Attention,” Leo says, his words one giant run-on sentence. “Oh, and she’s keeping the ring since I was never around. A four-carat diamond ring that I could only afford because I wasn’t around. I can’t talk about this anymore.”

While I wait for Leo to catch his breath, I watch people carry oversize, colorful plastic gumdrops into the winter tent set up on a different patch of the yard.

“It might help to play for real. Maybe it’ll distract you,” I offer.

“Easy for you to say,” Leo says. “You’ve never experienced heartbreak.”

I shrug. “No. I’m a heartless monster who only thrives on breaking hearts, remember?”

Apparently, always ending relationships, regardless of the why, gets you labeled as a heartbreaker by the media. A couple of my breakups coincided with Leo ending a relationship, and our reputation was solidified. A brand we couldn’t outplay.

The media frenzy surrounding our simultaneous breakups benefited our careers, so it didn’t take long for our new identities to take shape. Maybe there is something to what Jim and Greg are proposing.

Leo sighs. “My point is something hard can happen and you can play through it. In your sleep, with violent food poisoning, under public scrutiny. And in those moments, you’re still better than me.”

“The food poisoning was just the one time,” I quip. “I can’t guarantee that I could do it again.” I pluck along the seam of my jeans to the tune of “Last Christmas” in preparation. “Look, you’re here. Even if it is the autopilot version of you. Let’s finish the day out strong. And if you want to cry, that’s okay, too.”

Leo rubs his temples. “Do we really need to play holiday music?” he asks. “It’s too jolly for how I feel. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“We’re playing the sad ones, remember? But sure, screw Santa,”

I say.

A subdued laugh escapes Leo. “Why does heartbreak have to sell so much?” he asks.

“People can’t look away from a car accident,” I say, burrowing the heel of my boot into the gravel. “Hey, if you can, make your playing look just a little more real. Chryssy’s already onto us.”

Leo huffs out a sound of disbelief. “You want me to make my fake-playing look more real? You hear yourself, right?”

“We need to have some standards,” I say, turning toward him.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says somberly. “And I want to throw a snowball at you.”

I groan, pushing myself off the ground. I pull Leo up and slap him on the back. “Let’s go give ’em a car crash.”

Like time tends to do, fall flies by, even though getting Leo through fake playing is like pulling teeth. We shuffle over to the massive tent where fans and air conditioners are set up to create realistic wintry temperatures. I pull on my leather jacket to ward off the chill. Kids are handed shiny Moncler jackets to stay warm as they build snowmen and sled down makeshift hills.

We’re slated to play under the porch awning of a gingerbread house the size of a large shed, next to a miniature skating rink. My boots sink into machine-made snow as small, falling flakes melt on my shoulders. If there wasn’t still sand in my shoes from the summer, I might actually believe it was winter.

As we arrive, Chryssy heads directly toward us. She’s pointing at an empty patch of snow to the left of our gingerbread house. Within seconds, four kids are setting down her table next to us, and she hands them sprigs of rosemary before they run off toward a snowball fight.

Chryssy looks at us with a sneaky expression. “Eyebrows for their snowmen.”

“You’re back,” I say, stating the obvious.

Chryssy reveals aluminum packets of s’mores from her bag. “Here. Obviously, you’re both going through something. Chocolate will help,” she says.

First, we steal her electricity, and then she brings us treats.

“Sorry, we have a strong no-taking-food-from-strangers policy,” I say, taking the s’mores packets from her anyway.

When she laughs, the noise that escapes her is soft and musical. It’s an upbeat sound that disappears before I have a chance to memorize the notes. I fight the urge to do something to make her laugh, just to hear it one more time.

“I had no visitors in fall, but winter requires warm drinks. I’m setting up next to you to draw attention to myself,” she says. “And like I said, I’m here to help.”

“Help who? Us?” My eyebrows pinch together. “We don’t need help.”

“It kind of seems like he does,” she whispers to me. Leo jumps out of his seat and runs to a nearby bush. He bends over and throws up.

“See. That’s why we have a strong no-taking-food-from-strangers policy,” I deadpan, grabbing a travel-size tissue from my pack to have ready for Leo when he’s back. I stay where I am to give him space. “He’s… tired.”

“I really can be useful here. I have dried herbs and flowers. These are my instruments,” Chryssy says. From a bag, she pulls out a long tube filled with pink petals. “Give me a few minutes.”

“Fine,” I say, giving up. I have a feeling Chryssy will figure out how to help in one way or another. “I look forward to hearing your… song.”

A tall, blond woman interrupts us when she taps my shoulder and hands me a crinkled receipt with a number written on the back.

“When you’re done with your set, I’m over there,” she says, pointing to a wreath-making station. “Text me?”

I run my finger down the paper. She gives a little wave and heads back to her table.

Chryssy watches this entire interaction with a smirk on her face. “She’s pretty.”

I take a step closer to her, my boots crunching over the snow. “You want to take a picture of this so you can call her?” I ask, waving the receipt. “You know, since you clean up my messes.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly,” Chryssy says as she organizes a bouquet of mint sprigs in a jar.

“Then how would you put it, exactly ?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.

Chryssy huffs out a short laugh, her breath forming a small cloud. She releases the mint and closes the gap between us until there’s only a couple of feet left. “I just want to help,” she says, waiting a few seconds before turning back to arrange cinnamon sticks on her table.

“If you really want to make a difference, I think those children you bribed with herbs could use another hand rolling the base of their snowman,” I say, moving back to my cello. “Didn’t seem like she was looking for anything serious, anyway. She probably won’t need your services. Whatever it is you do.”

“Don’t write yourself off so fast,” she says, glancing at me over her shoulder. “You seem like the type to make other women quickly fall under your spell.”

“What, like I’ve got some kind of love potion?” I ask.

“Maybe your music is enchanting, I don’t know.” Chryssy nods toward the wreath-making station. “Don’t look now, but she’s smiling at you.”

I’m too focused on Chryssy to look. “Other women,” I echo, offering her a grin. “So women other than you fall under my spell?”

Chryssy presses her lips together, but it’s not a return of my smile. “I don’t do love potions. I find them to be too bitter.”

She presses a button on an electric kettle. In a little cloth bag, she adds dried flowers, an assortment of herbs, and slices of fresh ginger. I realize I’m still watching her as she pours hot water over the mixture.

In this moment, Chryssy’s face takes up residence in my visual memory. Her glowing skin, sweet smile, heart-shaped face, rounded nose, the small mole just above her left arched eyebrow. Three small flower studs run up each of her earlobes, while the charm on her silver necklace gleams in the light. After today, I hope it won’t be hard to forget her light brown eyes or the way her nose wrinkled when she realized I wasn’t giving her electricity back. If I look at her even just a few times more, I’ll have fully memorized her, like a chord or a melody I didn’t even have to practice to remember.

She catches me staring at her. “I’m used to people watching me in my element,” she says, seemingly unaware of my documentation of her features. “Just like you are, I’m sure. And it’s not every day you get a front-row seat to prodigies.” She pushes a strand of her straight, shoulder-length dark-brown hair behind her ear.

“Prodigy. Singular. Just him,” Leo says, startling me. I didn’t realize he’d come back. Instead of resuming his position at the cello, he’s lying very still in the snow, his arms spread wide in a half-assed snow angel attempt. “Though I want to take some credit. He only started playing cello because I did. I’m basically his muse.”

I hand him the tissue. “You okay? You’re looking pale.”

Leo wipes his mouth and hands the tissue back to me. “The snow is numbing my pain,” he mumbles.

As Chryssy passes me to get to Leo, I catch a light whiff of something floral and sweet. She kneels and hands him a cup, explaining that the tea will help his nausea and warm him up.

Leo leans forward to drink the tea. He looks comforted. Calm.

When Chryssy comes back to her table, her arms are covered in goose bumps. “Where’s your jacket? It’s the middle of winter,” I say.

Chryssy pours hot water into a second cup. “It’s fine. I have ginger.”

“What’s that supposed to do? Here.” I tuck the tissue into my case and tug my jacket off.

“What’s that for?” she asks, staring at my jacket like I’ve offered her Leo’s used tissue.

I grunt. “I can see your breath. And you’re shivering,” I tell her.

“Sorry, I have a strong no-taking-jackets-from-strangers policy,” she says, the trace of a smile on her lips. The bright white of the snow reflects in her playful eyes, making them shine.

From the ground, Leo laughs.

Chryssy hesitates but accepts my jacket, sliding an arm through one of the sleeves. The excess leather bunches up around her shoulders. “Thanks. They really should’ve warned us to expect snow in LA.”

She blinks up at me sweetly, and a warm sensation begins pooling in my chest.

I nod curtly. Enough of this. We need to play. We have a job to do. I nudge Leo with my foot. “Ready?”

Leo’s eyes are glazed over as he stares at a freshly rolled snowman couple, complete with carrot noses and rosemary sprig eyebrows.

“If you think about it,” he says somberly, “love is like snow. It’s sudden and beautiful, and then it turns into dirty, gray slush. Melts and disappears before you’ve even had a chance to enjoy it.”

Chryssy looks at him compassionately. “You got that right,” she agrees.

“Don’t worry about him,” I say. “I—We do need to play now, though.”

I set myself up for “Blue Christmas.” Leo watches me get ready but doesn’t make a move. I let out a curse and a breath, maintaining my finger positioning over the strings.

“Leo’s heartbroken, isn’t he?” Chryssy says low enough for only me to hear, drawing my attention back to her. She takes a bite of a half-eaten scone with purple and yellow flowers pressed onto the top. “The nausea. Paleness. Distant gaze. Puffy red eyes. Shortness of breath. They’re classic symptoms.”

My hand glides down the neck of my cello. I give it a spin, the endpin crunching in the snow. “What are you, some kind of tea-and-scone detective?” I ask, placing my instrument back on its stand.

She looks around me at Leo, who’s staring into his tea as though the answers to all of his problems are at the bottom of that cup. Chryssy hooks her hand into my elbow and pulls me away from my cello and over to the other side of her table. The contact makes my heart jump in its unexpectedness.

“Has he been sleeping?” Chryssy asks.

I sigh, resigned. “Based on the three a.m. text messages from him, no. It happened last week.”

“Fresh heartbreak. He must still be in shock. It hasn’t fully sunk in yet,” she says, nodding to herself. “Okay. I’m going to give you chrysanthemum and honeysuckle tea that you can make for him three times a day, or anytime he wants something comforting to drink. There’s a great lamb noodle soup with a tonifying bone broth I can send you the recipe for. Most of our body’s Qi comes from food. What he eats is important.”

“The chances of me making whatever it is you just said are slim to none. Let’s go with none,” I say.

“We won’t know the extent of his pain,” Chryssy continues, either not hearing me or purposely ignoring me. It’s also unclear where she fits into this. “Make sure he doesn’t lie in bed all day. Get him up and outside. We definitely want him moving around.”

I move closer to her. “Who’d you say you were again?”

Chryssy crosses her arms and mirrors my step forward, tilting her head all the way back to look up at me. “I’m Chrysanthemum Hua Williams.”

She grabs her bag, reaches in, and hands me a small, speckled piece of paper. The tips of our fingers graze in the handoff, and a spark of a current runs through my left arm. No big deal. Every now and then my arm gets irritated. Tendonitis is common for cellists. I pull back and squeeze my fist, directing my attention to the card.

“You’re a Traditional Chinese Medicine chef and acupuncturist,” I say, reading her title.

“My aunties and I can help your brother. We help heal heartbreak. Call me,” Chryssy says, her nose scrunching. “And I don’t mean like that .”

I give her my best smile. The one many have called charming. It usually works, well, like a charm. “And what if I want to call you like that?” I ask, just to see how she responds. Just to test that she’s not fully immune to me.

Chryssy’s eyes lock with mine. “Don’t,” she says. “Unless it’s about Leo.” She nods toward the card. “Then you can toss that into the dirt and let nature work its magic. It’s embedded with wildflower seeds.”

I look at the card with the words The Wildflower Inn at the top. “So, you fix what I break?”

“That seems a little harsh. How about, I pick up where you leave off?” she says. “We have very different ways of approaching heartbreak.”

“Am I being messed with? Are you about to try to sell me something?”

“I don’t love that phrasing, but our services cost money, yes,” she says quietly. “We can help Leo.”

“Doubtful,” I murmur.

I don’t expect Chryssy to hold her hand out for a shake, but that’s exactly what she does.

I reluctantly grab her hand in return. The current is back, zinging up my right arm now. Fine. Not the tendonitis, but likely a reaction to the dropping temperature. It’s just a handshake. A simple, common gesture that I’ve done countless times at awards shows and ceremonies. And yet it feels completely out of the ordinary with this woman. My hand takes on a life of its own and doesn’t let go right away. Instead, I end up giving her hand a light squeeze.

She smiles up at me. “Either way, nice to officially meet you.”

Chryssy grabs the teakettle and walks over to Leo to refill his cup. She leans down to meet him at eye level. It’s a gesture filled with such warmth. Leo doesn’t resist when Chryssy sets the kettle in the snow and places two fingers on the inside of his wrist, like she’s checking his pulse.

“Can you stick your tongue out for me?” she asks Leo. “I’d like to assess its color, shape, moisture, and coating.”

Here, too, Leo doesn’t hesitate.

“This helps me understand the health of your organs. I’ll give you a tea blend to take with you, but I want to make sure I’m giving you the right one,” Chryssy explains. “It’s also how I learn about all your secrets.” She wiggles her eyebrows at this.

“Do you need to see his, too?” is what I think Leo says. It’s hard to tell with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Chryssy tilts her head in my direction and looks me up and down. She shakes her head and says without blinking, “Nah. I already know enough of his secrets.”