Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 8 Vin

Chapter 8

VIN

A s Chryssy and I walk down the winding hallways in our Vegas hotel, I distract myself by thinking about stage lighting, the color of our merchandise, and what song to open each show with. I push to the front of my mind anything related to work, so I don’t think about the kiss.

Sure, I’ve kissed my fair share of women, but the kisses weren’t like that.

Hats. We should sell hats on tour.

I press my tongue against the back of my teeth to numb the sensation of how it felt in Chryssy’s mouth and how her rosebud lips blossomed with the lightest pressure. How is it possible that the woman tastes like lavender, too? Oh god. Am I starting to enjoy the taste of lavender?

Shit. One kiss and this is what it’s done to me. Am I really that rusty? The whole thing lasted no more than three seconds. Then again, it’s been a while since my last girlfriend. This is a natural physical response.

We make another turn, and a long stretch of yet another hallway greets us. I roll both of our suitcases beside me on the thick carpeting.

Vinyl. We’ll have a special run made exclusively for this tour.

I shake it off, chalking up these feelings to adrenaline and leaping off a building, something I’m pretty sure insurance would not have covered.

Dammit. Does this hallway never end?

A few more turns later and we finally reach the room. I tap the key card against the black box on the door until it beeps, gaining us entry.

I rethink why I was so eager to get here. For the first time since the kiss, Chryssy and I will be alone.

I glance over at Chryssy, and she’s frowning, our earlier moment together hopefully not on her mind.

“Eight-oh-two? We’re not staying in a penthouse?” she asks.

I push our suitcases into the room’s entrance. “We leave tomorrow,” I say. “Why pay for all that space when this has everything we need? There’s a bed. Shower. Sink. Toilet.”

Chryssy explores the standard hotel room, opening every dresser and desk drawer, flipping open binders with menus and spa services. When she sees one bed, she frowns.

“Don’t worry, you’re in the next room.” I hand her a plastic key card and point to a door in the wall. “You can open it on the other side, though there’s probably no reason for that.”

“Connecting rooms?”

“Optics.”

“Right. If we were really dating, we wouldn’t be in separate rooms,” she says, slapping the key card against her palm. “Probably could’ve prevented this on the top floor. Isn’t that for VIPs only?”

“You didn’t strike me as a penthouse kind of person,” I say.

Chryssy tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “This discovery surprises me, too,” she says, half-serious. “I’m coming across the wrong way, probably. This hotel is really nice. I’ll admit I wanted a peek into the lifestyles of the rich and famous. I just imagined, with you being as famous as you are, you’d be in a hotel room with the works.”

“The works?”

“Yeah, like those ones with hot tubs in the middle of the living room. Or a pool table off the kitchen. Or five rooms, one to match whatever mood you’re in. Your entire life is about entertaining people and making them feel things. I guess I thought, when you’re not onstage, you’d want to stay in hotel rooms that, I don’t know, entertain you?”

“And you think a hot tub in the living room would entertain me?” I ask, amused.

Chryssy smiles. “Well, not you , but yes, regular people.”

“Like you.”

My sarcasm lands.

“Exactly,” she says with a laugh. “A hot tub for all of my bath bombs.”

“You want lifestyles of the rich and famous? How’s this?” I walk over to the window and fling the curtain back dramatically. “Et voilà! We have a view of the Eiffel Tower.” The half-size replica glows a coppery orange. “It comes with a light show. It doesn’t have the same effect as the sparkle on the real one, but there you go.”

“Well, I’ve never seen the real one, so I’ll take it!” she says, snapping a photo with her phone. She swipes into something else on the screen.

“Pictures from tonight are online.” She turns her phone toward me. “We must’ve been pretty convincing. My family texted.”

I’m face-to-face with a photo of us midkiss. It’s so crisp that I’m practically back on the landing pad. Right there, in high-res, is a permanent reminder that the moment really happened. Chryssy’s left hand grips my bodysuit while her other hand wraps around my neck. I’m holding her by the waist, her body arched against mine. A vertical tie connecting two notes.

In the picture, my eyebrows are slightly furrowed, like I’m taking the kiss very seriously. Have I always looked like an angry kisser?

Chryssy looks out the window once more at the Eiffel Tower before grabbing her suitcase and heading toward her door. “Well, it’s late. I’ll just be… on the other side of the wall. Good night, Vin,” she says.

“Good morning, Chryssy.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m tossing and turning trying to fall asleep when my phone lights up in the dark. I ignore it, but the screen appears again a few minutes later.

Chryssy (1:16 a.m.): Vinilus.

Chryssy (1:16 a.m.): Vinny bear.

Chryssy (1:16 a.m.): Vin-Vin!

Vin (1:20 a.m.): I refuse to respond to any of those.

Chryssy (1:20 a.m.): What about just V? That’s kind of badass.

Vin (1:22 a.m.): I’m sleeping.

Chryssy (1:22 a.m.): Do you always sleep with the light on? I can see a lamp on under your door.

Vin (1:23 a.m.): Fine. I WAS sleeping. What is it?

Chryssy (1:23 a.m.): I’m hungry. Do you want anything from room service? It’s twenty-four hours.

At the mention of room service, my stomach grumbles. Now that it’s settled after an eight-hundred-foot fall, I could eat.

Vin (1:24 a.m.): Anything good on the menu?

Chryssy (1:24 a.m.): I was thinking the classic room service meal. Caesar salad and fries.

Vin (1:25 a.m.): Sounds good. I’ll call.

Chryssy (1:25 a.m.): Wow. You’re a great fake date. Extra dressing and a side of ranch, please. Oh! And hot water.

I call room service and ask for everything Chryssy wants, along with a carafe of coffee.

Chryssy (1:29 a.m.): Do you have extra toothpaste?

Vin (1:30 a.m.): You forgot toothpaste?

Chryssy (1:30 a.m.): I didn’t forget. I also need floss.

Vin (1:31 a.m.): Tell me you at least have a toothbrush.

Chryssy (1:31 a.m.): Okay… I have a toothbrush…

Vin (1:31 a.m.): You didn’t bring a toothbrush, did you?

Chryssy (1:32 a.m.): My toiletry bag may have fallen into the toilet. These non-penthouse bathrooms don’t have much counter space.

Vin (1:32 a.m.): Meet me at our connecting doors in a minute.

I put together the equivalent of a dentist to-go bag and meet Chryssy at the doors. Her hair is half up in a little bun, and she’s wearing spandex shorts that reach midthigh, an oversize Billy Joel concert tee, and fuzzy socks.

“If you wanted to get in my bed, there’s an easier way to do it,” I joke. I immediately regret it.

Chryssy arches an eyebrow at me. “Thanks, but no thanks. This, however, hello ! Ooh, fancy. The whitening kind,” she says, reading the toothpaste tube. Her brows crease together. “Do you always carry around extra toothbrushes?”

“Do you always wear shirts with the Piano Man on them?” I ask.

She laughs and stretches out the T-shirt from the bottom. “Tour shirts become sleepy shirts,” she says. “I got to see him at Madison Square Garden when I was in New York for an acupuncture conference a couple of years ago.” She waves the toothbrush around, still expecting an answer.

“I have extra toothbrushes exclusively for instances like this one,” I say before realizing how it sounds.

“Oh?” she says.

I feel the need to clarify. “ Not for unexpected night guests. When Leo and I were younger, before all of this—actual hotels—we traveled around Europe touring on our own playing little pubs and clubs. We stayed in hostels. My toothbrush fell on the shower floor once. Obviously, I couldn’t use it, and it was too late to get a new one. Best to have backups.”

Chryssy props her foot against her inner thigh, processing this. “Interesting.”

“You asked,” I say, moving to shut my door. “I’ll let you know when the food’s here.”

“You’re not staying? Are you working on something?” she asks, opening her door wider and gesturing for me to come in. Her room looks like mine but reversed. There’s a movie playing on her TV.

My hand grips the gold doorknob. Sharing a small space with Chryssy right now doesn’t feel like a smart idea. “I have work to do.”

“Well, you can’t practice right now. Can you do whatever work it is over here?” She sits on one side of the bed, tapping the other side. “It’s my Yin Night. Want to join?”

“On the bed?”

“You’re acting like our bodies weren’t clinging to each other for dear life tonight,” she says. “Given that this is all fake, I’d say we’re safe. Or you can sit in the desk chair.”

“Sure, I’ll answer emails later. So. This night of yours. What have I agreed to?” I ask as I jump onto the bed.

Chryssy laughs as she’s jostled side to side. “Every week, I try to have what I call a Yin Night. In med school, I got sick and had to actively force myself to rest. I get overwhelmed if I don’t maintain it.”

“You got sick? Are you okay?” I ask without considering my words first. “Shit. That’s personal. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Chryssy says. “I don’t mind talking about it. I’m much better now.” She tucks her knees to her chest. “I went to med school to become a cardiologist. I wanted to help fix people’s hearts. The experience was stressful and anxiety-inducing, and I didn’t know how to manage it. I wasn’t even a year in when I started getting rashes and chronic inflammation. I was sick all the time. I wasn’t exercising, was hardly sleeping, and ate food that drained me instead of sustained me. Basically, I didn’t take care of myself, and I felt it.”

I nod, listening intently. “That sounds… miserable.”

Chryssy rests her chin on her arms. “It was. I went to a lot of doctors,” she says. “They either prescribed medications or gave me shots. It was so reactive and didn’t get to the source of the problem. I felt like I was getting worse. I finally caved, took a break, and went to the inn to heal, thanks to my aunties practically dragging me there.” She pauses and smiles. “That’s when I fell in love with what my aunties do. I left med school, went through a breakup, attended herbalism school, and have been at the inn ever since.”

“I’m glad you’re better now,” I say, feeling relieved. “And that you still get to help people.”

“Thanks,” Chryssy says, her eyes meeting mine. “Me too. It felt like I was at an intersection of my life. I needed to reprioritize my health in a way I hadn’t before. It was incredibly hard. Still is sometimes. Yin Nights helped me reframe the way I thought about rest at first, and it’s just kind of stuck. I don’t think I knew the definition of rest during that period of my life.”

Her words poke at something deep inside of me, but I don’t care to explore the feeling. “So Yin Night is when you rest.”

“Yin Night is when I rest,” she affirms with a smile. “When I’m not cooking, working on the product line, treating clients, helping my aunties at the inn, gardening, or, you know, fake-dating men I’ve just met, I’m needlepointing or watching movies.”

She sounds as busy as I do. I find unexpected comfort in knowing that she can relate to a hectic schedule.

“I need to be better about doing it more consistently, but it doesn’t always happen that way,” she adds. “Are you okay with Sleepless in Seattle ? Unfortunately, it’s the only movie on right now that’s not about to end.”

“Never seen it,” I say as I relax into the pillow propped up against the headboard.

Chryssy keeps the volume relatively low so we can still hear each other.

She looks confused. “But you made a joke about it in the moon garden.”

“It felt relevant. Like if there were a movie called Sleepless in Vegas , I’d make a joke about that right now.”

“That’s hardly a joke,” Chryssy says. “Prepare yourself. There are commercials.”

“With actual products being sold to people?” I ask with dramatized shock.

Based on what’s happening, I’d say the movie’s halfway through. I’m drawn into it as fifteen or twenty minutes pass. I want to know if Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan will find their way to each other. The movie’s surprisingly not terrible, and I like the soundtrack.

During a commercial break, there’s a knock at my door. I sign for the food and carry the tray back to Chryssy’s room. Under dulled stainless steel plate covers are our salads and the fries in parchment-lined baskets.

Chryssy snorts. “You just missed a ridiculous line,” she says. “Rosie O’Donnell tells Meg Ryan, ‘You don’t want to be in love. You want to be in love in a movie.’” She sighs.

“What’s ridiculous about that?” I ask.

Chryssy taps ketchup onto a bread plate before swirling ranch dressing in. “Who wants to be in love in a movie?” she asks with a shake of her head. “No thank you.”

“I thought these were hopeful movies with happy endings,” I say, chasing a bite of fry with coffee.

She laughs emptily. “Exactly. It’s happy. I prefer the tragic ones. Love in movies has stood the test of time. They’re as iconic as the love they portray. But I want to be able to relate to something,” she says, dragging a fry through her condiment combo. “For me, happy endings aren’t real. These movies may sell hope for other people, but for me, they’re a lie.”

I relate to the first part she said. “The same can be said for classical music. Love standing the test of time in movies,” I start, shifting to face Chryssy, “that’s how I feel about music. Some of the most iconic classical pieces are over three hundred years old. Music like that isn’t made anymore. When I’m playing, I get lost in it. Like it’s an out-of-body experience. When I was a kid playing, these complex pieces captured emotions I had never felt in real life. Even so, it was as though I had fully lived it when I played.”

“Really? What kinds of emotions?”

“Optimism. Grief. Falling in love. Even heartbreak. The greatest music touches on all those feelings, sometimes in the same song. I suppose some of those I’m still only experiencing through music,” I reveal.

Chryssy’s eyes linger on mine. “I’d really like to hear you play live sometime,” she says. “Somewhere that’s not a children’s birthday party.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t count,” I say.

“Music videos and recordings don’t, either,” Chryssy adds. “I want to hear you with my own ears. You know, in case anyone asks for my opinion on your music.”

I smirk. “I don’t give private concerts.”

“What if I wasn’t your fake date but the faux love of your life? Would you do it then?” she asks, her expression playful.

“I’d maybe consider it,” I say.

She takes a bite of salad and smiles around the fork.

I lift the linen napkin from the breadbasket, revealing warm rolls. “There’s this beautiful piece by Chopin that captures what I imagine falling in love feels like,” I continue, handing a roll to Chryssy. “It’s the third movement, Largo, of his Cello Sonata in G Minor. There’s such longing in it. It’s slow and soulful, fluctuating between loud and soft. It’s filled with desire. The way the cello and piano play off each other is brilliant. It’s perfect. It’s everything I want in a relationship.”

She smiles and bites into the bread. “You don’t want to be in love. You want to be in love in a song,” she says. “A classic love song, nonetheless.”

“You know what? You’re right,” I say. “And you. You just haven’t found the right love song. Your tune’s out there somewhere.” Shouts on the street temporarily draw my attention. “There’s something special about being able to bring the past to life in the present. I wish I got to do it more.”

“Like blending classical with rock?” Chryssy asks. “That’d be a cool way to introduce classical music to modern ears.”

I nod. “Like how you are with TCM.”

Chryssy studies me. “You know, you’re not like what I thought you’d be. You’re more… human.”

“Have been my whole life,” I say playfully. “Well, really, cello’s been my whole life. It’s the most interesting and the most boring thing about me.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Chryssy responds.

I grunt. “You’re right. Me being a heartbreaker is probably the most interesting thing.”

She smooths out the comforter under her plate. “You’ve really broken up with every single one of your girlfriends?”

“It’s not like I do it for pleasure.”

“You do it for pain, then?” Chryssy asks sincerely, holding my eye contact. “I don’t say that mockingly. People will often do things because they think they deserve it, even when it hurts. Not saying that’s you.”

“Sometimes you have to do things that hurt to avoid greater pain,” I admit. “But no, I’ve never wanted to hurt people.”

She scrunches her nose. “I think I had the wrong idea of you. I thought you took pride in your dating history.”

“And what about me made you think that?” I ask.

Chryssy pierces a crouton with her fork. “Well, your reputation, for one. And probably because I’m biased,” she replies honestly. “I see heartbreak all day every day, and I know it all too well from personal experience. It’s hard to never have a choice in the matter.”

I drain my cup. “It’s okay. You’re not the first one to think I’m someone I’m not.”

“No, but it doesn’t mean it’s right,” Chryssy says, biting a fry in half.

“I’m surprised you eat this stuff,” I say toward a mostly devoured room service meal. “I thought you were all about food being healing. Everything you make is relatively healthy.”

“Food is medicine, but moderation is also important,” she says, studying me. “We seem to have a lot of thoughts about each other, huh?”

“We do, don’t we?” I say, tilting my head.

A trace of a smile plays on Chryssy’s lips as we go quiet. The low volume of the movie’s soundtrack continues playing in the background.

I feel myself almost begin to relax when a notification on my phone vibrates the bed. When I see the subject line, I’m too curious not to tap into the email from Jim.

SUBJECT: Tix Update

Solid jump in tickets after tonight. Colosseum’s now 75% sold out. If you need more time for this relationship, no problems on our end. Glad you considered what we discussed. Just don’t break her heart too badly. She looks like a nice one. —J

Frustration and relief ripple through me, but hope wins out over both emotions. This media attention should satisfy the label—and maybe even the Chaobreakers—for a while.

I must make a noise because Chryssy asks if something’s wrong.

“It’s my publicist, Jim. We’ve sold tickets already,” I tell her. “Thanks again for coming with me tonight.”

“I’m glad it worked,” Chryssy says. “That must make your team happy. They’ll have another breakup to promote next week.”

“This family event of yours doesn’t involve any tall buildings, does it?” I ask, realizing I have no idea what I’ll be walking into in a few days.

Chryssy smiles. “There will be no jumping required.”

A question I hadn’t thought of before comes to me now. “Given your family’s curse, are they going to hate me right away?” I ask. “You know, given my track record.”

She takes a moment before responding. “I think, once they meet you, any negative preconceptions they have about you will fade.” She shifts on her side of the bed to face me. “You were famous before your heartbreaker reputation, weren’t you?” Her tone is careful but curious, the skepticism from days ago gone. “I watched a few videos of you playing in concert halls at seven years old. I can’t imagine you were breaking hearts at that age.”

“Then you underestimate me,” I say, grinning.

Chryssy smiles back. “Fair. You were a cute kid.”

“Your auntie Daisy was right in that people love the start of things,” I say. “But they also love the end and the drama about why something didn’t work out and what went wrong. After enough breakups, it became our thing, and before Leo and I knew it, we became known on a more mainstream level. We used to play concert halls. Now? We sell out stadiums and arenas.”

“Always through fake dating?” Chryssy asks, blinking innocently at me.

I smirk. “Never,” I share. “Not once. Guess that’s what a drought of breakups will do.”

“I guess, with so many musicians and products,” Chryssy says, “having a memorable brand is important.”

We’re memorable, but is it for the right reasons?

Chryssy rests her hand on my shoulder, as though she can sense my unease, and holds it there for a few long seconds. “There’s still a lot of time before tour. You’ll sell out,” she says.

Admittedly, Chryssy’s words are nice to hear.

“Thanks,” I mumble, reaching for the carafe. As I lean closer to her, I catch the scent of lilac and roses. The fact that Chryssy smells like a bouquet makes me smile.

“Can I tempt you with flowers instead of a second cup? I think coffee might be affecting your sleep,” she offers.

“I’m good.” I refill my cup with the still-hot coffee.

“All right, okay.” Chryssy grabs a packet from her bag and rips it open, then lets the dry chamomile flowers slide into a cup. “Have you seen our product yet? This is it!”

At the bottom of the cup are a handful of golden flowers waiting to be hydrated. Chryssy pours steaming hot water over them, and the flowers spin around and around. They appear to slowly come back to life, their petals expanding.

“Chamomile is good for the heart, cools heat, and is calming for the spirit,” she explains. “Perfect for Yin Night. And digestion.”

“That’s it? Just the flower?” I ask, adding a splash of milk into my dark roast. My coffee dominates any chamomile scent, the smell of roasted beans relaxing me.

“That’s it,” she says. “No blends, no added herbs. Nothing fancy, but there’s so much good packed into each drink. Flowers are full of Qi, particularly when they’ve bloomed.” She removes a little pot of honey from her bag. “You might recognize this one from my podcast.” Her eyes flit up to mine. “It’s Auntie Violet’s wild violet honey. Cute, huh? Want to try?”

“After how much you hyped it up, of course.”

She spreads a thin layer on the remains of my bread. “Honey’s also great for your Qi. Yin nourishing and tonifying.”

I take a bite, and the sweetness of the combination bursts on my tongue. “That’s good,” I tell her. “Worthy of an entire episode.”

“I think so, too,” she says. “It takes twelve bees their entire lives to make just one teaspoon.”

I wipe the corner of my mouth with my knuckle. “Sometimes the sweetest creations require a lifetime to produce,” I respond, thinking about how sometimes it took Beethoven years to write his compositions.

“If bees can give their best, don’t be afraid to give me yours,” she says, slowly drizzling the golden nectar into her tea. “I promise I can handle it.”

“I don’t have any lines,” I say. “And I don’t even have moves. I just, I don’t know, do what comes to mind.”

Chryssy stirs her tea, the metal spoon lightly clinking against the sides of her cup. “Really? No moves?” She arches her left eyebrow, lifting the small mole above it. “Come on. Woo me with your best shot.”

To appease her, I prop myself up on my elbow, extending my legs out. “How’s this?”

“Is that comfortable? You don’t look comfortable,” Chryssy says, holding back a laugh.

I chuckle. “I’ll let you know when my arm goes numb.”

Chryssy leans back against her pillow and smiles sleepily at me. “It’s fine. Pickup lines weren’t accounted for in the rules,” she says, cradling the mug between her hands. “Next time you can try the tea.”

Next time. With those two small words, I’m both panicked and reassured that there will be such a thing. Because of course there will be. I willingly signed up for it.

What I can’t quite grasp is why I’m suddenly too warm at the thought or why my heart rate has noticeably picked up at the solidification of those unknown but certain plans.

So much for Yin Night. I store away the mental note: Next time, accept Chryssy’s cooling chamomile tea.

Next time.