Chapter Twenty Vivian
Chapter Twenty
Vivian
I tuck my phone against my shoulder to listen to my voicemail while I scan my items through the checkout at the grocery store.
“Hey, Vivian, this is Gigi Wright. I was the announcer at the open mic night last month at The Standard?”
I pause, holding a bottle of wine over the scanner, surprise rolling through me at the idea I’m getting a phone call from Gigi. I try to remember when I might have given her my phone number.
“I hope you’re doing well, sweetheart. I remembered you talking to Errol after your performance, and when I asked him he said you’re pretty good friends with Murphy Hawthorne. Well, I saw her at Rosewood Roasters a few days ago and asked her for your number, because I’ve been reaching out to all the open mic performers over the past few months. Would you be interested in performing at our Fall Festival?”
My head jerks back in surprise, and I almost drop my phone. What?
“Originally, we had this band scheduled to perform. It’s Shane Eldridge’s son, Spencer, who is a really great country singer. You know, he went to LA once to perform on that X Factor show on TV?”
I glance around, confused about who Shane and Spencer are and thankful that there’s nobody else in line to use the self-checkout machines. I seem to be really struggling to follow this voicemail and handle my groceries at the same time.
“Well, anyway, he broke his arm last week in some accident involving a horse drag race? I’m not really sure. I try not to ask too many questions. Anyway, he’s not going to be able to perform on Saturday night, and I came up with the idea that we could do a big open mic night with some of our best performers over the past few months, and I just knew I needed to reach out to you and invite you to perform, if you’re interested.”
There’s a brief pause, and I wonder if she ended the message without saying goodbye, but then she starts speaking again.
“Oh, and one other thing. I completely understand that you don’t live in town. Murphy said you’re in LA, but I figured I’d let you know that each of the performers will get a fifty-dollar stipend and a coupon to get a cinnamon and sugar pretzel at the festival. You know, just in case that sways you at all. Okay, dear. Give me a call back. Hope you’re well. Bye now.”
I chuck my phone into my purse and then swipe my card to pay for my order. When I finally make my way out of the little market around the corner from my condo, my mind is retracing over everything she said.
A part of me wants to say yes to Gigi’s request. The idea of playing a few songs at a Fall Festival in the middle of wine country sounds incredible. All the wine and pumpkins and fall festivities, not to mention the excitement of being onstage.
That’s not the real reason.
I sigh as I dig around for my keys, trying to ignore the voice in my head that’s telling me I’m only interested because it means I might see Memphis again.
But unlike many of the other days when I’ve dismissed my thoughts, today it’s not so easy.
I miss him. More than I thought I would. More than I want to.
Or maybe that’s a lie.
Maybe I miss him just as much as I knew I would, and that’s why it’s so hard.
I thought that now, four weeks after coming home from Rosewood, I would have been able to move on. I heard in Sex and the City that it takes twice as long to get over someone as it did to fall for them.
I call bullshit.
Quite a few times I’ve found myself lying in bed at night and thinking back to the time we spent together. I’ve lost myself in memories of his mouth between my legs, bringing myself to the peak with my own fingers as a mediocre stand-in.
But I’ve also stared out at the water, thinking about that conversation we had sitting in the back of his truck after Theo came to town. Or about that time we spent wandering through the vineyard, the stupid grape game, and all the silly banter.
I’ve tried to convince myself that it wasn’t as good as I remembered. That I’m waxing poetic about a fling I had on vacation, which is much easier to fixate on than the real problems you face in normal, everyday life.
Doesn’t stop me from daydreaming about him.
Or imagining him coming down to LA, like a white knight, showing up to declare his love in some kind of grand gesture.
But it’s a foolish dream.
I told Memphis I wasn’t interested in things moving forward. I told him that I needed to come here and he needed to stay there.
I thought it would be foolish to try and turn us into something more. To allow the very big feelings I felt for him to continue once I left.
But it looks like it doesn’t actually matter what I thought, because those feelings and emotions have continued anyway.
Leaving Rosewood was supposed to be enough to help me move on.
But it wasn’t.
Instead, I still feel all those things, plus the twinge of regret.
“Look, I think if we can adjust the way you’re singing that last word at a higher pitch ... if you drop low instead, I think it’ll be really killer,” Richie says into the mic that pipes into my headphones.
I nod. “Yeah, let’s try it again.”
The music we recorded when I was in the studio last month filters through, starting a little bit before the bridge. I wait for the beat and when I hear my cue, I start with the same lyrics I’ve sung almost ten times now. But this time, I finish the last line on a lower note, dropping down instead of going up.
Richie cuts the music and puts both arms in the air. “That’s it, baby! Perfect! I’m gonna send it over to Jonas.”
I smile and tug off my headphones, thrilled that we’re finally wrapping “Sweet Escape.” I thought we finished it during my last few days in the studio, but Jonas said he felt like it was missing something and sent me back to rerecord.
“It doesn’t have that same angsty something that you had when you sang it that first day in the studio,” he told me. “Get that back.”
Of course, after Gigi’s call yesterday and spending my evening thinking about Memphis, about the connection we had that I still can’t let go of, I finally broke down and did the thing I swore I wouldn’t ever do.
I called Murphy, convincing myself it wasn’t because I wanted to hear about Memphis.
I asked how she’s doing. How the vineyard’s doing. How things were going with Wes.
But my friend could see through the very flimsy conversation.
“Just ask me,” she eventually said.
I sighed. “How’s Memphis?”
“Really good, actually.”
Something twisted in my gut. Not that I wanted him to be pining or depressed or anything stupid like that.
“I think he misses you, though,” she added.
I laughed, shaking my head, surprised at how her words filled my heart with joy.
“Nah, he just misses the sex.”
Murphy gagged, and we both laughed and moved on.
But her words stayed with me all night.
He misses you.
Once Jonas has had a chance to listen to the updated version, he gives me a call.
“It’s perfect,” he says, his voice coming in loud through the speaker on my phone. “Thanks for sending it over, Richie. Go ahead and wrap that. That’s the final version.”
Richie starts to press buttons on the soundboard. “Sounds good, boss.”
I take Jonas off speaker and step out of the studio, heading into the hallway as I bring the phone to my ear. “Hey, before you go, can I ask a quick question?”
“Shoot.”
Licking my lips, I debate with myself again, not even really sure why I’m asking, but still compelled to. Still wanting to know for sure.
“There’s this Fall Festival. It’s up in Rosewood, that place I went to write last month?” I push through the door that leads out to a long hallway, then rest my back against the wall. “How would you feel if I went up there and performed a few songs? Maybe got a little more inspiration?”
Jonas’s response is quick.
“You know how the label feels about performances before an album releases,” he says. “The official position is always going to be no.”
I nod, though he can’t see me. I knew that was going to be the answer. It’s one of those realities you face when you sign with a label. Not everything is up to you anymore.
But part of me still needed to hear it. Still wanted confirmation.
Just on the off chance ...
“But listen,” Jonas continues, interrupting my thoughts. “Todd made it abundantly clear that visiting that town is what fueled you to create some of this new music that is just ... so fucking good. And the reality of any hard-and-fast rule is that there are always exceptions, no matter what anyone says.”
I swallow thickly, my lips parting a bit as I listen.
“So consider this my personal permission—no, my encouragement —for you to go back to that town and perform your little heart out.”
My head falls back and thuds gently against the wall behind me as surprise fills me.
“Whatever muse of yours they’ve got hidden away in wine country up there”—he chuckles—“go back and let it speak to you.”
He says a few more things before we get off the phone, and I sink down to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees.
I don’t even know why I asked.
I mean, it was a pointless question.
Of course I’m not going to go.
What real purpose could it serve?
You know why you asked. You want to see Memphis again.
I roll my eyes and go back inside to talk to Richie and make sure we’re wrapped for the day before heading home.
But my thoughts about Memphis and returning to Rosewood stay with me long after I’ve left the studio.
Of course part of me wants to go back to Rosewood. Of course part of me wants to see Memphis. Listen to the warm cadence of his voice and feel him hot and hard underneath me. Hold him tightly in my arms and hear the deep rumble of his laugh.
It would be foolish of me to pretend otherwise.
I pour a glass of wine, sink into my couch, and stare out to where the sun has just dipped below the horizon.
But it’s unrealistic.
My life is here.
His life is there.
And that’s not going to change.
A knock on my door surprises me. Normally guests have to call up through the buzz-in. When I look through the peephole and spot Theo on the other side, my nostrils flare.
“What are you doing here?” I growl as I yank the door open. “All your shit is gone.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says stepping in past me without an invitation. “But there were a few things missing that I’m here to collect.”
I roll my eyes and wave my hand toward the living room. “Take whatever you want, Theo.”
“Don’t be such a bitch, Vivian. I’m not here to rob you. I just want my Armani suit and the bottle of Macallan.”
“I don’t have your Armani suit.”
“Yes, you do. It’s in the dry cleaning from after that dinner at Nobu.”
I walk into my closet and tug out the dry cleaning, seeing that he is, in fact, correct. His Armani suit and two dress shirts are tucked into the clear plastic alongside my pale-green dress. I pull out my dress and hang it back in the closet, then take the rest of the items out to where he’s still standing in the entry.
“Is that all?”
“And the Macallan.”
“A bottle of whiskey? That’s important enough to come back for? Really?”
He shrugs and gives me that stupid smile. “It’s good whiskey.”
I grab it from the liquor cabinet and hand it to him, but when he reaches for it, I pull it back.
“Are you really going to never actually apologize?” I ask, suddenly overwhelmed with the righteous belief that I deserve an apology.
Not that it would change anything. But just because it feels ... right. Like it might provide some sort of closure.
“I apologized when I came to Rosewood.”
“That was a bullshit apology and you know it. You were only there to say whatever you thought would get you what you wanted.”
“Why should I apologize, Vi?” he asks, chucking the dry cleaning over the couch and tucking his hands in his pockets, his posture easy even though his attitude is beginning to shine through.
“Because you slept with Amelia! Because you betrayed my trust and ruined our relationship.”
He shakes his head. “You were checked out of our relationship months before it ended.”
Crossing my arms, I glare at him. “You don’t get to point the finger at me, as if I’m the one to blame for the fact you couldn’t keep it in your pants,” I volley back.
“Look, I cheated. It was a shit thing to do. And yeah, maybe I’m an asshole for it. But you act like you played no part in our relationship fizzling out. Which is bullshit. Fuck, sometimes I wonder if you ever even really wanted to date me in the first place.”
My head jerks back at his claim. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I wanted to date you. I loved you. I shared my life with you.”
He shakes his head again, the move infuriating me.
“I’m not saying you didn’t love me. I loved you, too. But you didn’t share your life with me. You never got emotional with me, never shared your deepest fears or told me all your dark secrets.” He picks up the dry cleaning and hangs it over one arm. “And I didn’t, either. It was easier that way. But like I said, I may have played a part in this ending. But you did, too.”
Then his eyes drop to the Macallan in my hand.
“Keep it,” he says. “Have a nice life, Vi.”
And then he’s out the door, the soft snick of it closing behind him sounding like a loud boom with the way it echoes in my condo.
I stare at the bottle of whiskey in my hand for a long moment, suddenly having the urge to chuck it across the room, wanting to watch it shatter on the wall.
How dare he?
How fucking dare he?
I gently set the bottle on the counter in the kitchen and then storm out of my condo, nothing but my keys and phone in my hand.
The sky is fairly dark when I pull out onto the road outside my condo and onto PCH heading north, the highway that stretches from Orange County all the way up to somewhere in Northern California. Six-hundred-something miles of road.
Not that I want to drive six hundred miles, but late night on a Monday means Highway 1 is going to be mostly free of traffic and a great stretch for a mind-clearing drive.
I blast that stupid playlist that I found when I was in Rosewood, singing along to the songs I know and drumming along on the steering wheel.
I am enraged. Infuriated.
But as much as I try to drown my thoughts with music, they still manage to creep in. And eventually, I turn it down, roll down my windows, and give in.
Part of me is shocked at Theo’s allegations that I’m equally responsible for the demise of our relationship. He fucking cheated. He’s the slimeball. And placing blame on me is a cheap way for him to get out of feeling responsible for what he did.
Okay so ... I know that to be true.
The problem is that I think there’s another truth in there as well.
One I don’t want to face.
But maybe one that I should.
Maybe he was right when he said I didn’t share my life with him.
Growing up in a home like mine, that was what I saw. That’s what I knew.
My parents didn’t talk about their emotions and their fears. They didn’t share with each other on a deep level. Hollywood is all about fake images, and that’s what they portrayed. The perfect face of a perfect family.
The only person who truly knows me is ... me.
And sometimes I wonder how well I actually do know myself.
Was I really not vulnerable with Theo?
I try to think back over our relationship. Three years of us dating and having sex and then moving in together at the end of last year. I mean, surely we were vulnerable about things with each other, right?
But try as I might, all I see when I look back are the same few things. Social outings with friends, semiregular sex, and maneuvering around each other in our home.
It’s heartbreaking.
And almost unbelievable.
Which is why I dial Murphy’s number. The dial tone ringing is replaced by the soft sound of a guitar in the background when she finally picks up.
I need more than just my own opinion on this.
“Hey, Vi. Two nights in a row. You must miss me, huh?”
“You got a sec?”
The sound of the guitar cuts off, and then Murphy’s voice sounds closer.
“Everything okay?”
“You’re my best friend. You know that, right?”
“ Awww . Thanks, girl. You’re my best friend, too.”
“And as best friends, we’re honest with each other.”
“Right,” she says, dragging the word out, clearly curious what I’m getting at.
“So I need you to be honest with me. Do you think we have a deep relationship?”
Murphy’s silent for a minute before she responds. “I’d say you like to keep things close to your chest,” she finally says.
“Don’t be diplomatic.”
“What is this about?”
I sigh. “Theo came by tonight.”
“He’s a prick. Don’t believe anything he says.”
At that, I let out a laugh. “Well, he told me that I never really let him in. That I don’t let people get too close. So now I’m wondering if that’s true.”
Murphy pauses for a beat before she speaks again. “All right, if you want an honest answer, no. I don’t think you let people super close. But there isn’t necessarily anything wrong with that. And you shouldn’t let him make you think there is. Not everyone likes to be an open book, and that’s okay.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, considering what she’s said. “So give me an example,” I say. “An example of something I could share with you that would be ... deeper. Letting you close.”
“You could talk to me about Memphis.”
“You really want to hear me talk about your brother’s big penis?” I joke.
“See? Right there. When there’s a chance to be honest about what’s on your mind, you make jokes. It doesn’t have to be about my brother’s penis. We could talk about how he makes you feel or how much harder it was to leave than you thought it would be. Or the fact you miss him. That would be letting me close.”
That same emotion wells in my chest from before. “But I don’t want to talk about those things,” I tell her, my voice quiet. “And why would you? Why would you want to hear about that?”
“Why did you listen to all the emotional, hard things I shared before I moved back to Rosewood? Or when I started dating Wes, why did you help me talk through the ups and downs? We listen to each other because we want to know each other, Vivian. And we share because we want to be known .”
My eyes well with tears. I bat them away, trying to keep my eyes clear as I drive. We continue in silence for several minutes, and I appreciate my friend so much for sitting on the phone with me while I battle that little thing in my chest that tells me if I’m vulnerable with someone, they’re going to take advantage. That if I’m ever truly known, I’ll be turned away.
But the thing that speaks louder than my fear is the voice that tells me I can trust Murphy.
“I miss Memphis,” I tell her. “More than I was prepared for.”
“I’m sure you do,” she responds, her voice soothing and warm. “He misses you, too.”
“You said that last night. How do you know that’s true?”
Murphy snorts. “I caught him looking at your social media while he was at his desk,” she responds, shocking me. “I’ve never seen a man close a browser so quickly. You’d think it was porn.”
My mind scrolls back over the social media posts I’ve been sharing recently, trying to remember what I’ve put out there and what Memphis has seen.
“I wish I could tease him about stalking me,” I say, giggling to myself.
“You could if you called him.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me. I told him it wouldn’t work and then left him after he poured his heart out.”
“My brother poured his heart out to you?” she asks, chuckling quietly. “Jesus, Vivian. You two are so meant for each other. The way you draw each other out is just ... wild. You’re a watercolor, and he’s an Excel spreadsheet. It doesn’t seem like it’s gonna work at first, but then it does.”
“I think you need to learn better metaphors.”
“Meh, I like it.”
I laugh, my heart a lot calmer than it was a little while ago.
“He does draw me out,” I say, deciding to share what’s on my mind instead of keeping it to myself. Trying to do the thing that is so unnatural to me. “He makes me feel like I can be me, but like ... an authentic version of myself.”
Murphy hums. “That’s so romantic.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking it over. “Do you think if I tried, I’d be able to get him to forgive me?”
“As your best friend, my honest opinion is that he’s madly in love with you and would forgive anything. But as Memphis’s sister, I’m going to tell you that you better really fucking mean it if you try.”
Blowing out a breath, I know what the right decision is. What the only decision is.
Doing whatever it takes to get Memphis to forgive me. To take back what I said in his driveway. To show him who I really am, and ask him to love me exactly like that.
Because that’s the way I love him.
I would be a fool not to acknowledge that there are still very real hurdles in our way—his job and mine, the distance, my fears about relationships. But it feels even more foolish to give up on a man I’ve fallen in love with without ever really trying.
“Okay,” I say, letting out a long breath, excitement beginning to simmer in my veins. “I have an idea. And I need your help.”