Chapter 4

VALE

On the first day of Christmas, I find my muse

“The bus is stuck?” Frost asks, peering at our manager like he’s relieved to hear it. Hmm. I twirl the candy cane around in my mouth. Butterscotch-flavored, my favorite. Cinnamon is Crispin’s preferred flavor. Frost likes sour apple. Aspen goes for traditional peppermint. We have it all, on our bus.

Christmas, after all, is our bread-and-butter. I don’t know how popular we’d be if it weren’t for our holiday hits, decimating their way to the top of the charts.

“Stuck.” Donner looks like she wants to kill somebody (the blizzard, I suppose), scraping her fingers through her frosty blond hair. “We could try salt or kitty litter, maybe a shovel.”

“Should I call for a snowplow?” our manager asks, multitasking on her iPad at the same time. “Yeah, I think I’ll call for a snowplow.” She wanders off without waiting for an answer.

We’re standing on our tour bus, our very still and not-moving tour bus. If only our jet hadn’t been grounded, we wouldn’t have had to drive at all. Donner’s so stressed that she reaches up to the neckline of her sweater and presses a hidden button, activating the tiny lights that decorate the fabric.

“We might have to spend the night?” Frost again, sounding oddly eager. I cant a look his way. Crispin and Aspen do, too. I’m the one that likes to pick up girls, play around with them for a night, send them home in the morning because their presence disrupts my ability to write.

But Frost? He’s shy. Doesn’t do groupies. Doesn’t do one-night stands. He seems to like Cyan though. Same here.

As she talked, I closed my eyes and listened. Her voice was a wave of color and inspiration, blues and whites and gold specks like stars. As she spoke, I heard voices, like an angel speaking to me from on high. A muse. An inspiration.

Like Frost, I wouldn’t mind one more chance to look at her. To see if I can hear my muse speaking to me in her voice. Who knows if we’ll ever see her again?

“I’ll go ask for a shovel,” I volunteer, before Frost gets a chance to.

“You’re going back out?” Aspen asks, bending at the waist to squint out the window at the raging winter weather, the strings of his red hoodie dangling down. The gold bells on the ends tinkle, like the start of something. That’s what bells are like to me, beginnings.

Oh, I like that. I take my pen out, search around for something to write on and settle on the table. It’s fine. This table’s helped me write a dozen songs. I finish scribbling, stand back, and toss my head softly to one side. The words read: The Christmas bells signaled both an ending and a beginning for us.

Yeah, I’d like to see Cyan just one more time. I feel flooded with something. Some Christmas ghost maybe. A holy spirit.

“It’s not that bad.” I’m blatantly lying, but nobody ever calls me out on anything.

“Put your hat back on.” Crispin yanks my beanie over my head from behind, letting go and leaning around my shoulder to smirk at me. “Give me the shovel when you get back. I’ll dig us out easy.”

Frost is leaning against the wall beside the door when I walk that way. I snag a scarf off a hook and wind it around my neck as our eyes meet.

“Did you want to go in and see her? We have time.” I cover my mouth and chin with the fabric, waiting for Frost to blurt out the words that are making him so fidgety. He can be honest with me. He knows we’re all wondering why he had sex with some random girl in our bathroom. That’s not like him.

“Have you ever been into someone for no reason at all?” Frost asks honestly, and I laugh, patting him on the shoulder as I pop the door open. The wind snags the end of my scarf, yanking on it and trying to choke me. I reach up with a finger and pull on it, dragging the fabric down to respond.

I’m not a big talker, but this is worth replying to.

“If you’re into Cyan, it’s not for no reason. She’s cute, Frost. But she’s also kind of sad. With strings of white lights and snow, that shit is magic. Careful.” I turn away and flick my scarf into place, trying to protect my lips from going numb.

Too late.

I don’t even have a mouth by the time I get back to the porch, knocking on the door. Ringing the bell. My entire mouth has frozen off. Doesn’t matter. I write music, and Aspen sings it. That’s how I like it done. I knock again. It’s loud in there, entirely possible they don’t hear me. Would it matter if I just walked back in? There are enough people at this party that I doubt anyone would notice.

My thumb presses down on the handle, and I step inside to the sound of my own song playing in another room. My lips curve up as I move through the foyer and down the hall, passing by what I think is the entrance to the kitchen.

Someone slips out of the swinging door, and I spot Cyan on the other side.

She’s standing on the opposite end of the room, back pressed to a counter, surrounded.

This is interesting.

I press a gloved hand against the white wood and push it in enough to see and hear what’s going on without anyone noticing me.

“Were you grabbing his … genitals ?” Cyan’s dad asks, staring at his daughter with his glasses drooping to the end of his nose. “Why on earth would you do that in the foyer of your family home?”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Cyan hisses back, dressed in a gold party dress that barely hits her at midthigh. She looks distinctly uncomfortable, picking at the sequins on her long sleeves and shifting from one heeled foot to the other. The lights strung over the ceiling rafters throw a warm glow onto the dress, and it fractures, spilling across the room like starlight.

My breath catches and I yank my pen out, cursing when I can’t find any spare space on my pants to write. I don’t want to take off my jacket, so I steal a Christmas card from the counter nearby—it’s blank inside—and write my lyrics on the white cardstock.

“You’re a groupie, Cyan? Since when?” This from somebody I don’t know. A woman. Maybe Cyan’s sister? They look similar. Close in age, too.

“She is not a groupie.” Cyan’s mom is rigid, hands on her hips. I can’t see her face, but her entire stance is combative. “Get out to that party and talk to Hunter, Cyan. I swear to God, all that time with your grandma has done … I don’t know, something to you.”

“I’ve been home for five minutes. How would you know what all that wonderful time with Grandma did for me? If she were alive, I’d be baking homemade gingerbread and building a house with candy. Not here, arguing with you. It’s Christmas. Can we save this until the New Year?”

“Life doesn’t restart at the New Year. It’s a meaningless date on a meaningless calendar. Have some eggnog and try to be nice to my friends.” Her mother steps back, shaking her head as Cyan stands there with that look on her face. Melted snowflakes.

I release my breath, long and slow. Relaxed. And then step into the kitchen.

My sudden presence breaks the tension. Rouses Cyan out of her funk, too. She gapes at me.

“What are you still doing here?” she asks, but not like she wishes I weren’t. She sounds as eager, as excited as Frost. Cute. I smile at her.

“Waiting for a snowplow. Bus is stuck. Do you happen to have a shovel?” I walk right up to Cyan, ignoring the rest of her family as I stuff my gloved hands into my jacket pockets. She has pretty cheeks. We could lay together and I could write on her skin, if she’d let me. I’ve love that, writing all over a woman’s body.

Never done that before. Never had that thought before either. It surprises me.

“I, err, a shovel?” She blinks big lashes at me. Her own lashes, a little clumpy with badly applied mascara. I like that, too. I almost laugh, but I don’t want Cyan to think I’m making fun of her. She clearly gets enough of that at home. “Sure. A bag of ice melt, too?”

I nod, and she grabs my wrist, dragging me through the kitchen, a utility room, and into a large garage. She releases my arm like she’s just realized what she was doing, digs her teeth into her bottom lip.

“You’re an overthinker, like me,” I say, putting my hand back in my pocket and feeling the rumpled Christmas card. Sometimes I lose the lyrics I write on things, but that’s okay. I figure whatever ones disappear or are lost, those are meant to go. The others are like fate. “But I’m quiet, and you’re loud.”

“Oh, I’m loud?” she says, indignant, taking it like an insult when I meant it as a compliment. I lower my eyes, softening my smile.

“In a good way. Do you sing? Have you ever gone caroling?” My question surprises her as she opens well-organized cabinets, in search of the items I asked for.

“Singing? Oh no. Not me. I love Christmas music, but I don’t want to be responsible for making it. Aha!” She drags a shovel from a tall cupboard and turns, presenting it to me like a sword. Cheerful now, but so sad earlier. Cyan is the sort of sad that doesn’t know it’s sad. She thinks she’s happy, perky, and upbeat, but I imagine she’s terribly underappreciated and horribly lonely.

I feel lyrics surge up and force them back down, not wanting to write on the pristine wall of Cyan’s parents’ garage. They don’t seem like they’d appreciate it.

“They told me you were back here,” Frost says, appearing beside me. He looks into the garage, at Cyan hauling a forty-pound bag of calcium chloride out of a cabinet in heels. I let him be the one to rush down and take it from her, color spilling into his cheeks as he lifts the bag from her hand. “Thanks.”

That’s it. He retreats with the ice melt, leaving me to deal with the fallout.

Cyan clears her throat and straightens her too-short dress. Embarrassed.

“Eggnog sounds great , Mom,” she growls under her breath, pausing in front of me. “I wish I could help with the shoveling, but …” She gestures at her dress and heels. “Duty calls.”

We look at each other for a hot minute, but then she smiles at me and moves down the hall, brushing our shoulders together as she passes.

“They don’t own you,” I remind her, turning to stare at her back. Her shoulders are tense, but not aggressive like her mother. Defensive. “And Merry Christmas, Cyan.”

“Merry Christmas, Vale.” She doesn’t turn around, so I toss the crumpled card at her back. Cyan is gaping as she turns around, squats down, and picks it up. She unfolds it and looks at it before rising to her feet. With a tiny smile, she tucks the card into her dress and takes off.

I signed my name in there. It’s probably worth money online. Hope she finds a way to use it well.

I already know that meeting her today wrote me a new album. I owe the woman.

A wistful sigh escapes me as I trap myself inside my scarf again and wend my way through the sprawling house to the front door.

Stepping outside is a nightmare, but I successfully deliver the shovel to the bus.

All that’s left to do now is leave this mystery girl behind. I smile down at the word goodbye scrawled on my palm, slip out of my coat, and settle in with my journal to write.

Two hours later, we’re still there.

“The plow can’t make it. The storm is getting really bad, and I don’t think it’d be safe to sleep in here.” Our manager, Kristy, gestures around at the bus. It’s approved for this type of weather, but that doesn’t mean it’d be pleasant to stay here in the middle of a blizzard. Also, the toilet is still broken. “I’ll figure something out, but just for tonight, we may need to rely on the Fallon family’s generosity.”

“I have to ask that man if I can stay in his house?” Aspen chokes out, hand at his throat. He looks like he wants to die. “Fuck. Why did I say that shit?”

“If you’re only nice to a girl because of her dad, then you’re a douche.” Frost yawns, feigning disinterest, but his excitement is apparent in his eyes. He’s glad that we can’t leave, that we have to stay.

“If they’ve got eight guest bathrooms, I bet they’ve got eight guest bedrooms, too.” Crispin laughs, raking his fingers through his damp hair. He spent an admirable two hours trying to dig us out. Didn’t work, His clothes were soaked with snow when he came back onto the bus, tearing his sweater off, peeling a wet wifebeater over his head and tossing the lump of fabric into the sink with a splat. He’s shirtless now, peering out the window at the fancy house, glowing in the darkness and backlit by swirling snow. “Let me grab a jacket and let’s go.”

He slips into a dry coat (he almost never wears coats, so this just proves how fierce that storm is).

Our driver shuts the bus down, and we slog our way back to the house again. Not even sure we could get back to the bus if we wanted to.

People are pouring out of the door, neighbors discussing how they better get home now or they won’t get there at all. Others making arrangements of where they’ll ride the storm out for the night.

Kristy and our assistant, Magda, head off in search of Cyan’s parents while the four of us find the last dregs of the party.

And Cyan, with a man leaning over her, his hand on the wall to her right. She has her head turned away and is clearly in another universe, not listening to whatever it is he’s saying to her. Her body language is telling me from all the way over here that she doesn’t want him to touch her.

Frost stiffens up, pushing past me and walking at a quick clip over to where the pair of them are standing.

“He’s going to destroy our career one day, you know that, right?” Aspen chases after him, while Crispin and I stroll at a normal pace. Aspen is the one who overreacts, and we all know it. Frost can handle this.

“If you don’t leave now, I’ll wait until the blizzard is at its worst, and then I’ll lock you outside and hope hypothermia finishes you off.” Frost stares at the man, eyes drifting to that palm pressed against the wall.

Cyan uses the opportunity to duck away from the guy, moving around behind Frost with a glass of eggnog in her hand. Her eyes are red, and she’s swaying a bit. Drunk, possibly. She stumbles, and I catch her elbow, Crispin doing the same on the other side. Aspen provides Frost with (unnecessary) backup, arms folded, expression severe.

“Whoa there, Sugar Plum. You need some water or somethin’?” Crispin gently tugs the glass from her fingers and sets it on a nearby table. He wouldn’t normally interfere with someone else’s choice to drink, but Cyan is way far-gone. She needs water, painkillers, and sleep.

“Frost Manderach?” the man says, also blinking red eyes at us. “Inked Pages?”

“Leave.” Frost grabs the guy by the edge of his jacket collar and drags him down the hall while Aspen scrubs a hand over his own face, trying to hide a smile behind his palm. His eyes flick from Cyan to the drunk man. He helps Frost to the front door while Crispin and I set Cyan in a chair by the refreshments table. Nobody else is in here now except for us, tucked in this cozy den with its leather couches, a roaring fire, and holiday decor the likes of which I’ve never seen.

There’s a—fake or real—stuffed polar bear. Life-sized. A three-story tree with gifts spilling out from underneath it. Swags of real garland with shiny gold bulbs. The decor is on point, but the atmosphere is not. Stuffy. Tense. Forced.

Lyrics are in my throat. I have to write them down. While Crispin pours Cyan a glass of water, I dig a small packet of painkillers from my pocket (I get migraines so I keep them on me) and set them in her lap. Then I snag a cranberry colored napkin and write music and words both.

“I wish I could write,” Cyan mumbles, popping the pills in her throat and dry swallowing. Huh. I can’t do that. Does that mean she’s good at swallowing other— I cut that thought off before it poisons my entire body. “Nobody listens to me when I talk. Maybe they’d listen if I wrote it down?” She chuckles, but I hear it again. Sadness.

“We need a place to stay tonight,” I tell her as I take the glass of water from Crispin and help her put it to her lips without spilling too much. “To ride out the storm. If I’m still here in the morning, we could write together.”

“Mm, I’d love that.” Cyan smiles at me, brunette hair mussy, mascara half-gone and a bit of eyeliner smeared on her cheek. She falls forward, and I catch her, one hand cradling her cheek, the other arm around her waist.

“Nice work,” Crispin says with a laugh, hauling her up and out of the chair and into his arms. “Now, where’s her bedroom? We’ll tuck her in, snug as a bug with visions of sugarplums dancing in that pretty head.”

I smile at that, heading for the hallway and trying my best not to laugh at the look of sheer horror on Cyan’s father’s face when he sees his daughter in Crispin’s arms. Maybe, deep down, her family loves her. But they’re all fucking assholes.

Might be nice for her, if we got stuck here for a day or two.

Might be nice for me, too. I’ll write ten albums.

And hope I have a room to myself so that I can—