This was not the lecture Bryn had braced for. This was something far more confusing.
“But you?—”
“There is a quality to your voice,” Vivian stated, more observation than compliment. “A warmth. An earnestness that is difficult to fake. My guess is that’s what Montoya heard. It’s what you need to lean into.” She took another step closer, her voice dropping even lower, somehow sounding more commanding than a shout. “Don’t try to mimic me or anyone else you’ve ever heard. Whatever the hell you did on your little audition clip—do that. Be aggressively yourself,” she said like she was already annoyed at the result and they hadn’t started yet.
Without another word, Vivian took her tea and started for the booth. Conversation apparently over.
Bryn wanted to say something else, but she couldn’t form words. An excellent problem before spending eight hours performing with her voice. A question materialized, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask it. How was she supposed to relax and be herself whenherselfwas a ball of anxiety and imposter syndrome wrapped in decade-old skinny jeans?Herselfwas currently trying not to spontaneously combust under the intense scrutiny of the most intimidating person she’d ever met.
“Let’s go,” Vivian said, leaning out of the booth. “We don’t have time to waste.”
She said it so casually, like she hadn’t left Bryn reeling. Like she hadn’t weirdly given her a compliment that was both clinically dispassionate and sounded like an order.
Head spinning, Bryn tried to collect herself. She was still terrified, but now it was a different kind of terror. The pressure wasn’t just to be good enough anymore. It was to be herself, on command, for an audience of one who had just, against all odds, given her a reason to believe she could. Swallowing hard, Bryn followed Vivian into the heat of the booth.
ChapterEight
Standing at the kitchen sink,Vivian stretched her neck while she washed her hands. Her attention was, annoyingly, drifting out the window. To Bryn. Bryn, who was sitting at the edge of the pool, jeans rolled up to her calves as she kicked her feet in the water.
After a shaky start where Bryn’s voice had literally trembled with nerves, they’d managed the impossible and found a rhythm. Bryn still moved too much, but by anticipating her unnecessary gesticulating, Vivian had learned to sway with her. It looked ridiculous, but it seemed to help Bryn get into a groove and avoid elbow jabs. There was something to be said, Vivian supposed, about pouring every ounce of energy into a performance with apparently no sense of ego.
And now there Bryn was, relaxed and leaning back, her palms splayed over the artificial grass, face craned toward the sun like she’d never have a blemish or a wrinkle. Like the gravitational center of the entire solar system was a cinematographer’s trick. A key light designed only for her. Vivian should be helping Iris with lunch, but the harsh afternoon sun was doing the impossible: it almost made sense of Bryn’s chaotic haircut. Despite the cheap monotone dye that shone blue, the layers didn’t look choppy so much as intentionally textured.
When Bryn turned her head, Vivian noticed the fine hairs at her temples were the natural red that matched her fair, freckled skin. In the unrelenting sun, the curve of Bryn’s jaw was surprisingly delicate. It wasn’t just her jaw. The softness of her other features seemed designed to draw all focus to her eyes. An evolutionary trait meant to inspire a protective response. Like a fawn, or a fucking bunny, with its deceptively sweet features and heartbreakingly wide eyes.
It was a study in lighting, an academic observation of how a subject could be transformed by atmosphere, Vivian told herself when she realized she couldn’t look away. Her gaze lingered until the running water scalded her skin, a sudden, unwelcome heat.
“Raspberry vinaigrette or strawberry?” Iris asked, triggering all of Vivian’s self-control not to jump. Not to give away that her mind had taken an inappropriate sojourn.
“Lemon,” Vivian replied defiantly, as if that might cover her embarrassing tracks.
Iris placed the wooden salad bowl next to her and shaved fresh Parmesan over the colorful meal. “Is she presenting herself as a sacrifice to a sun goddess?” she joked.
Vivian made a sound in her throat before muttering, “Wait until she has to worry about aging.”
“I like her,” Iris decided out of nowhere. “She’s got moxie.”
Drying her hands with a kitchen towel, Vivian laughed. “Moxie?” she repeated because Iris had suddenly been replaced by a 1920s mobster.
“She’s spunky.”
“Oh, God. That’s worse. What an unpleasant word.”
Iris smirked. “You like her too,” she declared without the slightest inflection of doubt. She started for the sliding glass door, bowl in hand.
“I do not,” Vivian snapped, defensive tone doing nothing to ease the heat racing up her throat. A heat she couldn’t blame on the sink.
Iris laughed.Laughed.
With an eye roll, Vivian followed her out.
* * *
“It’s going pretty good, right?” Bryn asked between bites of grilled shrimp and arugula. “That last chapter especially. It felt right… right?”
Vivian looked away. The worry streaking Bryn’s eyes triggered a reaction too reminiscent of the discomfort of staring into the sun. Too much like the desperate hunger for approval Vivian had tamed long ago.
“I mean, I’ve never started falling in love under the stars with a seventy-pound dog snoring nearby,” Bryn continued because she was incapable of leaving silence unfilled.
