173: Chapter 177 The Night Before the Grammys

Chen Mo leaned in. Rihanna had framed the photo with an ultra-wide lens, compressing the lighting trusses behind them and the scattered stage blocking diagrams on the floor into lines of intense perspective.

He made a peace sign at her screen, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned.

She posted the photo on Ins with the caption: "He said my fabric feels like piano keys. I said his piano keys feel like FENTY."

Chen Mo reposted it, adding: "She also said I hadn't bought her clothes. Well, I bought them now—with the royalties she paid me."

Rihanna commented with a row of eye-rolling emojis: "Bring your own sparkling water next time, or I won't save you a seat. And I can't guarantee you a front-row spot at New York Fashion Week either."

Chen Mo saved the photo to his album, put his phone away, and folded the sample jacket embroidered with the word "Dream," placing it into a paper bag.

Outside the window, the New York night sky was bathed in the warm gold of the Fifth Avenue streetlights. He pulled the seatbelt over and buckled it.

Another flight to catch. Why was he the only one who couldn't live an easy life?

He really wanted to go back to his big bed and sleep until the world ended!

February 14th, Valentine's Day, the eve of the Grammy Awards. The whole city was busy sending flowers, going on dates, hugging, kissing, and doing the splits dance.

The palm trees lining Sunset Boulevard were draped with Valentine's Day set menu advertisements from restaurants, and on the beach in Santa Monica, someone had arranged candles into a giant heart shape.

Chen Mo stayed in his apartment all day, running through the performance flow of the Grammy Awards ceremony from start to finish.

The coffee table in the living room had been pushed to the corner, and the floor was marked with neon green tape. Just like the ones in the recording studio, these had been peeled off from the rehearsal room and brought back by Jessica, their edges already curling.

"Did we really have to save those few bucks?" Chen Mo had complained at the time. "Am I that broke?"

Chen Mo distinctly remembered Jessica rolling her eyes at him.

He walked from the piano to the edge of the stage, turned around, walked back to the piano, sat down, played the prelude, stood up again, and walked over to the microphone stand.

Every step landed within the squares marked by the tape. He had paced out the dimensions of the Grammy Awards stage countless times.

In the evening, he leaned back on the sofa, took a sip of water, and looked at the waveform in the mixing console.

Just as he was looking at it, his phone lit up with a message from Taylor: "Where are you?"

"At home, working on blocking. Last day."

She sent a photo.

On a baking sheet sat several heart-shaped cookies, the icing still glistening with moisture. A few of the letters were squeezed a bit crooked— "Chen."

One edge of a cookie was burnt, a dark brown color spreading from the tip of the heart; she must have left them in too long.

Next to it, the coffee cup held the same type of black-barreled pencil he always used for editing scores.

She followed up with: "I wanted to send them to you, but they'd be ruined by the time they arrived."

"Then take a picture for me to eat. I'll take a bite at the screen."

Taylor sent an angry emoji [brows furrowed into a knot, mouth pressed into a thin line].

She immediately asked: "What are you wearing tomorrow? I said wear white for the Grammy Awards, and your dad said wear white too—like you're getting married. It looks good."

"I'm wearing black—the exact opposite of what you guys said. How about that?" Chen Mo joked cheekily. "Dior already sent the clothes over. Black."

"Stop talking nonsense, I don't believe you." Taylor paused, then said, "Hundreds of millions of people will be watching you tomorrow. When you play that piano solo on stage, people in the audience will cry. You've given me that moment so many times; give it to everyone tomorrow."

"Then you play too. Play at home and record it for me. Tomorrow you'll be in the audience, and I'll be on stage. I need a deep breath too." Chen Mo added a kitten-propping-its-face emoji.

After a while, she sent a video.

It was the piano in the Nashville living room. She was wearing that faded band T-shirt, her fingers resting on the keys, playing the B-flat major prelude from his meditation moment.

It was slower than his version, the melody line in her right hand hesitating for a full beat in the third measure.

After the last note fell, she didn't take her hands off the keys, just turned her head to look at the camera.

"Tomorrow, you play that note for the whole world to hear. But tonight, this note is ours. Goodnight, my boy."

Chen Mo watched the video several times in a row.

In the evening, the doorbell rang.

Scott stood at the door, wearing a dark gray cashmere coat, holding a thick stack of documents with the Grammy Awards official security plan printed on the cover.

He walked into the living room, saw the neon green tape on the floor, stepped around it, and sat on the arm of the sofa.

"Tomorrow, you'll leave from the Four Seasons Hotel. It's only 1.2 miles to the red carpet at the Staples Center. We've already sent letters to the police regarding the number of traffic lights, roadblocks, and estimated choke points."

"The motorcade will take Route 3, detouring slightly through Figaro Street. The backup route is 11th Street. The police have also approved another alternative: if we don't take the highway, we can turn directly into the parking lot side gate, just in case fans block the road."

Chen Mo lay on the sofa, silent, his eyes unfocused, lost in thought.

Scott placed the documents on the coffee table, leaned forward, watched him for a moment, and asked softly, "Are you listening?"

"I heard you. Three routes."

"Aren't you nervous about the Grammy Awards?"

Chen Mo turned his head and said, "From the day I signed the contract, I knew where I could go. So, being nervous is useless. I will win."

Scott was silent for a moment and leaned back into the sofa. His eyes, which were always calculating, moved from Chen Mo's face to the neon green tape on the floor, then back to Chen Mo's face.

"You're quite confident."

Chen Mo closed the mixing console, took a sip of water, and said, "I have confidence in the work, in you, and in myself. We've made it this far, haven't we?"

Chen Mo patted Scott on the shoulder and said, "Tomorrow is already under our feet; we just need to walk across it."

Scott placed the documents on the table, stood up, straightened his coat collar, and said, "Tomorrow, when you play that piano piece, I'll be on the side stage. No matter if the three routes are blocked or not, you will be up there on time."

He walked to the door, turned around, and said with a smile.

"Also—your mom sent me a voice message this afternoon, asking how to watch the live stream. She also told you to wear white. She said it's one of the proudest nights of her life."

"The clothes will be delivered to the Four Seasons Hotel; Dior customized them specifically for the ceremony."

Outside the window, the Los Angeles night was already deep. Occasionally, fireworks lit up in the direction of Santa Monica—

It was Valentine's Day; someone was using fireworks to confess their love.

Chen Mo picked up his phone and sent Taylor a message: "Tomorrow, you'll be in the audience, I'll be on stage. Then, we're skipping the after-party and going straight to my place."

She replied instantly: "Tomorrow, I might cry, because I care. Also, don't you dare stand me up."

"Then get your luggage ready." Chen Mo sent a voice message. "Or just buy some when you get there."

He watched the screen, then set his phone on the coffee table.

The pothos plant had climbed to the edge of the screen window, with a few new vines hanging down.