Page 41 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Not what I meant,” you clarify. “Never mind. It’s all good.”

“Okay,” Sterling murmurs. Sounding distracted. You are on the verge of telling him that you guys don’t need to have this conversation right now, but you don’t want to sound passive-aggressive. He was the one who called you, after all. You trust that Sterling has enough agency to hang up the call if he doesn’t want to be having it. “What are you up to?”

You pause a moment to swallow what’s in your mouth. “Stuffing my face.”

It’s gratifying to hear the hint of a smile in his voice. “You are always starving on Wednesdays.”

“High-intensity drills,” you agree. “The Riots are definitely going to put up a fight. And Lambeau’s gonna be cold as fuck.”

“You did say you wanted to cool off.”

“Key word iscool,” you say, stopping to chug some water. “They’re saying it might snow on Sunday. Shit’s cuckoo.”

“Well, you have me there,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it won’t snow in Dublin this weekend.”

A text notification flashes across your screen. It’s the unofficial Cyclone defense group chat—definitely not to be confused with the team-sanctioned, official one—with a meme of Coach Beausoleil’s face superimposed on a game ofHungry Hungry Hippos. Coach’s face is on every hippo; in the middle are a combination of cheeseburgers and W’s. It’s kind of offensive (in a bad way) and kind of lame, but it came from a rookie, so what do you expect? You roll your eyes.

“Did I lose you for a second?” Sterling asks.

“Sorry,” you say. “These kids forget they ain’t in the frat house anymore.”

“Ahh,” he intones. You aren’t sure if he understands, but it’sreallynot that important. “How’s our good friend GoGo?”

You snort. “Notmygood friend. He’s fine, I guess. Having a helluva season.”

“Yeah, I knew that was an exaggeration. I was just wondering. I haven’t spoken to Gabi in a couple of weeks, but last time she couldn’t stop talking about him.”

“Gorgeous straight women like Gabi are living proof that sexuality isn’t a choice,” you declare derisively, stabbing a spear of red bell pepper into a cup of hummus.

“That’s awfully queeny of you.”

“Well, slap a damn tiara on my head and call me a queen, then.” You chomp loudly on your snack, just to be obnoxious. You’re expecting Sterling to laugh, but he doesn’t. “I miss you.”

It’s treading into dangerous ground. You’ve never told him something like that before. It came out without you really thinking about it, and you realize the gravity of it immediately. Shit. Well, it’s not like you can take it back.

He hesitates an infinitesimal moment. Half a second, maybe. “I miss you too, Kai.”

Pleased, you flop back on your pillows. “I wish I were with you in Dublin,” you confide, high off your triumph of successfully telling him that you miss him. “We could… I dunno. Drink Guinness? Eat potatoes? Search for leprechauns?”

“That’s a lot of stereotypes in one place,” he says, and his voice has that distant tone again. Like he wants to be kidding with you, but his tone hasn’t caught up yet.

You’re watching the ceiling fan spin ‘round and ‘round, fast enough in the shadows of your darkened room that it’s making a strobe effect. You always keep your bedroom like a bear’s den, dark enough to hibernate. There’s a little late-afternoon sunlight leaking through the blackout curtains, but that’s because your housekeeper was in today, and she never closes them all the way.

“Imagine if I had a normal job,” you say, your soft bed making you say soft things. You close your eyes, trying to absorb Sterling’s voice like a drug through your skin. “I could call in sick. Play hooky.Fly over to see your show, and we could make out in your fancy hotel room afterwards.”

There’s another pause, longer this time.

“I’m glad you’re not here,” he says simply.

That one makes your eyes fly open in the dark. “Huh?”

“That sounded bad,” he amends quickly. “But, also, it’s true. I always enjoy seeing you, obviously. But I have a lot of routines when I’m on the road, and I don’t like compromising them for anyone. I sleep at weird times, I eat at weird times, I go on long stretches of vocal rest, and I like to just do my own thing. It helps keep me sane when I’m jet-lagged and flying back and forth for international shows.”

His voice is level, but there’s a defensive note there. That one he gets when he’s expecting a fight on something. You don’t want to give him one—you have a policy of always,alwaysmeeting people where they are—but you can’t help the feeling of being nettled. Your brain spins its tires on a response, not giving you a good one right away.

Sterling clamps onto your silence immediately.

“You didn’t like that,” he says. It’s not a question.

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