Page 66 of High Notes & Hail Marys

You turn the toy over in your hands. “You didn’t. It’s custom.”

“They make custom Pop figures?”

“Uh-huh.” You admire the little Sterling in yourhands. “My goddaughter, Chanel, got it for me for Christmas.”

“You have a goddaughter?”

“Yup,” you nod. “My favorite cousin’s little girl. Well, not so little anymore. She’s thirteen. She’s a huge fan. We got talking about the tour when I called her at Thanksgiving, and she asked me what my favorite costume of yours was. And I said it was this one, the blue one. She got it ordered on Etsy.” A blush creeps over your face. “It’s, uh, stupid. But I like it. Reminds me of you.”

“You didn’t tell me that your goddaughter was a Grayling,” he says, mercifully skipping over the truly ludicrous fact that you keep a toy figurine of your boyfriend on your shelf.

You snort. “If I commented every time I ran into someone who was a fan of yours, we’d never talk about anything else.”

“Yeah, but she’s your family.” He leans across the bed, grabbing something on the nightstand. A pad of hotel paper, the kind with the name emblazoned on the top. “What’s her name again?”

“Chanel. Chanel Reinhart,” you say. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to send her some stuff. You got the name of the Etsy artist who made that figure?”

Clutching Chibi Sterling protectively, you frown. “Why? You going to hit them with a DMCA complaint?”

He grins, showing off his pretty teeth.

“No. I’m going to try and find them a job in my merch department. The label mostly handles that, but I’m sure I could pull something off.”

You shake your head, putting the toy back in its place of honor on the shelf.

“What did I do to rate a call this early in the morning?” you ask playfully. “I know you haven’t had whatever green juice you are drinking instead of coffee, and it looks like you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet.”

He breathes on his hand in a showy way. “What? Can you smell my morning breath over there?”

That makes you laugh.

He cracks a smile too, but his face goes serious. “We have to talk.”

“I hate those words.” You stop fidgeting in your chair, and tuck a half-eaten apple slice back into its bag.

“I know.” He pulls his hair back in his fist, making a loose ponytail with nothing to tie it back. On screen, he takes a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.”

“What, are you pregnant? I hope I’m the daddy.”

“Seriously,” he says, gently stern. “You’re not going to like it.”

“What I don’t like is you dragging it out. Spill it already.”

He lets his hair go, and shakes it out. It’s grown halfway down his upper arm, now.

“I’m extending the tour,” he says bluntly. “In support ofGoldendoing so well. I’m going to announce it on stage tonight. Tickets for sale tomorrow. Shows starting next week.”

“What?” you say blankly. And then—“How long?”

“Seven more weeks in Europe,” he says. “Six cities. Not too, too long.”

You swallow, feeling your throat tighten. “Seven weeks? I’ll be back at OTAs in seven weeks.”

Sterling frowns. Rubs his forehead, and rolls his shoulders.

“You’re upset,” he states.

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