Page 75 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“What’s it supposed to be?” Hayden asks,

“An Old Fashioned.”

Sterling trades glasses with you and samples your drink thoughtfully.

“Maple,” he announces. “I think they used maple syrup instead of sugar. And there’s something…” Hefishes the skewer from the glass. There’s a leaf on the bottom, beneath the cherry and curlicue of citrus zest. It looks charred, like someone set the edges on fire.

“Burnt bay leaf,” Frish nods. “Is it a woody taste? Someone got creative.”

“They don’t make ‘em like this in Georgia,” you say dryly. As expected, it provokes laughter from the group.

“Want to trade drinks?” Sterling asks.

“I’m good,” you say. Sterling holds on to both glasses.

“I’ll drink it after,” he says. “I kind of like it.”

You shrug.

After a few more pleasantries, Frish and Hayden move on to continue greeting their guests. While Sterling drinks both his cocktail and yours, partygoers mill around, stopping by to kiss Sterling’s cheek and pay their respects. You shake more hands than you ever have in a single evening.

About ninety minutes into the party, Frish takes the stage. He gives a touching speech about how special Sterling is, and how happy he is to work with him, both as the CEO of Indigo Records and as a personal friend. He raises a toast. The birthday cake is wheeled out on a flatbed handcart. It’sbeyond massive: easily six feet in diameter and stacked five tiers high. It alternates white layers with those banded in gold marzipan, edible golden glitter between them. Cursive letters on the side spell outSG. Sterling pulls you by the hand to stand with him beside it.

“There had better not be a stripper in this thing!” he calls to Frish.

The whole crowd laughs.

An attendant in a tuxedo kneels beside the cake with a lighter and, as if by magic, sparklers shoot glittering flares high over the massive confection. Sterling gasps in surprise, and the whole room starts singing to him. Your fingers are still looped in his, and you swing them in time to the lyrics. Around the room, people are taking pictures and beaming. When they’ve finished the birthday song, Sterling closes his eyes tight. He makes a game attempt at blowing out the sparklers, but it does nothing. Someone calls out a joke about ringing for the fire department, but the candles extinguish themselves a few moments later.

“Think that counts for my wish?” he asks you.

“I hope it does,” you say, meaning it.

Sterling cuts a ceremonial chunk from the top, and then waiters swarm the vast room with carts of slices already plated. The mountain of cake is wheeled away. It makes you wonder if the wholegiant confection was real, or if most of it was just styrofoam covered in frosting, built to look impressive and nothing more. The piece you are handed is delicious, though. Licking your spoon, you ask Sterling if he knows what flavor it is.

“Lemon cake with blueberry compote and lavender buttercream,” he says happily. “My favorite.”

The order of events is backwards—dessert before dinner—but, after cake, you guys wander up to the mezzanine and sit with friends of Sterling’s while having a bite to eat. The catering is some sort of hyper-trendy, froufrou British approximation of American Southern comfort food: BBQ pork on tiny, flat cornbread wafers with jicama slaw, mac n’ cheese dusted in rosemary and microplaned nutmeg, pickled sweet pepper and red onion on delicate skewers, and fried shrimp wrapped in praline bacon atop a rounded scoop of polenta. It’s all executed well, technically, but, given your background, it’s an affront to your culture and people. That doesn’t stop you from downing about six of the stupid, fussy pork crackers and countless quantities of shrimp. Food is food, after all.

Upstairs, a few waiters are passing champagne, and Sterling is on his third flute. His friends, an A-list actor-singer couple, have just excused themselves to FaceTime the nanny and check on their four daughters. You take advantage of the lullin the action and nudge Sterling in the side.

“Might want to have something to eat, champ,” you comment affectionately.

“Huh?” Sterling lolls his head against your shoulder like a big cat. A friendly, half-drunk lion, maybe.

“What is that, round five? Six?” You tip your chin at his champagne. “Much more of that, and the birthday boy’s not gonna be able to stand up straight.”

He blinks his big, pretty eyes at you guilelessly. “It’s my party, and I’ll fall down if I want to,” he sings quietly. Then he pats your arm. “Just taking advantage of the night. I don’t usually get to be surrounded by all my friends and drink what I want.”

“Are you having fun?” you ask. The mezzanine is a bit quieter than the ground floor. The lights are dimmer up here. More intimate. Sterling’s slow, sexy smile is enough to knockyouon the floor.

“So much,” he says. “Thank you for coming, Kai.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“I don’t just mean here, tonight,” he clarifies. “I mean London. Tour. I appreciate you wanting to be with me.”

Your chest is doing that jerky two-step again.Before you can do something stupid—get down on one knee and spontaneously propose; lean over the mezz balcony and scream from the top of your lungs that you are crazy for Sterling Grayson—you kiss his temple.

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