Page 84 of High Notes & Hail Marys

You:both or neither. Idk, I decided to shoot my shot with you, but I wasn’t looking anywhere else. i’m too busy. then I met you and i definitely didn’t want to look elsewhere.

Ster ♥:I think you just answered the question, you weirdo. I didn’t want to go looking, either. But I’m so glad we found each other anyway. Like I said, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. I’m making it official. Mark the calendar. We’ll celebrate when you come back. Xo

You loved a message.

You look at your phone’s home screen: May 18th. But, wait… it’s the 19th already in London, where Sterling’s adorable go-getter ass is already up to go work out. Huh. You have an anniversary. Who knew? Sterling doesn’t seem angry at you for forgetting it, which seems only fair since you didn’t know it existed.

Monday morning, before you fly back, you take an unnecessarily long car ride out of the way to Rodeo Drive. It’s crammed with tourists, andit seems like theyallare whispering when you walk by. You are wearing sunglasses and a hoodie, and the stores have only just opened, but it’s not enough. Your height, cropped hair, and bulk are too distinguishing. It’s bad enough that you don’t know what you’re looking for, but now you’re going to show up on the online gossip sites. Perfect.

A store called Frette calls your name—symbolically, of course, unlike the blonde Texan bachelorettes on the sidewalk. It’s confusing when you walk in, because they sell really bougie woven home goods. Pillows, towels, and duvet covers. No matter how much you love having sex with Sterling on his many beds, all of which have sinfully-soft linens, you are not buying himbedsheetsfor your anniversary. You may be gay, but you aren’t that gay.

You’re about to walk out when you see the mannequin. It’s wearing perhaps the coziest-looking pajamas you have ever seen. They are old-fashioned looking, like something your Papaw might wear, but there’s a timeless appeal to them: the piping on the color and cuffs, the staid little buttons down the top, the deep front pockets. Navy blue, which would look amazing with Sterling’s eyes. You’re almost 100 percent confident in the sizing, but you place a quick call to Maeve anyway, just to check. (You were right; he takes a medium.) It’s a close call, but your eyesnearly bug out of your head at the register: the PJs arefour hundred dollars.

The associate is very sweet, so you school your expression into something neutral when you hand over your card. You ask for the package to be gift-wrapped, reflecting that, somewhere along the way, your life became batshit crazy.

The jet is waiting for you at the airport, the pilot greeting you by name. Somebody else takes your weekend bag, but you personally carry your gift aboard. Set it down on the buttery leather seat embroidered with theSGlogo, and fold your hands over your chest for a mid-morning nap, counting down the hours until you see Sterling again.

***

Sterling’s final tour stop is Edinburgh. The last show, the last night, he closes out the Goalposts Tour in grand fashion, in front of a crowd of 73,000, every goddamn one of which is on their feet screaming. It rained all day, but, just like God orchestrated it, the skies cleared an hour before showtime.

Several hundred fans without tickets are outside, holding hands and crying on the sidewalk. There are tears shimmering in Sterling’s eyes during the last few songs, every one magnified huge on the Jumbotron as it tracks down his face. It’s emotional for you, and you aren’t even the oneon stage. You’ve seen the concert a couple dozen times at this point, and you know every move, every transition, and every costume change. You know when the pyrotechnics are going to shoot into the sky, you know when a big group dance number’s coming, and you know all the call-outs that the fans scream back at Sterling. There’s still something magical in the air that night. A vibe of finality imbues every moment, from the moment Ster walks on stage and introduces himself — which you always thought was funny, becausetalk about unnecessary— to the moment when he’s alone on stage, eyes closed, as he belts the ballad that he closes with. He’s wearing the turquoise jumpsuit that you love, the one from the plastic figure in your office, and his hair has gone to rogue frizz from the humidity still hanging in the air. He’s electric. After the last note, he normally blows a kiss and leaves the stage while the crowd thunders through one last round of applause, gathers their things, and beats a massive exodus for the doors. But tonight, he pauses on his mark. Holds out his arms to the crowd, like he could possibly encircle all of them in his arms.

“Thank you for joining me on this tour. I love you all,” he calls. His voice catches. “I’ll see you soon.”

The audience loses their collective mind. They stomp the stands to the point that you can feel it from the floor, where the VIP tent is, like it could register as seismic activity. They make heart-hands, they blow kisses, they scream like they are trying to call down Jesus. All the European shows, you’ve waited backstage to be closer to Sterling, but you wanted to watch this one, the last one, from the audience. To see it like it’s meant to be seen. You feel wrapped up in the sonic energy the crowd is projecting, an almost palpable force. It’s warm. Fiercely loving.

Sterling lingers on stage a moment longer, soaking it in. Then he waves and exits.

It takes about forty-five minutes for you to be escorted back to him through the labyrinthine web of corridors behind the stage. You knew that would be the case when you chose to watch from the floor. You always feel stupid riding in the dinky golf cart, being zipped around from place to place. He’s in his dressing room, which is awash in flowers—every person who knows him in the whole world must have sent an arrangement—fresh from a shower, his hair pulled back in a wet braid, gulping his water. Sterling always looks tired after a show, but tonight he looks particularly weary. Emotion is naked on his face. He’s leaning against the long vanity, his body folded in on itself.

“You were amazing,” you tell him by way of greeting, sweeping him into your arms.

His forehead wrinkles, and he pulls back. “You think so? There was that section fromGoldenwith the feathers, where I didn’t quite…”

You quickly shake your head. In one motion, sink into his big chair and pull him down onto your lap. “Nuh-uh. It was perfect. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over. As far as everyone in that stadium was concerned, it was the most beautiful, glorious, life-changing experience on Earth. That’s the story we’re going with.”

That makes him roll his eyes. Crack a smile, looping his arms around your neck. “You’re stupid,” he declares.

“That’s not nice,” a feminine voice drawls from the doorway. You turn your head. Belatedly, the woman leaning against the frame knocks. “Oops. Sorry, Ster. Am I interrupting?”

It’s Ronnie Lewis, lead singer of Neon Roses, the band that opened for Sterling the last two cities. There hadn’t been time to get any huge acts for the six stops on the Euro extension, so all the openers were a little less-known, more up-and-coming. Sterling absolutely loved the chance to support smaller talent. Neon Roses was an act that he hand-picked after listening to their music on TikTok, a trio of pop-rock sisters. Veronica, alias “Ronnie,” middle sibling and frontwoman, has long, long dark hair shot through with a riot of bleached highlights and twisted into a complicated crown of plaits. Her elfin ears are pierced six or seven times on each side, from the lobes straight up the helix, and threaded with littlesilver hoops. She’s got thin lips and a bit of an overbite, but it all adds up to sexy and alluring on her face. At the moment, her black eyes are sparkling with mischief, and one hand is hidden behind the voluminous maxi skirt she’s wearing with a tiny crochet top.

“It’s fine, Ronnie. Where are Alis and Phoebe?” Ster asks.

Ronnie makes a vague, dismissive gesture. “Around,” she guesstimates. “We were together right when you got offstage, but Alis was on her phone and Feeb ran off with one of your roadies, that fucking slag. The show was bloody brilliant, Ster. Couldn’t believe it. Best night yet.”

“Lastnight,” Sterling corrects her gently.

“More’s the pity.” She pulls a face. “I swear, I could do this every night of my life.”

On your lap, Sterling’s chuckle vibrates through you. “Take it from someone who’s done it for almost two years; it gets tiring.”

“Yeah. That tracks. Doesn’t mean it isn’t a blast. I’ll get to the point.” She twists from side to side playfully. “Can we hitch a ride on your fancy plane?”

He sounds surprised. “My plane? Of course you can. Where do you need to go?”

Ronnie shrugs. “Wherever you’re going. We’ve never flown private before, and we figured we might never get the chance again. Thought we’d have ourselves a little after-party, yeah? Just take the round-trip.”

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