Page 89 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“You need to sleep, baby.” You extend a hand toward the floor. “C’mon. I’ll get you up and put you to bed.”

He shakes his head. “No-o-o. I don’t want to get off the floor.”

Patiently, you wave your hand in his face, so he can’t help but notice it and, hopefully, take it. “Can’t leave you on the floor. You’ll get dust in your hair, and you won’t be happy. Fuck your back all up.”

As if he didn’t hear you, Sterling cranes his neck. The braid in his hair, which has dried, is a messy brown coil on the floor. “Just leave me here. Maybe I’ll die.” His voice sounds hopeful.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” You sigh, realizing that this situation has officially gotten out of hand. “You’re not allowed to die; are you crazy? InLondon? Those Graylings would make Princess Diana’s memorial look like one of the little traffic-accident crosses on the side of the highway. They’d bury this whole block in ugly flowers and teddy bears. You ever hear of them wailing and gnashing their teeth in the Bible? It would be like that. You want to make all your fans sad?”

“I’msad,” he declares dramatically, throwing an arm over his face like the scant light is offending him. “I hate this. I can’t handle it.”

He’s clearly not getting off the floor on his own volition, so you bend down and scoop him up. Into your arms, like a princess in a story. He huffs a cute little breath through his nose and sags against your chest. God, you should get, like, boyfriend hazard pay for this. You examine the first floor. There’s a bedroom on this level. Maeve used it a couple of weeks ago when she flew in to discuss business with Sterling and catch some West End shows. The housekeeper aired it out, and nobody’s been in it since.

Wishing you’d had the forethought to turn a light on, you carry Sterling through the darkness to the bedroom and push the door open with your foot. There’s a light switch on the wall that you are able to nudge with the back of your hand without jolting him too much.

Like all the rooms in the house, this one is also a little funky and long on historic character. The walls are a yellowy-tan, and the headboard of the bed is a ferny blue. Behind the bed is a big tapestry in cobalt and gold: a family of peafowl in a swooping thicket of greenery and flowers. It must be ten by ten feet. There’s a pair of chairs against the wall that are lighter blue, and heavy flaxen curtains that brush the floor. The only concessionto the 21st century is a large, flat-screen TV mounted opposite the bed.

You deposit Sterling on the mattress, and he curls up like a pill bug while you make quick work of locking the door, setting the alarm, and turning off the living room light. In the bedroom, you close the curtains tight. He’s wide awake and staring at a fixed point on the wall, looking like he’s bugging out.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” you say in a soothing voice, the kind that you use on your little nieces when they skin their knees. “We’re going to get ready for bed, and we’re gonna watch some TV. Take your mind off the world ending. Sound good?”

You’ve steeled yourself for protests, but you don’t get any. In the hall bathroom, you brush your teeth and splash some water on your face. Returning to Sterling, you see that he still has his damn shoes on. What a mess. You start with the shoes and strip him down, with very little cooperation on his part, to just his briefs. He’s usually got a multistep Korean skincare routine at bedtime, plus lotioning his skin, doing his teeth and his retainer, and repeating grounding affirmations in the mirror while he drinks some chamomile tea, but none of that is happening tonight.

Maneuvering around his body, you get the bed unmade.

“Covers or no covers?” you ask.

He groans. “I’m so hot.”

For reference, it’s maybe sixty degrees outside, and the house isn’t much warmer. To your thin Floridian blood, it’s more than chilly. But you can make do. You slide yourself under the sheets and duvet, propping your back against the headboard, and encourage Sterling to lay his head on your lap. His body is bare atop the covers, and you can keep an eye on him like this.

You don’t waste time asking him what he wants to watch on TV. You just put on The History Channel, where a documentary on World War II is playing. Predictably, it’s very dull and features a lot of black-and-white photo stills. Just what you were hoping for. Sterling doesn’t complain. Finally, you can let your eyes unfocus and zone out a little. If you had known that Ster was going to overindulge, you wouldn’t have also had a brownie. It’s not that you can’t handle yourself under the influence, but even people with steel tolerance have their limits.

There’s no point trying to be cranky at Sterling for not listening to you about restraining himself, so you don’t bother. You vibe a little, watching the footage of old bombers and uniformed soldiers, and undo Sterling’s hair from its elastic. Un-plait his braid with one hand, enjoying the way your fingers card through the waves left behind.Whatever detergent the housekeeper uses smells amazing; the sheets are giving off whiffs of lavender and soap.

Head on your thigh, Sterling occupies himself with methodically stroking your blanket-covered shins. Petting you like a cat. Honestly, as long as he’s focusing on something other than the noise in his head, you’re good. Maybe you doze a little. You’ve reached the point in your high when you’re sleepy. Party’s over; time to crash.

You don’t wake up so much as regain awareness. You’re still sitting up in bed. Beside you, your phone flashes 4:17 AM. The TV channel has switched over toAncient Aliens,an episode about the Nazca Lines. It takes a moment of re-orienting yourself to realize what disturbed you.

Sterling is fidgeting. Quill’s teachers in elementary school used to tell your mom that he had ants in his pants and, nonsensically, that’s what you think of. At first, you imagine that maybe he’s having a bad dream brought on by being high as fuck. You put a hand on his shoulder, and he’s fever-hot. But not sick. Trying to get comfortable. You look down his body and see the cause.

“Shit, Ster,” you say. Your voice comes out deep from sleepiness, rumbling with surprise. “I didn’t know that conspiracy theories did it for you like that.”

He groans low in his throat and rolls onto his stomach, hiding his raging erection. Or, rather, grinding it against the bed.Jesus.While you were at thenice and sleepystage of being high, Sterling pulled into thehorny and restlessstation without telling you.

“Shit,” you comment. His curls are still all over your lap on top of the blankets. You tangle your fingers in the ends, since your tactile fixation with his hair knows no bounds, and you’re not even pulling. But he’s butting against your hand. Begging for attention.

“I didn’t know you could get this turned on, being stoned,” he mumbles.

You wind a lock around your finger. “Something about THC and dopamine. They didn’t cover that one in exercise science, either.” You can’t help the yawn that nearly splits your face in half. “Why don’t you get under the covers and sleep it off?”

He looks up at you. In the light from the TV, his blue eyes are dark in a way that has nothing to do with the hour. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

The directness of the request sends a blunt shock up your back and almost makes you tighten your hand in his hair. You have to pause a moment, but you restrain yourself.

“Nah, baby,” you say. “Not when you’re like this. If you still wanna put your money where your mouth is in about eight hours, after we’ve slept some, I’d be happy to take you up on that.”

“When I’m like what?” Bless the man, he looks honestly confused. “Don’t you want me? I want you.”

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