Page 1 of A Boy Called Lovesong

PROLOGUE

“What was I thinking?What the actual fuck was I thinking? This was a bad idea. Everything’s going to go wrong. I know it. I mean, it’s going to end in fucking disaster. And humiliation. And years of therapy… I meanyears.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Noah. Could you stop being so dramatic?”

“And could you stop being so calm?” I asked straight back as we hustled past our party guests, Margot and I each carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres that had been picked half clean. “I’m teetering on the brink of a world-class panic attack right now, so if you wouldn’t mind taking off your sensible book agent’s hat and replacing it with your sympathetic best friend’s hat, that would be greatly appreciated.”

Margot pointed to the top of her head. “Thisismy sympathetic best friend’s hat, and it’s tellingmeto tellyouthat Joel’s birthday is going to go off without a hitch. Trust me, everything is going to go swimmingly tonight.”

“Swimmingly? Oh fuck, now I know I should be worried.”

Margot flicked her fiery red hair defensively. “Why?”

“Because you only ever use jargon from the fifties when you’re pretending not to be stressed.” I held my tray high asI weaved through the living room of our Greenwich Village brownstone, now crowded with sixty of Joel’s and my nearest and dearest friends. As I approached the kitchen I called out to Carol and her new boy toy—“Coming through!”—before bumping open the door with my ass.

I plonked the tray down on the kitchen counter, opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a fresh tray, before spinning around so fast I almost crashed straight into one of Joel’s college pals. “Jesus, Pete! Watch out for the deviled eggs. What are you doing in here? You know the kitchen is off-limits when I’m hosting.”

“I’m looking for some tape. One of your ‘Happy Birthday’ signs has fallen down. By the way, how did you go getting your hands on those tickets to Ben Platt at Radio City Hall?”

“Not now, Pete.”

“It’s just that I was kinda hoping I could make it four tickets instead of two.”

“Seriously?”

“Not now, Pete,” said Margot, repeating after me as she rummaged through a kitchen drawer and slapped a roll of tape into Pete’s hand. “Now vamoose.”

I blinked, wide-eyed. “Vamoose? Fuck, you’re really stressing me out now. That word is older than Joel’s grandma’s deviled egg recipe.”

“I am not stressed. But I’d love you forever if you let me smoke right now. Please can I smoke?”

“Please can you not ask questions you already know the answer to!”

“Okay, okay. And maybe I’m a little stressed too. I’m simply trying to manage equal parts perplexity over your choice of retro hor d’oeuvres, and a very real concern that the slightest impact on your emotional state right now is going to slow down the delivery of your new manuscript to me. In fact, if I really thoughtabout it,mystress is the result ofyourstress rubbing off on me.” She took the tray off me and set it down on the counter. “So, talk to me. What’s up with you? You’re supposed to be the devil-may-care journo who can charm his way into any A-lister’s dressing room or sweet-talk his way past security to steal a backstage interview not evenRolling Stonecould nab. And yet here you are like some hysterical hostess with a fridge full of shrimp cocktails and a twitch so nervous it could make the dials on a Richter scale wanna dance. This isn’t you. The Noah Van Owen I know is cool, calm, and confident. He makes his own rules. He makes his own luck.”

“Yeah, well, this Noah Van Owen also makes his own crab cakes. Now would you mind passing me that tray so I can get these out to our guests?”

“Otherwise, what? The entire night will go to hell in a handbasket? It won’t. The world is not going to end tonight. Everything is going to be fine. Noah, repeat after me, everything is going to be—” I could see her thoughts ricocheting across her face. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you invited Joel’s sister. Please tell me you didn’t invite Joel’s sister. What’s her name again? Vulva. Clitoris. Vagina.”

“Regina.”

“So close.”

“And if she knew you called her any of those names, I’m pretty sure she’d pull a few strings and have you banished to an eternity in hell.”

“Oh goodie, we can go together. Hasn’t she already booked you a one-way ticket, you and all of Dorothy’s other friends? What a party that’ll be. Ooh, I bet there’s deviled eggs on the menu down there too.”

“We can only pray. In the meantime, you’ll be happy to know there’ll be no other form of prayer tonight because no, I did not, nor would I ever, invite Regina to one of our gay soirees, whetherit’s Joel’s birthday or not.” Suddenly something other than our conversation stole my attention. “Wait. Do you hear that?” I turned my ear toward the living room, then shouted so loud they would have heard me in Tribeca. “Lloyd! What the fuck is that you’re playing? Is that Nicki Minaj? Jesus, you had one job. Now put Dame Shirley Bassey on like I told you!” With a huff I turned back to Margot. “Where were we? Oh, that’s right… you were trying to convince me that—”

“Everything’s going to be fine.” She gave a long slow nod as though she was talking to someone who had just come out of a coma. “What are you worried about, burning the cheese fondue? Who cares? What’s the worst that can happen tonight?”

I relented and closed my eyes, although I kept an ear on the proceedings in the living room to make sure Lloyd did as he was told. “What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll tell you what’s the worst that can happen. The whole thing could be a complete catastrophe. What if Joel freaks out at the idea of a surprise party for his fortieth birthday? I know he’s Mr. Nice Guy. I know he’s the fun one everybody loves. I know he’s the one who lights up every room he walks into. But what if he’s had a bad day? What if his students frustrated the fuck out of him, or he couldn’t get a scholarship across the line for one of his precious prodigies, or the music didn’t… fall into place. He tells me that’s what he lives for, the days when the music just… falls into place. What if that didn’t happen today? What if the last thing he wants to do is have sixty of his closest friends shout ‘surprise’ in his face the moment he opens the door? What if all he wants to do is cuddle up with Chet on the couch and listen to records? Speaking of Chet… where is that stumpy-legged furball?”

I pushed open the door to the living room and called over the music and chatter, “Has anyone seen Chet? Where the hell’s Chet?”

Some of the party guests shook their heads, others helped me search behind furniture and under the couch before Andrea came down the stairs saying, “I just went to the bathroom and saw him through your bedroom door. I think he’s moping.”

“Moping? That dog’s just like his master, he loves a crowd.”

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