Page 57 of High Notes & Hail Marys

Ster ♥:All kidding aside, I really hope that the fans like it. Early reviews are promising. But it’s no good being loved by critics if the public rejects it.

You:who are we kidding? you could sing the alphabet and the graylings would stream it round the clock.

A few minutes go by, strung out pleasantly on the indica strain that’s got you buzzing. You’ve just considered closing your eyes when your phone vibrates again.

Ster ♥:Sorry. The coordinator just came by to tell me that everyone’s ready on the roof, and they want me to record a few voiceovers for internet promo before I head out. Gotta go.

You:good luck. You got this xoxo

Sterling’s listening party is being livestreamed. Balancing your laptop on your chest, you join the tens of thousands of people in the virtual waiting room, your head high keeping you pleasantly loopy and blissed-out. Maybe you drifted off for a bit in the dark, cool nest of your living room, because, the next thing you know, the screen is full of screaming girls and a vision of Sterling, holding a mic.

“Hi, guys!” he says brightly, addressing the cameras. “Welcome toGolden’s release party. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Then he addresses the two hundred people on the roof, saluting them with a wave and a blown kiss. The camera pans to them crying and holding each other. Beyond the rooftop, the Sydney midnight is alight with stars. It’s summertime there, you realize belatedly, when you see that the girls are wearing sundresses. For his part, Sterling looks casual. It’s all a farce—you know from dating him that the “casual” looks sometimes take the longest to achieve—but an appealing one. His hair, which has grown out to his shoulder blades, isside-parted so that a cresting fall of curls frames his face like a 50s bombshell. He’s got a slouchy pinstriped blazer over a tight, low-cut white tank top tucked into navy blue trousers. There’s a light blue silk scarf tied rakishly around his neck like an afterthought. His nails are painted a shimmery gold, an Easter egg to the title of the album. You’ve actuallysleptwith him and your mouth is watering—you actually pity all the swooning girls.

Sitting on a backless stool, Sterling goes through each track and introduces it, and drops a few words about the production, or the writing process.

“Which ones are about the Train?” It’s a distinct shout above the crowd, rudely sung out in an Aussie accent.

Tucked in the corner of the screen, you see Cal take a step forward. He is meant to be undetectable, dressed in head-to-toe black, his hands crossed. But his size makes him stand out nonetheless. He’s scanning the crowd for the rule-breaker, ready to forcibly remove him if prompted.

Sterling holds up a hand.

“Guys, no questions,” he reminds them patiently. “But I will address that one. Kind of.” He laughs. “You all know that I never say exactly who a song is about. The way I see it, once I release an album, the songs don’t belong to me anymore. They’re yours.The songs end up being about the peopleyouknow. All I’ll say is that, once you get your physical copies in hand, check out the lyrics booklet. Let’s move on, okay?”

Another song starts playing. It’s Track Seven or Eight; you aren’t sure. You set your laptop down on the arm of the couch and go grab the cover of your record. You have to turn a light on to squint at the insert, knowing full well that it is the middle of the day and this is ridiculous. Why don’t you just open the blinds?

It takes am embarrassingly-long for you to see the pattern. On half of the songs, everyKin the lyrics is capitalized.

It’s on the horniest ones, but some of the happiest ones, too.

You crack your knuckles in the silence of your living room, inexplicably trying to fight the dopey smile spreading across your face.

On the computer screen, Sterling has his eyes closed. He’s vibing to his own song being played, his mouth shaping the words. You mentally calculate how long it would take to jump on a plane to Australia. To chase him down and kiss him.

Once you sober up a bit, you’ll go on all your social media accounts and change your bio line to a lyric from the new album.

***

“Did I hear you correctly?” you ask your screen. On the other end, Peter’s face lights up.

“You heard me right, my man,” he says jovially. “Kefi yogurt.”

Your face screws up in confusion. “That’s a big name,” you venture. “I’veheardof them.”

“Well, they’ve heard of you,” Peter says. “They want to pay you six mil over four years to be the face of their new campaign.”

Frankly, you are struggling for words. What comes out is decidedly stupid.

“I don’t even eat that brand,” you stumble. “Isn’t that what old ladies like?”

Peter laughs. “That’s the public perception, yes. Women over fifty are their biggest consumer demographic, but they are looking to change that. They believe that young people of all ages could benefit from the probiotic benefits of Greek yogurt made with the most wholesome ingredients, including millions of live cultures.”

“And they chose me?” you repeat.

“Yup,” he confirms cheerfully. “Six million, man! They also want to pay you ten grand per sponsored post or tweet you make on your socials. Why areyou not dancing on the ceiling right now? This is huge! Your first nationwide endorsement, Kai!”

“Yeah, I know.” You switch your phone between hands and scratch your shoulder in deep thought. “It’s great, and all. But why me?”

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