Page 71 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Excuse me?”

“The walk I was going to take.” You made a circulargesture with your hand. “You could, um, show me the sights? We could walk by some of those places you mentioned? You could be like my guide. That is…” you hasten to add, “if you aren’t busy or anything.”

Muriel brightens instantly, her toothy smile falling back into place. “I would be honored, Mister Reinhart!” she says, slipping her arm through yours.

“Call me ‘Kai.’”

***

By the end of your second week in Europe, you have learned a few things. Sterlingdoeskeep odd hours and have offbeat habits. There are days that he is in bed, asleep, by 7 PM with the curtains tightly closed to block out the sun that hasn’t set yet, and other days that you halfway awaken to the sensation of him crawling under the covers beside you at four in the morning. His schedule is unpredictable, to say the least, and there are times that he gets caught up in paperwork sent over from some member of his massive team orhasto draft a song that’s been bouncing around his head all day, and he loses track of time. He goes on long stretches of vocal rest and insists on texting you even when you are side-by-side. Before shows, he does extensive singing warm-ups that are frankly hilarious, though you wouldneverlaugh. Unlike you, he drinks his weight in tea, both hot and iced,no sugar or cream. He has to pee constantly, which he earnestly tells you is a good sign, because it means that he’s hydrated.

Sterling checks the weather compulsively in the days leading up to shows, despite the fact that he happily performs in the pouring rain. He logs his temperature, weight, and blood pressure every morning as soon as he gets out of bed. (You think your boyfriend might be a bit of a hypochondriac.) Along with his dietary restrictions before performing, he also goes on internet and social media fasts before shows so that his mind is clear and positive when he’s on stage. He keeps a dream journal on his side of the bed.

As you make these discoveries, Sterling is hesitant at first. With each revelation, you get the sense that he is waiting for you to react badly. To saythat’s weird, or roll your eyes. Maybe even comment negatively. Youknowthat he’s on edge, however, and despite the fact that you would never judge anything he did that was legal and hurt nobody, you go the extra mile to stay silent. To roll with the punches. To offer to hold his designer man-bag when he uses the bathroom for the fifteenth time that afternoon, and to make him another pot of Earl Grey. You buy your own dream journal at a boutique in Mayfair, a fussy notebook that costs £26, even though you forget your dreams as soon as you wake up.

It takes about ten days of this careful treatment, of the two of you existing on tenterhooks, but he starts to relax, and, eventually, you do as well. You are in the VIP tent for two of his three shows in London, and you fly the hour-and-a-half with him to Paris each night of that second weekend as well.

Everything is going amazingly… great. Artemis starts to warm up to you, and accepts treats and cuddles about fifty percent of the time. You have a British personal trainer that beats your ass in the gym five days a week, just as efficiently and effectively as your American NFA trainer at home. Muriel is a delight, and, while you doubt it was part of her original job description, she becomes your sightseeing buddy for your days by yourself. You have to slow down to a snail’s pace for her to jog beside you in the park, but she’s a game companion. Besides, she knows all the best places to grub in London, the little holes-in-the-wall with homemade beef pasties and fresh fish-and-chips served in newspaper to soak up the grease. You introduce her to Kendrick Lamar; she introduces you to malt vinegar on french fries.

As for Sterling, well, that is the best part of all. You’ve never spent this much time in his company, even accounting for all the times that he is rehearsing, doing business stuff, or otherwise occupied. You guys spend a lot of time in bed: cuddling, eating meals that one of you cooked—you are better with meats, and Ster excels at baking and veggies—and, of course, having tons and tons of sex. You fuck on the old rattan bed, which is stronger than it looks, on the kitchen counter while Sterling’s scones are in the oven, on the bottle-green overstuffed couch in the living room, and, on one thrilling occasion, you blow him on the terrace when his body is below the level of the balustrade and the risk of being seen is so minuscule as to be almost nonexistent.

For your part, you keep pretty damn busy. When you aren’t being a kept man, flying around to Sterling’s shows or holding his purse, you are working out. Taking conference calls at funny hours, since you are anywhere from six- to nine hours ahead of the States. In the middle of April, your brand deal with Kefi is announced, and you join a livestream that starts at 7 PM, West Coast Time. It’s four in the morning for you, which requires waking up at three, dumping two shots of espresso down your throat, and squeezing Visine into your eyes to make sure you look clearer and better-rested than you actually are.

There are things you can do in Europe that you (okay, Sterling) would never get away with in America. The third week, ahead of his Vienna shows, you fly over in the wee hours of the morning and take a pre-dawn tour of the Schönbrunn Zoo, which is, according to your tour guide, the oldest in the world. Hand-in-hand, youand Sterling stroll through the rainforest house and the Polarium, your guide chirping away in her German accent as dew dries on the grass and the animals start to wake up.

After, you eat a catered breakfast overlooking the broad lawn, with the freshest smoked salmon, croissants, and boiled eggs that you have ever tasted. Maybe the fresh air has made you hungry. There are mimosas in whisper-thin glass flutes and strong coffee in gilded demitasse mugs. The eggs are served in funny little cups that make them stand upright. You wolf down three servings of everything, and Sterling laughs and laughs. After, you don’t leave, despite the day guests starting to trickle in. You visit the elephants, the Siberian tigers, and the giant pandas, who are apparently the most successful mating pair in the world. Sterling, wearing sunglasses and a backwards ball cap, gets some prolonged second glances, but most people keep a respectful distance. He takes hundreds of pictures, like a total tourist. Cal starts to deter a cluster of rather pushy Asian teenagers who want a photo, but Sterling relents and gives them a few, anyway. He kisses you in front of the Baroque pavilion, smack in the center of the gardens. Members of the crowd are staring. Sterling smiles against your mouth, and takes a selfie.

The NFA Draft starts that Thursday. You watch it on satellite at two in the morning, Sterling nakedand sleepy by your side. The Cyclones’ first pick is late in the first round. They take a wide receiver from USC named Nyko Waters. You’ve heard his name, obviously—your ear is always close to the college scene, not just as a professional football player, but as a fan. The kid is jacked and fast. It’s actually a little bit of a wonder that the Cyclones get their hands on him when they do. You would have expected him to go higher.

You’re explaining all this to Sterling as he dozes on and off.

“But you guys have a wide receiver,” he says. “You have GoGo, and some other ones, right?”

“Yes,” you tell him patiently. “But you always want depth. If GoGo were to get injured—” There’s an intrusive frisson of something like excitement at that thought, and you tamp it down. “Or a great trade happened, we would want someone who could step in and step up.”

“Mmm,” Sterling murmurs. “Is it exciting?”

“What?”

“The draft. What was it like?”

You curl him close to you, settling his head against your stomach, and smile. How do you describe the feeling of the draft? Sitting in the lounge—as a high prospect, you and your family were guests of the NFA at the event—in a snappy suit,your entire future dangling in front of you? You were picked sixth, which was lower than your agent anticipated, but higher than you yourself hoped for. The Cyclones traded up to get you, the top choice of sixteen Bama players who would ultimately end up getting drafted that year. You’re well aware that your production spoke for itself, but you’re pretty sure Sandy also put a good word in for you. The guy has always been your biggest cheerleader. You remember excitement, anxiety, and being too nervous to eat any of the appetizers in the lounge. Your mother and Quill flanked you. You still remember Mama’s nails on your knee, Quill’s shaky inhale every time a pick came in.

It’s a lot to try and encapsulate when your boyfriend is too tired to absorb most of it, so you just smile.

“It was cool,” you say.

The next morning, the conversation about the draft forgotten, Sterling sits across from you at the kitchen table and paints your nails. You let him pick the color.

“Green for the Cyclones,” he decides.

It’s not the right shade, but you don’t say that out loud. He bends over your big hands with exquisite concentration, close enough that you can feel his breath on your knuckles. It makes you hold your own breath in your lungs, not wanting to move aninch. Sterling has people that give him manicures; you aren’t sure how he got so good at painting nails. But it comes out perfect: two layers of color and one glossy top-coat. You examine the job carefully, admiring the way the overhead light hits the varnish.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“You’re gonna have to do it again when I go to camp,” you say. “Show it off to the guys.”

***

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