Gabi’s wedding pictures are published inPeople Magazine.
She and GoGo got married by an Elvis impersonator at a trashy little chapel in Las Vegas on a Saturday night. GoGo wore a metallic silver suit with no shirt underneath, his blond mullet slicked back. His face looks good—has it healed, or is he wearing concealer? It’s impossible to tell. His mouth, naturally, stays closed. Gabi might as well have worn nothing. In the glossy photos, her mini-dress is iridescent and sheer, with a boned corset top a size too small, so her décolletage threatens to spill over, and a tiny caged skirt, all dripping in a pearl fringe. It looks like it belongs on a burlesque performer, and not a bride.Her hair is teased high and piled atop her head, crowned with a fussy little white velvet headband. The heels she’s wearing are Pleasers, six stacked inches of platform and stiletto heel.
You remember gushing with Gabi over wedding details. Her inspo always included long, romantic gowns with layers upon layers of tulle, sweeping trains, and cathedral veils. She wanted to get married outdoors, in the afternoon, amid hundreds of her family members and friends. Her family was huge, you recalled. At one point, she talked about you being in the wedding party. Walking barefoot down the aisle. She said she wouldn’t necessarily mind if it were raining, because that was supposed to be good luck. Instead, she got married at 11 PM in the fucking desert at the spur of the moment with two paid witnesses. GoGo had always despised the idea of a big wedding, and it looks like he got his wish—an elopement.
Nothing about the wedding appears to have been Gabi’s choice, but she seems happy. There’s no mistaking her wide, upturned blue eyes, which tend to button when she’s excited, or the radiant flash of her white teeth. In one picture, she holds her left hand up, showing off her diamond-studded wedding ring like she’s just a normal girl from Cinci caught up in the whirlwind of having just married the love of her life. You wish you could believe that was the case, regardless of your feelings towards GoGo. It would be better that way.
The pictures sadden you, and you toss the magazine in your recycling bin. You wonder why your assistant put the issue through to your inbox. Surely, she thought that she was being helpful, but you actually feel like shit. The weight of it hangs on your shoulders as you go through the rest of your mail. At the bottom, there’s an envelope shaped like a greeting card and postmarked from Eugene, Oregon.
It’s a thank-you card of thick, ivory card stock, with cursive gold letters embossed on it. Again, you wonder why your assistant let this one through. You can’t think of why anyone you actually know would send you such a thing. Flipping the card open, a photograph falls out. You set it aside, and read the message.
Hey, stranger!
Sienna and I wanted to thank you for the layette. It’s absolutely gorgeous. We can’t wait until Hazel is old enough to fit into all of it. She was born on May 2nd. You guys almost shared a birthday! Sienna did such a great job. The baby is amazing, Ster. You have to meet her, even if she’s not old enough to really appreciate your music just yet.
I’m sorry that I didn’t make it to your tour when you were in LA. Sienna had a rough pregnancy, and I didn’t want to leave her for too long unless it was absolutely necessary. I knew you would absolutely kill it, though.
Do you still have a house on the West Coast? We should try to get together some time. I know that you are just about the busiest man in America, and I know that my schedule isn’t exactly forgiving either, but I miss you. Sienna and I would love to show you around. Give my love to Margot, Burt, and Noemi when you talk to them next. Remember that you’re still just a loser to me. :)
--Ryan
The baby gift! Oh, god. You sent it off before you went to London, deep in the whirlwind chaos of having extended the tour. It’s normal for you to delegate gift-shopping to Maeve, or even one of her junior assistants, but you picked this one out yourself: a pink pointelle set, the organic cotton knit asnubbly and soft as spun clouds. If you remember correctly, there was a hat, a kimono sweater, a pair of little footie pants, and a matching blanket, all arranged in a gift box. You handed the package over to your mom and entrusted her with getting the address from Ryan’s folks. Honestly, you forgot about it completely.
You flip the photograph over. Not surprisingly, it’s a picture of the baby. She’s a newborn, so she still looks mostly like a potato—and you say that as someone who loves babies—with a little tuft of light hair. Her eyes are closed, and her tiny rosebud mouth is pursed in slumber. They’ve posed her in a wicker basket atop a fluffy white blanket, a matching white bow on a stretchy headband. There’s writing on the bottom:Hazel Elizabeth Adkins, 9lbs 2oz.Like you, Hazel is a Taurus. Patient, loyal, and adverse to change… well, there are worse things in the world.
Ryan Adkins lived one street over from you when you were a kid. His family moved in before you were old enough to remember. Growing up, your families were close. His parents and your parents used to double-date and play cards together. It was serendipitous: Ryan was one year your senior, and his kid sister was just as annoying as your older one. You both had brown hair and blue eyes, so you’d joke about having been switched at birth. You became close friends, sharing sleepovers and family dinners and, when you got old enough, confidences about crushes and things you couldn’t tell your mothers. Ryan was at your first show, the county fair in 7th grade, when you played the rear stage and only about 30 people showed up.
Somehow, Ryan slipped through the cracks when you became famous and everyone you had ever so much as said hello to in your entire existence was scrutinized by fans and pressedfor interviews. Unnoticed, Ryan graduated from high school a year before you did—he was homecoming king, and you already had a private tutor by then—went to college, and got accepted to Harvard Law while you were busy breaking Billboard records and getting your picture taken. You guys kept in touch sporadically. When you were a few years younger, you kept up the effort of having hidden, private social media accounts under assumed names, and it was easier then. Now, your phone number changes at least once a year and life is sobusy. You didn’t even know where Ryan was living out West, although his mom had mentioned to your mom that he took a job working in legal advocacy for a school department. That’s also how you found out that he was having a little girl… the Grayson/Adkins family grapevine.
The last time you spent any amount of time with him was at his wedding, three years ago. You were a groomsman, but you didn’t get to attend the bachelor party or rehearsal dinner.
“This is Ster,” Ryan had joked, introducing you to the other guys. “It’s kind of like being friends with a paraplegic. You can’t take him just anywhere, and it’s kind of a production to spend time together.”
A tasteless joke, but you got the point. You’re never going to be the friend that people can run down to Applebee’s and grab a burger with. Can’t do your own grocery shopping. It’s not safe for you to be out in public, really. To their credit, all Ryan’s friends were chill. You would expect nothing less from any people he was close to, but it was a nice memory.
It stings a little; the fact that you are a liability to people you care about. Loving you inevitably means harassment by the press, prying into personal lives, and nonstop scrutiny.
On your phone, you pull up your weather app and briefly examine the weather in Eugene. It’s chilly, as far as summertime goes, and raining. You don’t love the West Coast, but you’ve spent enough time crisscrossing the country to know that it rains a lot in Oregon. Outside your office window in Tennessee, the sun is shining brightly. The weathermen have been saying it’s going to be hot all week.
***
On FaceTime that night, you try not to sound like you’re begging. It’s going pretty poorly, honestly.
“Show me one more time,” you cajole Kai. “C’mon.”
Smirking like he’s terribly impressed with himself, he rolls up the sleeve of his Cyclones Youth Camp tee shirt and bends his elbow, flexing his bicep. The corded muscle ripples hypnotically. It’s so big that you doubt you could get both hands around it.
“Jesus,” you sigh. “You look like a superhero.”
“And you look thirsty,” he counters, still smiling as he puts his elbow down. The shirt is still riding up, stuck on his beefy upper arm. “Acting like you ain’t seen me in shape before. You’re going to give me a complex about getting lazy and fat in the off-season if you keep that up.”
You roll your eyes. Kai’s interpretation of “lazy and fat” is working out five days a week instead of seven. He never, ever, looked less than amazing in your eyes. Probably not in the eyes of any sane person, either. But you aren’t one to talk about body dysmorphia and crazy attitudes towards fitness. Scaling down your own exercise routine after tour felt like the height of slacking off. But… damn. Your boyfriend returning to his peakshape as mini-camps approach is getting you feeling some type of way.
Kai can literally pick you up with one arm. He showed you the last time you two were together. You’ve never had a muscle fetish, but looking at him on your phone screen, you are having intrusive, horny thoughts of rubbing baby oil all over his naked body and taking Polaroids of him.
“I can feel you objectifying me from here,” he announces, breaking your reverie.
“Sorry,” you say (not sorry at all). “How did the meeting go?”
