On your end of the phone, you are gobsmacked. Your mouth is literally hanging open. “No?” you manage. “Sorry, Des, but why are you asking me this? Did he say something to you?”
She sighs. “I’m not in the business of playing Telephone between my clients and their boyfriends, Sterling. I’m not personally invested in your love life. It’s just that there’s a holiday weekend coming up, and that’s the ideal time to bury the news of a celebrity breakup. First thing on Friday, while all of America is out hitting the sales at Walmart, we release a tactful statement and let it get swallowed by the news cycle.”
“Um.” In your bedroom, it’s dark. It’s 11AM, but you haven’t opened the curtains. You don’t need to look out the window to know that it’s cold, gray, and drizzly outside. “I don’t believe we are broken up; no.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding unconvinced. “If that changes in the next 48 hours, just send me a text. I’m out of town with my husband’s family in Michigan, but it won’t take much to break the glass on the Trainspotter breakup press kit.”
This conversation keeps getting more and more ludicrous. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“If or when you and Kaius break up,” she explains patiently. “The agency’s had the press materials drawn up for ages. All that would need to be added are dates. We update it monthly. Just like we do with clients’ obituaries.”
You clear your throat. “You’re saying that, all this time, you’ve had a plan in place for if Kai and I decided to split up? And that you have myobituarywritten? I’m 30 years old, Des.”
“Freak accidents happen,” she says unapologetically. “It’s an industry thing, Sterling. No need for the outrage.”
You are far from outraged. Shocked, but not outraged.
“What does the statement say?” you ask. “The one about us breaking up?”
“I don’t have it in front of me,” she says. “But, you know. The usual. It was a hard decision, you guys still love each other tremendously and support each other unconditionally; please respect your privacy. These things are pretty boilerplate.”
You are biting your lip again. Just when they’d finally started to heal up. “What if none of that is true?”
She laughs. “Does it matter? That’s just what people want to hear. They need the closure.”
“Huh,” you say, because you are at a loss for actual words.
“Anyway,” she says, “as much as I enjoy chatting, I need to help my sister-in-law pick up some last-minute groceries. Like I said, text me if necessary.”
You promise that you will before hanging up.
Despite the fact that it upsets your mom, you don’t drive over to Darien for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s only about two hours on 95, but you make some half-assed excuses and get off the phone quickly. You have the means to have a homemade catered turkey dinner delivered to you, hot and fresh, with all the fixings, but you don’t do that, either. Maeve has invited you to spend the holiday with her huge Indian family in San Francisco, which is sweet, but also sad. There are at least two dozen invites on your desk, professional and personal acquaintances who would love to give you a seat at their table for the holiday. You decline them all. You spend the day reading, although you don’t absorb any of the words. There’s a project you’re working on that nobody but your lawyers know about, and you spend some time composing emails, then promptly unplug your router and turn your phone off. Not just to “do not disturb,” either—completely off.
Your only preparation for the holiday was having a bottle of Macallan single-malt delivered the day before. Truthfully, you don’t even like whiskey that much. Chalk it up as another decision you’ve made that you don’t understand. You start out drinking it on the rocks, two fingers and a large ice cube that numbs your lips as the spirit burns your throat. After two glasses, that goes out the window, and you’re shooting it neat, feeling like you’re drowning. It doesn’t take long before youare rip-roaring drunk. Alone amidst the picture-perfect holiday decorations, you try to play your guitar, but nothing sounds right. You end the night in bed, jerking off in a way that’s more painful than pleasurable, watching the impersonal blue blob that is Kai’s location at his parents’ house in Macon.
Chapter Nineteen
During the first week of November, Archer Rubin turns 75 and his wife, Christine, throws him a blowout garden party in Los Angeles at the city arboretum and botanical gardens. You and Kai agreed to attend a while ago, and the reminder email from Maeve sends a shockwave of panic through you. Canceling crosses your mind, but it’s too huge a faux pas to consider—Arch is a titan of the industry, and a good friend on top of that. Flaking on his party would be disrespectful. It’s a formal event, black tie, and sure to be packed wall-to-wall with entertainment industry luminaries from all over the world. Arch is a knighted Brit who splits his time on opposite sides of the pond when he’s not shooting on location, so you wouldn’t be surprised if some minor members of the nobility show up.Christ. What a shit-show.
Maeve sends you a tacit text confirming that Kai will be in attendance, and informing you that he will meet you at the party. It’s not that you were stupid enough to expect that he’d want to stay with you at your West Coast home—even if you weren’t on the outs, he has a very short window of time that he can get away from his football obligations for a midweek party on the opposite side of the country—but the impersonality of it stings you all the same. Cringing at the thought of using Maeve as a go-between, you ask her to inquire whether he wants you to send a member of your wardrobe team to dress him for the event.
Maeve:Regarding the stylist, K says no. Quote, “Tell Sterling that I have plenty of clothes.” Sorry. :(
Stupid. Stupid, stupid,stupid. Kaius is a multi-millionaire in his own right, and has to dress nicely for brand deal events, charity functions, and work obligations like the NFA Honors. You basically just implied that he doesn’t know how to polish up properly. This birthday party is already off to a great start, and it isn’t even for another 48 hours.
In lieu of presents, Arch has asked for donations to Nepali NGOs focused on ending child slavery, bringing healthcare to families in remote locations, and empowering widows. He recently completed a shoot at the base of Mount Everest on a film set to release the following summer, so the focus isn’t unexpected. Not only are you happy to contribute to a good cause, but you are extremely happy that you don’t need to worry about a suitable birthday gift.
There’s no red carpet, since it’s a private party, and, for that, you are grateful. Christine rented out all 170 acres of the gardens for the celebration, and there’s private security at the gates checking invitations against the guest list. Despite that, your heart is pounding as your town car approaches the entrance to the gardens.Kai said he’d meet you here.Are you supposed to find him? Will it be hard? If he wants to, he could make this nightverydifficult for you. There will probably be at least a few hundred guests in attendance. If he wants to make you look like a fool, it would be incredibly easy to do so. Anxiety prickles the back of your neck, sweat moistening the collar of your starched dress shirt. The white Chanel tuxedo jacket you’re wearing, with its heavy shawl lapels and black bow tie, feels like it’s weighing you down. Choking you out. Normally, you have a little more fun with your formal-wear, but normally, your heart is in it. Tonight,it definitely is not. Your black slacks are regulation black tie, your shoes buffed to a high polish. You eschewed a manicure, jewelry, and a blow-out, opting for a simple gold watch and your hair pulled back in a straight, sleek ponytail. You look the part. You are dying inside.
A valet opens the door to the car, and you feel lightheaded as you go to step out into the cool, floral-scented night air. But there’s a big hand waiting for you, palm-up, courteously helping you from the car. Your boyfriend, who apparently got there early just to make sure you could walk in together. A shiver goes through you when you let him help you out from the backseat.
Kai looks… well, Kai looks incredible. He chose a totally different spin on formal, a marbled black and white suit with solid black lapels and cuffs. His dress shirt underneath is set in hundreds of tiny knife-pleats, and he’s not wearing a tie. Instead, a delicate pearl necklace is draped over his collarbones, which, improbably, sets off his thick neck and makes his broad shoulders look even wider. He wears a thick bracelet on his left wrist, interlocking platinum scrolls studded with diamonds.
When you two lock eyes, his expression is impossible to read, but you can’t help but feel subliminal vibes coming off the outfit.Fuck you, Sterling. I don’t need your fucking stylists; I’m important enough to have my own. I can source six carats of diamonds because people want to dress me even by myself. See these pearls? French Polynesian, asshole.
(Of course, Kaiactuallysays none of that. He doesn’t even say hello.)
Someone is checking cell phones at the door. A bit eccentric, but not unheard-of with such a star-studded guest list. You barely ever use your phone when you are out, so it doesn’t matter toyou. Kai frowns when he turns his over, but doesn’t comment. You take his arm and the two of you enter onto the expansive front lawn, which is broken up by soaring, burbling fountains. Peacocks lazily stroll from one end to the other, dragging their gorgeous plumes behind them. Well-dressed people, men in suits and ladies in evening gowns, are talking and laughing in clusters as waiters pass trays of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. It’s quickly getting dark, but there’s plenty of light from tall wrought iron torches and strings of fairy lights. The biggest group of people, unsurprisingly, are gaggling around Arch and Christine. Deftly, but politely, Kai steers you two to the front of the crowd.
