We left the arena as we always did, running at a decent clip to get everyone into the vans or buses and out of the lot before the fans exited the stadium. The girls would still be singing “That’s What She Said” or “Tip of My Tongue,” one of the encore numbers, long after the guys had cleared the stage. Their voices traveling through the night, bright, blissful. It was a lot of fucking power. I tried to imagine what it would take to give that up. But I did not have the gall to ask him.
Late Saturday, after the show, the lot of us congregated in the Ritz lobby. The guys wanted to go out clubbing with what seemed a third of their entourage. It was a big bunch and they were loud, and while Raj was coordinating with drivers and security, Hayes and I decided to bow out.
When they departed, Hayes made his way from the bar over to the baby grand in the corner. I followed, sitting beside him on the narrow bench.
He began to play, his fingers moving over the keys, fluid. A melody I had not heard before. It was at once delicate and haunting, raw. And I felt it almost immediately, my insides seizing. It was personal.
“Is that something you wrote?”
For a moment he did not answer, and then: “Something I’m writing.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘S.’” He said it plainly, no eye contact, no break in the music.
“Just ‘S’? Are there words?”
“Not that I’m ready to share.”
I sat there numb while he played for a minute more in silence. Then, very abruptly, he stopped.
“I think we should probably go upstairs now.”
“I think so, too.”
As the days passed, I was increasingly aware that our emotions were scattered. We went from laughing to crying and back again so frequently it became our new normal. On Sunday afternoon, we went shopping in the Omotesando-Aoyama area. We’d started at Céline, where I found a classic box bag in gray. I decided to treat myself, and when I asked the saleswoman to ring it up, Hayes proffered his credit card.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m going to get it for you.”
“No, you’re not.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be silly.”
“Hayes, you’re not.”
“You’re really not going to let me buy it for you?”
“I’m not going to let you buy it for me.”
He stood there, looking at me for a long time, a bewildered expression on his face. “Oh-kay,” he said eventually.
I watched the saleswoman package the box, tying it all up with a bow, just so. When I turned back to Hayes, his eyes were brimming.
“What?”
“You make it so fucking hard not to love you,” he said, soft. He lifted the neck of his T-shirt to wipe his cheek, and it seemed like something a young boy would do. His abdomen bared for a splitsecond: the faint line of hair descending below his belly button, the crease traversing his groin. There was nothing about his body that I did not know, and that both comforted me and made me profoundly sad.
I wrapped my arms around his middle and held him close. “You, too.”
We followed Desmond over to Alexander McQueen, just a little ways down. Hayes had on his sunglasses, but no hat, and although he turned several heads, only two people stopped him for selfies.
I trailed him through the sleek new store, pristine white marble and gloss, as he picked up two scarves and a shirt. We were upstairs toward the back, in the men’s section, when Desmond approached us.
“We ’ave a bit of a problem.”
I could not recall ever having heard him say those words, and it alarmed me. He walked us to the front side of the store, where through the floor-to-ceiling windows we could see a swarm of girls gathering below, at least fifty. The second they saw Hayes’s face, their screams pierced the air.
