Page 113 of The Comedown

He doesn’t ask me for an explanation, and I don’t offer one. Tonight, today, this all transcends description.

Nodding like he understands, he glances down at his hand before meeting my eyes, holding them. “I got you something.”

“Can you give it to me after? I’m trying to uphold my end of our agreement here.”

“I noticed.” Eyes touching on my hair, he grins. “It kinda goes with this whole ‘show your true self’ theme you got goin’ though.”

“Okay…” My eyes fall to his closed fist, clenched around a large gold…headband? “Is that a—”

“Their hands be grippin’ and rippin’,

always hoping to catch me up slippin’.

Open mine, baby,

find it holding your crown,

even after I’m buried, six feet under the ground.”

He brings his hand up to reveal a crown, an actual fucking crown, and places it on my head—a head with his words, his threat, his promise, running through it. “You’re talking about a man. Leave your bus unlocked tonight and I’ll show you how a king eats.”

“When did you get this?”

“Earlier today.” That’s what he went shopping for. A crown. In New Orleans.

“Is it…”

Julian must catch my meaning because he grins softly, saying, “It’s realer than anything I’ve ever bought in my entire fucking life.”

With a vintage look to it, the regal-looking crown is more of a brass color than gold. There are eight highpoints on the full round headpiece, different jewels decorating the outside in a stunningly intricate design.

“You didn’t have to get me this.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Half the audience chants, “Duet! Duet! Duet!” while the other half repeats, “Julez! Julez! Julez!”

Julian steals my mic from my hand, flicking it back on, and steps to the side, saying, “Welcome to The Family Julez Tour,” before turning around and gesturing to me. “Lemme hear it for the motherfucking queen!”

The crown brings a whole other level of excitement from everyone, and I have to hold a hand up to it, keeping the bejeweled crown in place as I laugh, shaking my head at him.

“You kicking me out of here?” I call out, circling in front of him so his attention is on me and not the three guys pushing a piano on to the stage.

I’ve been keeping a couple secrets today.

Julian’s answer of “Never” gets eaten up by the crowd growing even louder, and he finally pulls his gaze from mine, swinging it behind him.

I go over and lean into the mic in his hand suspended midair, saying, “What do you think, Julez? Wanna duet with me?”

His arm goes slack.

“They want to see you, Julian. Exactly how you are,” I tell him close to his ear, covering the top of the mic by his side. “I want you exactly how you are.”

His cheek grazes my lips as he tries to turn his head, so I quickly tug on his hand, pulling him over to the bench in front of the piano.

“Fuck.” He half-laughs, then scrubbing a hand through his own hair, he asks, “Anything in particular or you just want me to wing it?”

Only Julian could say something absurd like that and mean it. He really could wing it up here and he’s not even cocky either. Just confident.