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@kyliejenner: happy birthday to my first and forever crush. love you, ster. x

@ladygaga: Absolutely nobody does it like @sterlinggrayson. A total trailblazer and inspiration in both music and humanity. Here’s to your next trip around the sun! Next time you’re in NYC, let’s go back to The Eagle and dance on the bar.

@billieeilish: my twin flame ster-bear turns thirtyyyyyy today. i wish i was there to kiss your pretty face. eat lots of cake for me.

***

Sterling’s birthday falls on the off-week between two sets of three Euro shows—something that must have been planned—and his record label throws him an absolute rager of a party in the West End at a club called Troxy.

The stately Art Deco building has a sweeping staircase and immense crystal chandelier in the foyer, but the theater within has been converted into a shrine to decadence.

The mezzanine is set with tables where elegant and delicious dishes are being passed by tuxedoed waiters.

Aerial dancers wearing nothing but pasties and thongs studded with Swarovski gems are suspended from silks mounted on the high ceiling, their bodies dipping and gyrating overhead.

On the upper ground floor, accessible by climbing two steps and divided off by an elegant railing, is the bar, complete with booth seating.

The lower ground floor is dedicated to wide, white upholstered couches and loungers with broad, flat tabletops.

There is plenty of space between for privacy and dancing.

Every railing is swagged with swaths of the same white silk that the aerialists are using, and the gels on the overheads are casting purple and blue lights over the whole space.

On the stage, a DJ with a massive setup is thumping dance music through the speakers.

There must be over a thousand white roses absolutely everywhere.

There’s no red carpet this time, thankfully. The press in London may be more subdued, but they’d foam at the mouth if they caught wind of the party.

Sterling looks breathtaking. His dress sense is always a little wild for your taste, but, as usual, he’s pulling it off with aplomb: a satiny aquamarine dress shirt hangs off him like half-liquid, unbuttoned to the bottom of his sternum and showing off his pale chest. His suit is a deep, rich green, the jacket shawl-collared and falling past his ass.

The pants are tight and come up high. He’s wearing three or four silver rings on each hand, and a long platinum chain around his slender neck.

His hair has been glossed and set so it cascades in tumbling waves down his shoulders.

You watched his assistant apply just a little makeup back at the rental: eyeliner and mascara to make his oceanic eyes pop .

He makes his rounds with his arm looped in yours, keeping you close to his side.

You would be content to sit back and watch him work the room, but he doesn’t let you go.

He introduces you to everyone, some of whom you realize are very famous.

You aren’t much to keep up with Hollywood luminaries, but you recognize a Kardashian sister, the ethereal blonde star of the current biggest box office hit in the world, several other musicians, and even some non-football sports stars. And then…

“How do you know Tom Brady?” you say in a low voice as Sterling steers you toward the bar.

“I met him years and years ago through our work with Make-A-Wish,” Sterling replies, distracted. He blows a kiss at an actress. “We exchanged numbers, and I’ve done some stuff for the TB12 Foundation. Absolutely love the guy.”

You shake your head.

“He knew your name,” Sterling points out.

“Yeah, probably because he has a teenage daughter who is undoubtedly a huge Grayling. We played him on his original team when I was a rookie, and he blew us out. Shook everyone’s hand.

Played him again on his new team, and we beat their asses.

He stormed off the field and didn’t even pat Sandy on the back. ”

“He’s really a great guy,” Sterling counters diplomatically. “Maybe he was having a bad day.”

You’re about to comment that guys as hot and rich as Tom Brady don’t have bad days; they are just assholes, when you encounter another knot of tall, beautiful people wanting to hug Sterling and wish him the best.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” you lean down and murmur in his ear. “Grab you anything?”

His eyes flicker in your direction.

“I’ll take a Negroni, please,” he says. “Extra orange.”

You are slightly surprised, because you haven’t known Sterling to consume much alcohol during your time together. On one hand, he’s been on tour the whole time, and he doesn’t drink during the week of a show. This isn’t a show week, however.

At the bar, people step aside for you. Two guys you don’t know from Adam greet you by name, and with a raise of their drinks. You nod politely, not quite sure what to make of the attention.

The bartender, thankfully, doesn’t moon over you.

You’ve spent too much time noticing folks noticing you to even think about your order.

So when he asks you what’ll it be , you kind of panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: an Old Fashioned.

You’re not even the biggest fan. You drank your weight in Yellowhammers in college, but you are pretty sure that’s an Alabama thing.

Roman likes an Old Fashioned. Must be what you are thinking of.

“Classic or house style?” the bartender asks, and you again draw a blank.

“House style,” you say, just wanting the interaction to be over. With so many people watching, you feel like a fly under a microscope. Like there’s a way to order a drink wrong! Damn, being around Sterling’s crowd has you twisted.

You bring the drinks to where Sterling is sitting, perched on one of the big couches, with an old guy and a young woman. When you hand him his perspiring drink, he smiles and squeezes your fingers.

“Kai,” he says, “this is Dave Frishman and his wife, Hayden. Frish is the head of my label. Frish, Hayden, my partner, Kaius Reinhart.”

You set your drink down and shake hands, trying hard not to gawk at the obvious May-December of it all.

Frish is, by your estimate, in his late sixties.

He’s in good shape and well-groomed, with a thick crop of white hair that has to be either implant follicles or a toupee.

Hayden is older than you, but not by much.

Her long, dark hair and full lips put you in mind of Aaliyah in the picture your brothers kept taped to the wall in the early years of the 2000 s.

“A pleasure,” you say. “Are you the ones to thank for this beautiful party?”

Frish laughs. “Guilty as charged. It’s the least we could do. It’s been such an amazing few years for Sterling and, because of that, an amazing few years for Indigo Records. Thirty is a big birthday. Not as big as seventy-five, but, God willing, you’ll figure that out on your own.”

You try not to let your eyes bug out of your head. Seventy-five? To make sure your face displays nothing, you take a sip of your drink. It goes all wrong on your tongue. Like you said, you’ve never really loved an Old Fashioned, but you’ve tolerated them in the past. This one is definitely off.

Sterling looks over at you.

“Is your drink all right?” he asks.

You frown. “Tastes funny. The bartender said it was the house version.”

“What’s it supposed to be?” Hayden asks,

“An Old Fashioned.”

Sterling trades glasses with you and samples your drink thoughtfully.

“Maple,” he announces. “I think they used maple syrup instead of sugar. And there’s something…” He fishes the skewer from the glass. There’s a leaf on the bottom, beneath the cherry and curlicue of citrus zest. It looks charred, like someone set the edges on fire.

“Burnt bay leaf,” Frish nods. “Is it a woody taste? Someone got creative.”

“They don’t make ‘em like this in Georgia,” you say dryly. As expected, it provokes laughter from the group.

“Want to trade drinks?” Sterling asks.

“I’m good,” you say. Sterling holds on to both glasses.

“I’ll drink it after,” he says. “I kind of like it.”

You shrug.

After a few more pleasantries, Frish and Hayden move on to continue greeting their guests. While Sterling drinks both his cocktail and yours, partygoers mill around, stopping by to kiss Sterling’s cheek and pay their respects. You shake more hands than you ever have in a single evening.

About ninety minutes into the party, Frish takes the stage.

He gives a touching speech about how special Sterling is, and how happy he is to work with him, both as the CEO of Indigo Records and as a personal friend.

He raises a toast. The birthday cake is wheeled out on a flatbed handcart.

It’s beyond massive: easily six feet in diameter and stacked five tiers high.

It alternates white layers with those banded in gold marzipan, edible golden glitter between them.

Cursive letters on the side spell out SG .

Sterling pulls you by the hand to stand with him beside it.

“There had better not be a stripper in this thing!” he calls to Frish.

The whole crowd laughs.

An attendant in a tuxedo kneels beside the cake with a lighter and, as if by magic, sparklers shoot glittering flares high over the massive confection.

Sterling gasps in surprise, and the whole room starts singing to him.

Your fingers are still looped in his, and you swing them in time to the lyrics.

Around the room, people are taking pictures and beaming.

When they’ve finished the birthday song, Sterling closes his eyes tight.

He makes a game attempt at blowing out the sparklers, but it does nothing.

Someone calls out a joke about ringing for the fire department, but the candles extinguish themselves a few moments later.

“Think that counts for my wish?” he asks you.

“I hope it does,” you say, meaning it.