Page 52

On the jet, you get acquainted with Phoebe, who is taller and thinner than Alis, and more reserved than her two older sisters.

That’s not saying much; she still greets you with a whoop and a huge hug.

She plays keyboard and percussion, and her wrists and ankles jangle beneath layers of belled bangles.

It’s like someone hit copy-and-paste on the Lewises’ eyes: they are all black as night, and fringed with thick, natural eyelashes.

Phoebe is dragging a scruffy-looking young man by the tattooed arm.

According to Cal, who coordinated a last-minute background check from London, the kid’s given name is Shannon Ellis.

He introduces himself as “Flame-o.” His cool demeanor falters when he shakes Sterling’s hand.

“Real pleasure,” he says. “It’s been amazing working for you, bro. That bonus you gave us all for extending the tour was out of sight. Paid my folks’ mortgage for a year.”

Sterling looks uncomfortable. “It was nothing compared to how hard the crew worked. I couldn’t put on the show without you guys.”

Luckily, the topic turns quickly from bonuses as the plane hits cruising altitude .

“Bad ass ,” Ronnie enthuses, scoping out the cabin. “We gotta get us one of these, guys.”

Before too long, the aforementioned case of wine makes an appearance, along with the brownies.

“I don’t know if this is a dessert wine,” Alis says suspiciously, holding up a bottle. “Where’d it come from?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Colin said it fell off the lorry.”

You and Sterling exchange glances, but accept one of the bottles anyway. Each of the sisters has one, and Flame-o has his own as well. Ronnie tries to get you to take a bottle apiece, but you shake your head.

“He needs to take it easy if he’s going to try the brownies, too,” you insist, nodding at Sterling.

You two are sharing one of the soft leather couches, his feet on your lap.

Flame-o and Phoebe canoodle on two of the seats with the armrests up.

Alis is rifling through the galley, and Ronnie is swaying in the aisle, halfway from the movement of the plane, and halfway from the music that’s apparently in her head.

After the bottles are squared away, Ronnie ceremoniously passes out tiny cubes of brownie to each passenger, nestled atop paper napkins that Alis procured.

“Bottoms up!” she announces gleefully .

You examine the wine bottle in your hand. It’s the candied pink of ballet slippers, with a cursive baby-blue label that announces Prosecco Rosé. The contrast in pastels makes it look like it’s about to be used for a pregnant lady’s gender reveal.

“It’s got a screw-top,” you murmur to Sterling, bemused.

He’s too busy scrutinizing his brownie. “Do I eat the whole thing?” he asks in a stage-whisper.

Ronnie pops over the seat. “You ever tried an edible before?”

“No,” Sterling says. “I got high once when I was a teenager, but that was with someone’s bong at a party.”

“Aww. America’s little sweetheart.” She rolls her eyes affectionately. “How old were you?”

He looks sheepish. “Fourteen. My sister Noemi narc’ed me out and my parents grounded me for a month.”

“That’s… shockingly bad behavior for you,” you comment, impressed.

Blushing, Sterling hangs his head. “I think that was the only time I ever got in trouble as a kid.”

“Well, Mumsy and Dada aren’t here now!” Phoebe calls. “You can make up for lost time! ”

“Maybe try half that brownie,” you tell him. “And take it easy on the vino. You have a water bottle around here?”

Alis takes a deep swig of her wine. “You two are so cute. I can’t even handle it. Just listen to Kaius being all paternal.”

You squeeze Sterling’s ankle, clad in his comfy sweatpants that cost more than your whole outfit, shoes included. “I’m not trying to act like your dad,” you say. “Just don’t want you to have a bad time.”

Sterling is full of surprises, because he leans over and kisses you. “Maybe I like you acting like my dad,” he jokes.

Ronnie’s eyes nearly bulge out of her skull. “Did Sterling Grayson just refer to the Train as ‘daddy?’” she shrieks. “Someone get TMZ on the line. That’s got to be worth something.”

“Hey!” Sterling cries, his eyes buttoning with humor.

“Hey yourself,” Alis sighs. “Some of us are starving artists. And, by ‘some of us,’ I definitely am excluding you.”

“You guys have two songs on the UK singles chart,” Sterling retorts.

“Numbers twelve and seventeen!” Phoebe trills .

“Two weeks ago, you hadn’t cracked the Top 50.”

“Two weeks ago, we weren’t opening for you!” Ronnie says. “But no more chattering. This plane’s only flying for so long. Does everyone want to take the brownies on three?”

At Ronnie’s count, you eat your brownie in one bite.

The treat itself is dangerously good, with a deep, dark cocoa flavor.

Brownies have always been a weakness of yours; your mom makes the best ones in the world.

You turn your head to see Sterling delicately licking the crumbs off his fingers after downing his whole brownie.

“You said you’d eat half!” you admonish him.

“No, you said I’d eat half,” he corrects you with an impish smile.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, babe.”

“Noted.”

At that point, it seems silly to not open the wine.

It’s cheap, carbonated swill, even to your uncultured palate, but it goes down fizzy and fruity.

Sterling and you swap the bottle back and forth.

The neck is warm from his hand, and the opening is wet where his mouth was.

It’s too early for the brownie to have had any effect, so you’re just being horny and stupid.

Sterling leans back against the cushions embossed with his initials.

Twenty minutes later, Alis erupts in a woo that demands everyone’s attention.

“I finished my bottle first!” she squeals. “What do I get?”

“You get a bloody hangover,” Ronnie gripes. “This shite is pure trash. Must have come from Tesco’s bargain bin.”

“Oy!” Phoebe complains. She’s got her head on Flame-o’s shoulder, and he’s dreamily considering their entwined fingers. “Nobody said it was a contest!”

Crestfallen, Alis holds up her empty bottle. “Well, I’m saying I won, anyway.”

“We need some music!” Ronnie declares. “Ster, this thing has to have a sound system. Where are the controls?”

Sterling has turned around so that his head is on your shoulder. Your feet are on the ground, and he’s leaning against you. Honestly, you thought he was asleep. The bottle you’ve been sharing is almost tapped, and he’s been still for a few minutes.

“To the left of the galley,” he announces. His voice sounds surprisingly clear. Hmm, guess he wasn’t sleeping after all. “The panel on the wall—no, that little door, see there with the groove? Yeah, that’s it. It’s Bluetooth, so you can sync it to your phone, or otherwise use the satellite radio.”

“Do the radio,” Alis hiccups. “Nobody wants your crummy playlists, Ronnie.”

“The music was my idea!” Ronnie says, but she fiddles with the radio controls anyway.

It’s a pop station. Bright music fills the cabin. Outside, it’s deep in the night, but inside, it’s warm and lively. The girls are distracted, singing along with Chappell Roan.

You rub Sterling’s arm, tracing the broken line of his bent elbow. “You doing all right?”

“I’m a little tipsy from that godawful wine,” he says, “but nothing crazy. I don’t think that brownie worked. I don’t feel anything. Other than the sense that I’m going to have a headache in the morning.”

The laughter that bubbles in your throat escapes before you can help it.

“Patience, young grasshopper,” you say. “ I don’t feel anything are the famous last words of people messing with edibles for the first time.”

“But it’s been… a long time, now.”

“It’s been just over a half hour,” you correct him. “It can take a while. Just enjoy the vibes. ”

He makes a noncommittal, grumbly noise that is honestly very endearing. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom just as the song changes, and you hear some very familiar notes over the high-tech speakers. The girls scream as the intro of “pretty please” starts playing.

“I’m not singing it!” Sterling laughs. “You just heard me sing it on stage! C’mon!”

Alis starts crooning the opening lyrics as you shut the door.