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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. :(

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.

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, Kai actually says 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 to you.

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.

“My two favorite devastatingly gorgeous young men!” Arch exclaims. Christine, smiling big, kisses both of you on the cheek.

Arch looks as well as ever, his long, silver hair tied back in a tidy bun and the ends of his mustache waxed in cheeky swirls.

He’s wearing an embroidered kurta over slacks, and looks more effortlessly cool than any senior citizen ought to have the right to, even on his birthday.

“Kaius, I’m so glad to see that you are doing better.

Chris and I were terribly worried about you. ”

“Nothing to worry about,” Kai says lightly, flashing them a brilliant grin. “Comes with the job. Happy birthday, Mister Rubin.”

“Oh, stop it,” Arch protests gruffly. “I wouldn’t have invited anyone to this party I wanted to refer to me as Mister Rubin. I understand the Southern manners, Kaius, but you really must call me ‘Arch.’”

“Sorry,” Kai says, dimpling in a way that should be illegal. “Won’t happen again.”

At that moment, you hate Arch and Christine for getting Kai’s smile. For deserving his words. You’re so busy glowering that you initially miss what’s being said to you.

“So sorry,” you say quickly. “I was distracted by the gorgeous peacocks. Did you bring them in for the party, Christine?”

“No,” she says. “They live here; aren’t they amazing? And I asked what you are up to these days! Now that your tour is over, life must seem very relaxing. Are you taking some time to unwind?

Christine, God love her, is British. If she were a Yank, she’d know that the only things you’ve taken time to do since tour ended are get ragged on by the American media, attend football games, and fuck up your relationship with your boyfriend. (Maybe not that last one.)

“It’s been very fulfilling,” you lie through your teeth. “You know me, though. Always thinking of what comes next.”

“That’s why we adore you,” Arch says. “Now, fellows, you must excuse me so that I can make the rounds before dinner.”

Kai’s posturing as your sweetheart lasts as long as it takes to steer you away from the group and back towards the center fountain, the biggest one.

It’s lit by white lights, all clean lines with one central spray of water.

It appears to be a mid-century creation.

He parks you beside it like you’re a dog he’s tying up to a post.

“I’m going to get a drink,” he announces in your general direction, if not actually to you.

Because you are Sterling Grayson, you know what to do.

You grab a champagne flute from the nearest waiter and make your circuit, greeting the people that you know at the party.

It turns out there are a lot of them. Plenty of actors, only a handful of musicians.

Some athletes, some politicians. A distinguished, socially progressive, civic-minded bunch.

You yourself are socially progressive and civic-minded, so you guess that you fit in.

It’s a good crowd. Mostly devoid of the plasticky dregs of Hollywood, which is nice.

You go through three flutes of bubbly while saying hello and shaking hands, racking up the acquaintance of a prime minister, a senator, and three separate Best Actor winners along the way.

In terms of networking, Arch Rubin’s birthday shindig is probably the mixer of the decade.

It’s a big party. Everyone is staying accumulated on the big lawn and not venturing into the enormous expanses of the gardens, as this seems to be the reception phase.

There must be, as expected, somewhere in the ballpark of 250 or 300 people in attendance.

A string quartet’s music wafts through the night air.

From time to time, over the shoulder of the person you are talking to, you glimpse Kai from across the lawn.

You aren’t looking for him, per se; it’s just that he stands out.

Because he’s tall. Your eyes keep finding him, like a moth to a flame.

Your staring mostly goes unnoticed, but, on two humiliating occasions, you make eye contact and have to quickly look away.

It’s a huge relief when Christine rounds everyone up and announces that it’s time for dinner.

The long tables are set up in the Historic Circle, on the shore of Baldwin Lake, beneath tall, gauzy white tents that flap gently in the breeze and are open on top to the night sky.

Each table sits about fifty people, and is absolutely littered with flowers and tall, flickering white tapers set in cylindrical glass cases.

To your great relief, the seating chart is arranged with old-fashioned formal etiquette in mind, meaning that couples are not seated together.

Kai isn’t even at the same table as you.

Christine has thoughtfully sat you between two fellow musicians: the composer of most of Arch’s film scores and Sir Elton, who’s never not a complete joy.

Between the gorgeous surroundings and the good company—okay, and maybe another glass of champagne—you feel yourself start to unclench.

Just slightly. You can’t even see Kai, and you force yourself not to look too hard.

The meal is a plated dinner, with enough food to make the tables groan.

Waiters pass the first course, a chilled pomegranate gazpacho and butternut squash salad, and the seasonal veggies are so bright and fresh that you also opt for the meat-free entrée, a curried roasted vegetable tart served alongside couscous with currants and pine nuts.

The birthday cake is very British-by-way-of-California, a Victoria sponge with persimmon jam and a ginger-ricotta cream.

Wine flows freely with the conversation.

Some of Arch’s peers give toasts and speeches, and you don’t hate it.

It’s a beautiful night, your belly is full, you’re halfway drunk, and time is slipping by pleasantly, right up until Christine clinks her glass at the head table and announces that all couples should pair back up, because it’s time for the scavenger hunt.

A murmur of excitement ripples through the crowd, as she patiently explains the game. Arch always likes to give more than receive. Accordingly, hundreds of party favors have been hidden in the gardens.

“Some are just trinkets,” Christine says, winking mysteriously. “But some are quite good.”