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Ryan Adkins lived one street over from you when you were a kid.

His family moved in before you were old enough to remember.

Growing up, your families were close. His parents and your parents used to double-date and play cards together.

It was serendipitous: Ryan was one year your senior, and his kid sister was just as annoying as your older one.

You both had brown hair and blue eyes, so you’d joke about having been switched at birth.

You became close friends, sharing sleepovers and family dinners and, when you got old enough, confidences about crushes and things you couldn’t tell your mothers.

Ryan was at your first show, the county fair in 7th grade, when you played the rear stage and only about 30 people showed up.

Somehow, Ryan slipped through the cracks when you became famous and everyone you had ever so much as said hello to in your entire existence was scrutinized by fans and pressed for interviews.

Unnoticed, Ryan graduated from high school a year before you did—he was homecoming king, and you already had a private tutor by then—went to college, and got accepted to Harvard Law while you were busy breaking Billboard records and getting your picture taken.

You guys kept in touch sporadically. When you were a few years younger, you kept up the effort of having hidden, private social media accounts under assumed names, and it was easier then.

Now, your phone number changes at least once a year and life is so busy .

You didn’t even know where Ryan was living out West, although his mom had mentioned to your mom that he took a job working in legal advocacy for a school department.

That’s also how you found out that he was having a little girl… the Grayson/Adkins family grapevine.

The last time you spent any amount of time with him was at his wedding, three years ago. You were a groomsman, but you didn’t get to attend the bachelor party or rehearsal dinner.

“This is Ster,” Ryan had joked, introducing you to the other guys. “It’s kind of like being friends with a paraplegic. You can’t take him just anywhere, and it’s kind of a production to spend time together.”

A tasteless joke, but you got the point.

You’re never going to be the friend that people can run down to Applebee’s and grab a burger with.

Can’t do your own grocery shopping. It’s not safe for you to be out in public, really.

To their credit, all Ryan’s friends were chill.

You would expect nothing less from any people he was close to, but it was a nice memory.

It stings a little; the fact that you are a liability to people you care about. Loving you inevitably means harassment by the press, prying into personal lives, and nonstop scrutiny.

On your phone, you pull up your weather app and briefly examine the weather in Eugene.

It’s chilly, as far as summertime goes, and raining.

You don’t love the West Coast, but you’ve spent enough time crisscrossing the country to know that it rains a lot in Oregon.

Outside your office window in Tennessee, the sun is shining brightly.

The weathermen have been saying it’s going to be hot all week.

***

On FaceTime that night, you try not to sound like you’re begging. It’s going pretty poorly, honestly.

“Show me one more time,” you cajole Kai. “C’mon.”

Smirking like he’s terribly impressed with himself, he rolls up the sleeve of his Cyclones Youth Camp tee shirt and bends his elbow, flexing his bicep. The corded muscle ripples hypnotically. It’s so big that you doubt you could get both hands around it.

“Jesus,” you sigh. “You look like a superhero.”

“And you look thirsty,” he counters, still smiling as he puts his elbow down. The shirt is still riding up, stuck on his beefy upper arm. “Acting like you ain’t seen me in shape before. You’re going to give me a complex about getting lazy and fat in the off-season if you keep that up.”

You roll your eyes. Kai’s interpretation of “lazy and fat” is working out five days a week instead of seven.

He never, ever, looked less than amazing in your eyes.

Probably not in the eyes of any sane person, either.

But you aren’t one to talk about body dysmorphia and crazy attitudes towards fitness.

Scaling down your own exercise routine after tour felt like the height of slacking off.

But… damn. Your boyfriend returning to his peak shape as mini-camps approach is getting you feeling some type of way.

Kai can literally pick you up with one arm. He showed you the last time you two were together. You’ve never had a muscle fetish, but looking at him on your phone screen, you are having intrusive, horny thoughts of rubbing baby oil all over his naked body and taking Polaroids of him.

“I can feel you objectifying me from here,” he announces, breaking your reverie.

“Sorry,” you say (not sorry at all). “How did the meeting go?”

He shrugs. “Guess it went well. They said they’d be calling Peter to crunch numbers. A national fast food promotion deal is huge. It still doesn’t seem real. I keep waiting for someone to pinch me.”

Personally, you aren’t surprised that endorsement opportunities for Kai are popping out of the woodwork left and right these days.

Kefi Yogurt was his big first national campaign, and it was the tiny nudge he needed to be catapulted into the spotlight.

Not only is the man an absolute knockout—and you’re not saying that because he’s yours; you have been surrounded by beautiful people your whole adult life—but he’s a generational talent at his position.

Personally, as a certifiable Show Biz Person, you can’t believe that it’s taken this long in his career for him to get noticed.

“I think you are going to kill it,” you say simply. “Super proud of you.”

“I’m only going to need to be out here another day or so,” Kai says. “Tomorrow I’m flying down to LA to meet with the Kefi people, and then I’m free for the rest of the week. Want me to come out to Nash after that? Will you be there for a little while?”

You clear your throat. “Actually, ah. I’m headed to New York tomorrow. I have a business meeting on Thursday. Maeve flew Artemis back there, and I thought I’d spend a few days with her.”

“Maeve or Artemis?” he asks, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Actually, now that you mention it, both of them.” You smile back. “You know how it is. Apollo comes everywhere with me, but Art hates flying. Maeve promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Should I assume that means you don’t want me to fly up there?” Kai asks. His tone is pleasant, and you know him well enough to be reassured he’s not judging you. You guys are good about maintaining each other’s boundaries, spoken or otherwise.

“Yeah.” There’s absolutely no pressure, so why is your scalp prickling? “Give me a few days. Let’s plan on the weekend. You can come up to NYC or I can fly to Miami. Rack up some more loyalty points at the Faena.”

“I hate it when you stay on Miami Beach,” he says. “Traffic is always a nightmare.”

“You act like you have to leave once you get there,” you counter. “The furthest you’re getting from my suite is a massage at The Healing House or picking up sushi at Pao.”

“You treat me like a kept man,” he grumbles, but his gorgeous smile is back in evidence.

For your sake, you’re just glad that the conversation has shifted.

“No, let’s definitely spend the weekend at the Faena,” you decide. “I’ll send a car. You won’t even have to drive, unless you want to take your Chevelle for a spin. But it’s getting a little warm to put the top down. Those town cars always have the best AC.”

“Definitely a kept man,” Kai deadpans. You want to melt into his warm bourbon eyes.

***

@chartwatcherofficial: Holding steady this week at #4 is GOLDEN by Sterling Grayson, proving that the singer’s ninth studio album has legs.

Turns out that even being #cancelled can’t hold Grayson down too much.

GOLDEN debuted at #1, but toppled after allegations against Grayson were brought forth by football player GoGo Heller. Have we seen the album’s peak?

***

“You received the NDA paperwork?” You hate yourself a little for asking. But not as much as you’d hate yourself if, god forbid, anything spoken in this room ever made it outside its four walls.

Blair, who asked to be addressed by her given name and not “Dr. Farah,” blinks at you slowly. Laces her fingers, and crosses her slim ankles.

“Your paperwork indicated that you’ve been in therapy before, Sterling, so I’m guessing you know about doctor/patient confidentiality.

I assure you that no amount of tabloid money would make up for selling out my professional ethics.

In addition to the inevitable, ruinous lawsuit.

If you are genuinely concerned, however, that might impact our conversation.

Let me know now, so we don’t waste any of our precious time. ”

Damn. Maeve warned you that this woman was no-nonsense.

But you just aren’t used to people talking to you like that.

Your gut instinct is to be irritated, before you remind yourself that you are paying this highly-educated, highly-recommended professional to help you get your shit together.

She’s pretty , you think, in a detached way.

She’s extremely tall and thin, which gives her that same, angular strikingness that you’ve seen in supermodel acquaintances.

Something about her blunt-cut bob of dark hair informs you more than her words that she isn’t to be messed with.

“Fair enough,” you concede. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…”