Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  “You look exhausted,” you tell her. “You two should go get some rest. You’re welcome to stay at my place.”

  Maxine looks perplexed. “But don’t you have to fly back? Mother says you’re in the middle of a tour.”

  “I am. But I’m taking a little hiatus, just until Crispin is out of the woods.”

  Just then, Marjorie lets out a loud snort, startling you both into laughter. She opens her eyes in a state of confusion.

  “Is something funny?” she asks sleepily, sitting up and straightening her crumpled clothes.

  Maxine shares a conspiratorial look. “No, Mum. Honey just gave me the good news that she’s made plans to stay on until Crispin is feeling better. Isn’t that right, Honey?”

  “Yes, I just told my tour manager. I want to be here for him, when he wakes up.”

  “Henrietta, that’s—” Marjorie pauses, looking past you, her eyes wide. You and Maxine follow her gaze and turn to see what has rendered her speechless.

  Crispin has turned his head and is gazing at you in a dead stare. Your heart leaps into your throat and then you see him blink, and you can breathe again. The sheet moves, and Crispin manages to edge his hand out and reaches toward you.

  You close the gap between you in two steps, Maxine at your side.

  Marjorie races out of the room calling, “I’ll get a nurse.”

  You gently take Crispin’s hand, careful not to interfere with the IV lines running to it. He locks eyes with yours and, trying to tell you something, but unable to speak around the tubes that pump oxygen into his lungs.

  A nurse bustles into the room, all business. “Well, good morning,” she says, beginning to take his vitals.

  Marjorie stays out of the way, but reaches to take your hand. Her eyes brim with tears. “Thank you, Henrietta,” she manages and gives your hand a little squeeze.

  You turn back to Crispin, wondering whether this is a sign you’ve made the right decision after all.

  Four days later, Crispin is free of almost all of the wires and tubes that have tethered him to the hospital bed. His voice is still raspy and dry, vocal cords likely scratched in the process of intubation.

  “Do you think I’ll ever sing again?” he asks, only half-joking.

  “I think that’s the least of your worries.” You smile, spooning a wobbly mass of red Jell-O into his mouth.

  Crispin’s communication and verbal processing appear to be unaffected by the trauma, but the doctors are concerned about his fine motor skills and possible attention issues. So far, he’s been unable to guide a utensil to his mouth or to write a word.

  “He has months of physical therapy ahead of him,” the doctor tells you when he visits one morning. “But I predict a full recovery.”

  Thrilled, Marjorie and Maxine decide to take you up on your offer to stay at your house. Crispin is discharged two weeks later and joins them. The main level bedroom and on-site gym offer Crispin the perfect place to rehabilitate. The arrangement enables you to return to your tour, although you fly home between stops to help as much as you can.

  At first, Serge texts and calls you daily, just to check in. You tell him how sorry you are about his father and try to engage him in conversation, but you can feel that something has changed between you. Soon, your conversations become only text exchanges, and those become briefer and farther apart. Sometimes Serge takes days to return a single text.

  Serge and Niko resume their performance as the warm-up to your opening act the second week you are back on tour. It’s awkward when you first reunite, but only a little. Seeing Serge in person confirms what you already knew, that the distance between you is now too vast to bridge. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” you tell them both, encircling Serge in an embrace. He is stiff and hesitant, and you look at Niko, trying to read his eyes for any clue about how Serge feels. Niko’s eyes telegraph nothing but sadness.

  That night in the wings, you cross paths with Serge at the moment he comes off the stage and you prepare to climb the steep staircase to the catwalk. For one crazy moment, you have the urge to run to him and to jump into his strong arms, just to see whether he will catch you. But of course you can’t. You put one hand on his strong bicep, and feel the familiar chemical zing. You have no choice but to deny it. Every spare moment and ounce of energy you have has to be focused on Crispin’s recovery. “Thank you for understanding,” you tell Serge.

  “Of course, Honey.” Your name sounds artificial and cold on his lips. A shiver runs through you as you walk past him, and you wonder whether there was ever anything more between you, whether you only imagined him calling you by another, sweeter name.

  Sasha proves surprisingly understanding as well. For all of his vitriol toward Crispin, he seems genuinely concerned for his recovery. “You are nothing if not loyal, Henrietta,” he tells you as he hangs your costumes and drives you to the airport for yet another flight back to LA after a set of shows.

  Crispin recovers in fits and starts. Some days he seems like himself again, and others he regresses, needing help with almost every task. But little by little, he becomes independent. At last, he feels ready to reemerge into the public eye. He chooses one of your shows to make his first appearance. To their credit, Sasha and Freddie throw him a pre-show party and even Serge and Niko attend and are polite and congratulatory.

  Crispin is featured in all the tabloids, the classic comeback story. He begins to spend hours in the studio, releases a single, and breaks a record with presales of his upcoming album, “Phoenix.”

  “Better watch out,” Freddie says after a swarm of usually loyal Honey Bees migrate in Crispin’s direction after a show. “He’s stealing some of your thunder.”

  You are more than happy to let him. After all he has been through, he deserves it. You are incredibly proud of the work he has done to get to this point and you are grateful for his recovery. In many ways, Crispin is like a new person, and you feel as though you’re beginning your relationship all over again. The day “Phoenix” drops, you come home to find the house filled with thousands of roses, the lights low, and Crispin waiting at a candlelit table set for two. Soft music plays in the background.

  “What’s all this?” you ask, smiling.

  “This,” Crispin says, rising from the table and taking your hand, “is my way of saying thank you. It’s not nearly enough, of course, but it’s just a start.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” you tell him. “You’ve done the hard work.”

  “That’s what I love about you, Honey.” He pulls you to him and kisses you tenderly. “You continue to give me the credit. But you do know I couldn’t have done any of it without you, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know about that.” You look up into his warm, clear eyes, and smile. “But I’m glad we could do this together.”

  “I’m back,” Crispin says, “and now we are going to celebrate.” He sweeps you off of your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

  “What about dinner?” you laugh.

  Crispin kisses your neck and kicks the bedroom door shut behind him. “Dinner,” he says, “can most definitely wait.”

  * * *

  One month later the Maxamillion invites Crispin to headline the opening of a new outdoor club. You both know Vegas poses a threat to Crispin’s sobriety, and so you accompany him to Vegas. Sasha decides to tag along, too. The three of you check into a suite at the Max, and it feels almost like old times, only this time Crispin is the center of attention. For once, Sasha and Crispin actually seem to enjoy each other’s company.

  “You’re much more tolerable when you’re not wasted out of your mind,” Sasha tells him as you prepare to leave for the evening.

  “Why Mr. Fortier,” Crispin responds. “That may very well be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Sasha teases.

  Crispin manages the appearance spectacularly, sipping seltzer water and putting in exactly the time required. When he finishes, he twirls y
ou in a little victory dance.

  “That went splendidly,” he grins. “Let’s go celebrate.”

  A knot of dread drops into your stomach. The old Crispin’s celebration would entail an alcohol-fueled night of clubbing. He reads the look of apprehension on your face.

  “Dinner,” he tells you. “Somewhere quiet and private. I want you all to myself, just for tonight.”

  The knot of dread loosens and is replaced by a little thrill. You like this new Crispin, and you eagerly agree.

  Crispin takes you to an intimate French restaurant and follows you into the cushioned seat of a high banquette. The booth gives you total privacy and a chance to focus fully on each other.

  You giggle as Crispin toasts with sparkling water. “To you, Honey Noble.” He lifts his glass, the tiny bubbles rising to the surface as his speaks. “Where would I be without you?”

  “God only knows.” You laugh, sipping the bubbly water.

  “I’m serious.” Crispin takes your hand. “I might very well still be lying in that hospital bed, or worse.”

  “You would have been fine,” you run your fingers along his hand, the skin still scarred from the IV needles.

  “No, Honey, it was you who pulled me through. Every grueling step of the way. Quite literally.”

  “You need to give yourself some credit. You did the hard work,” you tell him.

  “It was you deciding to stay with me; that’s what really did the trick. Opened my eyes, in more ways than one.” Crispin sets his drink down and gazes at you lovingly. “You know my Mum and Maxine think you are a miracle worker.”

  “That’s sweet.” You’ve never seen Crispin’s eyes so focused, his gaze so clear. You feel a warm tingle of energy spread from your core, zip through your arm, and join you to Crispin. This is what love feels like, you think.

  As if feeling it too, Crispin’s hand jumps just slightly. His eyes widen and he seems to realize something, all at once. A flush rises to his face, and he takes a sip of his water. “I could never have done this”—He sets the glass gently back down on the table with a slow, controlled motion—“or this,” he says, leaning across to give you a soft kiss. He rises to his feet, steady and sure. “And I’m fairly certain I couldn’t have managed this.” He drops to one knee, reaching to take your hands in his.

  Suddenly your breath and heartbeat quicken as you realize what Crispin is about to do.

  His clear, whiskey gaze is locked to yours, making your head swim. “Life can be very uncertain. But there are three things I know with absolute conviction: I would not be alive without you. I do not want to spend one more day of my life without you. And I am absolutely, one hundred percent, completely in love with you.”

  Dizzy, you do your best to focus on his words as he asks, “Honey Noble, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  Turn to page 91.

  From page 213 . . .

  The flight to Ukraine seems endless. You distract yourself by scribbling lyrics and watching old movies on the little airplane screen. The plane lands at daybreak and you quickly deposit your bags in the hotel Sasha arranged for you. You pull on a long, black dress and twist your hair into a subdued up-do.

  The funeral mass is just beginning when you arrive at the church. The huge cathedral is packed with mourners, with standing room only left by the rear doors. You squeeze in as close to the aisle as you can manage. The organ begins to play a somber dirge, and the doors open, revealing pallbearers hoisting the shining casket on their shoulders. First in the line, closest to you, is Serge, his jaw set in a hard line. He sees you immediately, and locks eyes with you for a long moment. His eyes soften, and the look of relief and love there tells you everything you need to know. Once the casket is in place, Serge walks back up the aisle, every eye following him as he takes your hand and guides you to the pew in front, making a place for you to kneel beside him. He stares straight ahead as the priest recites the mass and swings the incense over the casket. Serge sheds not a tear but he grips your hand tightly, never letting go. You are glad that for once, you can be the strength he needs, the strength he’s given you from the moment you met him.

  Serge remains in Kiev with his mother for the three weeks following the funeral. Together, he and Niko help her to go through Nikolas’s belongings, deciding which pieces to donate and which to store. Serge and Niko take a few sentimental belongings for themselves: their father’s billfold, a fountain pen, each son takes one cufflink from their father’s favorite pair. At last, the brothers return to the tour. Embraced by the Nobility family, they resume their performances, pouring a new intensity into their act.

  Slowly, Serge begins to recover from his loss. You spend long nights together, Serge holding you close in the narrow tour bus bed. You cover him with kisses, never tiring of the warmth of his muscular body, the gentle strength of his touch, the love in his eyes.

  Sasha allows you your space, and is equally present when you need him. One day backstage, as he zips you into a costume, he whispers, “I have some news.”

  You turn to look at him, concern in your eyes. “It’s good news, Henrietta! Don’t stress.”

  “Good, I’ve had enough surprises lately,” you say, relieved. “Tell me.”

  “After the show,” he promises, giving you a little nudge toward the stage.

  Serge is waiting to wrap you into a hug when you step off of the stage. He takes your hand and leads you into the dressing room, where the cast and crew await with flutes of champagne. They raise their glasses as Serge walks in, joining Niko and Sasha in the center of the room. Last to join the circle is Freddie. He hoists his glass into the air and the room quiets.

  “A toast!” he announces. “To the newest member of Powers Records, Burya.” He rolls the R impressively, eliciting a whoop of approval from Niko. “To our very own Serge,” he puts an arm around his shoulder, “and Niko.” He puts his other arm as far as it will reach around Niko’s shoulder. The two huge men make even Freddie appear diminutive. “And, last but certainly not least,” he reaches out for Sasha and pulls him into their circle, “to their new tour manager, Sasha!”

  “What?” You catch Sasha’s eye, thrilled but utterly confused.

  “That’s my news, Henrietta,” Sasha tells you. “Go ahead, take a drink.”

  You take Sasha’s advice and down half of your glass. “Is someone going to explain?” you ask, trying to sounds lighthearted.

  “Looks like you’re losing your opening-opening act,” Freddie says pragmatically.

  “But you’re not losing your costume designer,” Sasha assures you. “I can do almost everything I need to do for the boys in my downtime, now that Nobility is running like a well-oiled machine. I’ve already started their performance schedule. And we’ll coordinate it so that they perform where we are, whenever we can. So far it’s all working out.”

  “That’s amazing!” you tell them, and you mean it. It’s one of those rare perfect moments, where everything comes together. The dressing room bursts at the seams with cast and crew as you celebrate well into the wee hours of the night.

  No one promotes a new act better than Powers, and Burya’s album release is an immediate success. The act is booked at every tour stop, Serge and Niko often appearing on both morning and late-night talk shows, even fitting print and radio interviews in around their performances. Powers capitalizes on Serge and Niko’s compelling backstory, and the long-lost brothers who spent their childhoods under each other’s noses become instant media sensations.

  “It is exhausting,” Serge tells you one night, wearily rolling into bed after a long day of appearances and performances. “I do not know how you do this.”

  “Red Bull,” you remind him.

  “Ah, right.”

  “Get in here,” you tell him. “You need some rest.”

  “Yes, some rest.” He laughs, nuzzling your neck. “And maybe a little something more.” He tucks his hand under the sheets, finding you bare and ready. “Sladkaya,” h
e groans, sliding his hand between your legs. He gives you a long, slow kiss and joins himself to you completely.

  * * *

  “There is nothing like springtime in Washington,” Serge says, leading you down a now very familiar path. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

  “It’s snowing!” Nikki yells, running just enough ahead to make her father uncomfortable.

  “You must stay with us, Malyshka,” Serge yells. “There are too many people.”

  “Okay, Papa,” Nikki obediently skips back, braids flying out behind her as she bridges the few feet between you. She fits one small hand into yours, and takes Serge’s hand with the other. “Swing me!” she cries, and lifts her feet off of the ground.

  You lift her as high as you can, trying to even out the height difference between you and your husband. Nikki tilts her face to the sky as she swings, giggling as the soft petals fall across her cheeks.

  “Do you remember the story?” Serge asks, setting Nikki gently back onto the path.

  “The one about you and Mommy?” She squints up at her father, towering over her as he walks. “And all the trees?”

  “Oh, so you do remember!” Serge pats the top of her head, pleased.

  “I think I remember,” she says, smiling. “Can you tell me again?”

  “Maybe Mommy wants to tell it this time,” Serge suggests.

  “No, no,” you protest. “Papa does a much better job.”

  “Okay, I will tell it.” Serge begins, smiling to himself, “Papa and Mommy used to work together.”

  “In Mommy’s concert,” Nikki says.

  “That’s right, in Mommy’s concert. One day, Mommy heard Papa playing his cello. The music was so beautiful that she fell immediately in love.”

  “That’s not exactly how it happened,” you correct him.

  “Yes, that is exactly how it happened,” Serge continues, undeterred, making Nikki giggle. “But before Papa could ask Mommy to marry him, Papa had to go on a long journey.”