*
Late Saturday, after the show, the lot of us congregated in the Ritz lobby. The guys wanted to go out clubbing with what seemed a third of their entourage. It was a big bunch and they were loud, and while Raj was coordinating with drivers and security, Hayes and I decided to bow out.
When they departed, Hayes made his way from the bar over to the baby grand in the corner. I followed, sitting beside him on the narrow bench.
He began to play, his fingers moving over the keys, fluid. A melody I had not heard before. It was at once delicate and haunting, raw. And I felt it almost immediately, my insides seizing. It was personal.
“Is that something you wrote?”
For a moment he did not answer, and then: “Something I’m writing.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘S.’” He said it plainly, no eye contact, no break in the music.
“Just ‘S’? Are there words?”
“Not that I’m ready to share.”
I sat there numb while he played for a minute more in silence. Then, very abruptly, he stopped.
“I think we should probably go upstairs now.”
“I think so, too.”
*
As the days passed, I was increasingly aware that our emotions were scattered. We went from laughing to crying and back again so frequently it became our new normal. On Sunday afternoon, we went shopping in the Omotesandō-Aoyama area. We’d started at Céline, where I found a classic box bag in gray. I decided to treat myself, and when I asked the saleswoman to ring it up, Hayes proffered his credit card.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m going to get it for you.”
“No, you’re not.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be silly.”
“Hayes, you’re not.”
“You’re really not going to let me buy it for you?”
“I’m not going to let you buy it for me.”
He stood there, looking at me for a long time, a bewildered expression on his face. “Oh-kay,” he said eventually.
I watched the saleswoman package the box, tying it all up with a bow, just so. When I turned back to Hayes, his eyes were brimming.
“What?”
“You make it so fucking hard not to love you,” he said, soft. He lifted the neck of his T-shirt to wipe his cheek, and it seemed like something a young boy would do. His abdomen bared for a split second: the faint line of hair descending below his belly button, the crease traversing his groin. There was nothing about his body that I did not know, and that both comforted me and made me profoundly sad.
I wrapped my arms around his middle and held him close. “You, too.”
We followed Desmond over to Alexander McQueen, just a little ways down. Hayes had on his sunglasses, but no hat, and although he turned several heads, only two people stopped him for selfies.
I trailed him through the sleek new store, pristine white marble and gloss, as he picked up two scarves and a shirt. We were upstairs toward the back, in the men’s section, when Desmond approached us.
“We ’ave a bit of a problem.”
I could not recall ever having heard him say those words, and it alarmed me. He walked us to the front side of the store, where through the floor-to-ceiling windows we could see a swarm of girls gathering below, at least fifty. The second they saw Hayes’s face, their screams pierced the air.
“Shit. Where the bloody hell did they come from?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m going to get the driver to come around, but they’re multiplying fast.”
I could hear a commotion below on the first floor and feared some of them had already forced their way in, like locusts.
“Stay away from the glass,” Desmond said. “I’m going to check with security and make sure they lock the doors.”
There were a handful of other customers on the upper level, and I could feel them eyeing us, curious. One salesgirl, perhaps realizing who Hayes was, approached and bowed.
“Um, I’m probably going to have to leave in a bit of a rush,” he said to her, sweetly. “Could you ring these up for me, please? O-negai shimasu.”
“Hai.” She bowed and took his credit card.
“It’s like a tour bus just deposited them, out of nowhere. Are you freaking out? Don’t freak out.” Hayes reached to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “We’re safe in here.”
He had no sooner said it than a dozen girls came running up the marble staircase, camera phones at the ready, squealing, “Hayes!” Their behavior on seeing him was so oddly not Western. There was none of the grabbing or pawing that I’d become used to, but more of a delighted jumping and respect of his space. They did not physically have to touch him; it was enough to be near.
Desmond had called in for backup, and we waited another twenty minutes or so before Fergus arrived with two additional guards.
Outside was chaos. The crowd had grown to terrifying proportions. Girls in all manner of Harajuku dress, Minnie Mouse bows, and schoolgirl knee-highs. Fanboys with purple-dyed hair. I did not see how we were going to reach our car without being trampled. But the guards sandwiched us, and we moved through the throng like salmon swimming in the wrong direction. Perhaps it was because I did not understand anything they were saying besides “HayesHayesHayesHayesHayes,” but their voices were so high-pitched and cacophonous, it sounded to me like cats mewling. Cats in heat, grating, earsplitting. And I would hear it in my dreams for a long time to come.
“Don’t fall,” Hayes said to me, as if it were something I was considering.
There was shoving and pushing and pulling and the feeling of the world closing in on me, the fear of asphyxiation. And then finally we made it into the car. And still I did not feel safe. Our driver was yelling, “Sagattute! Sagattute! Move back!” They were banging on the windows, hard.
Hayes hugged me close, and buried my face in his chest.
“You’re okay,” he said. “We’re okay.”
But I was not.
*
We did not talk about it when we got back to the hotel. We lay side by side in our room with the view of Mount Fuji and simply held each other.
*
On Monday morning, the day of their last concert in Tokyo, the day before I was leaving, Hayes worked out with Joss, their trainer. When he returned, I was in the living room answering emails, finalizing arrangements for Frieze New York. Without saying a word, he showered, got dressed, and then sat down before me.
“I don’t know how to say this,” he said, soft. “I don’t know where to begin. But I love you so completely and the idea of you leaving is fucking breaking my heart. And I know … I understand every reason why you’re doing it, but it still doesn’t make sense to me. It doesn’t make sense that we can’t make it work.”
“Hayes … I’m sorry…”
He’d begun to cry. “Why? Why can’t it work? What if we’re just quiet about it? What if we just go back to not saying anything?”