Blaine scanned through his phone's web browser, trying to find just the right picture. There was no time for a postcard.

That was it. The crimson curtain. The empty stage, save for the Steinway Grand and a couple of music stands.

Click. Save. Text: Kurt Hummel

First gig, with a duet parter whose voice can part the heavens. One hint to her identity: You slept with her.

He stopped for a beat and waited. If anything could roust Kurt from his self-imposed silence, it was a sentence like that. A minute later, he was proven right.

Whaaaaa? You know I've never ..

Think slumber party, Kurt.  ... And thanks for responding.

WHO?

Think.

Blaine's delight at nudging Kurt into conversation was doubled when they began to slip into their familiar, flirty banter that had been missing lately.

OMG MERCEDES!!!!!

Ten points for Mr. Hummel. 

You're singing with Mercedes? When?

Thursday. It's her gig -- she signed with our label and this is sort of a coming out party.

Excuse me? ( ;

You know what I mean. It's a showcase, NSO showing off the new talent.

And she asked you to sing?

Actually, it was Cameron's idea. He wanted me to meet his new act ... Little did he know.

We're singing a couple of songs together -- and Kurt, she's singing one of mine.

I wish I could see that.

You could, you know. 

He waited. No response. So he pushed, needing Kurt to address the ill-defined issues that seemed to be plaguing them.

I know you don't want me to call you right now. I know it and I'll respect it, even if I don't understand it. But I have to know Kurt: Are we OK?

He waited again, longer than he would have liked considering he hoped for a simple, one word affirmation.

I hope so. I want us to be. I've decided to come out there. I can't make it in time for your show. I'm sorry. But if I can take some more time off, I'll be there -- if the offer still stands. 

Of course it does, Kurt. It always does.

He didn't know exactly when Kurt would arrive, but Blaine now was certain that he would. He didn't have much time to prepare. He opened his contacts, and hit 'dial' for the one person who could pull this together.

"Susanna? It's Blaine. I need your help, and it's kind of urgent."

****

From the outside, the Catalina Bar and Grill looked more office building than nightclub. Visitors had to enter through the back, from a parking garage, which was a better view perhaps than the aging motel and drug store across the street from the front entrance. But as the club readied for showtime, it became the sultry capital for West Coast jazz, its whiskey lights casting uncertain shadows across an intimate stage.

Mercedes dressed to stand out, as if her voice didn't do that on its own. Radiant in plum Badgley Mischka chiffon, she owned the stage, easily drifting from power pop to soft, sweet soul. 

Interspersed with the Whitney and Adele covers, Cameron had prepared a couple of original songs tailored to Mercedes' voice: A whisper of a love song followed by an explosion of gospel-tinged R&B.

Deep into her set, she paused and introduce "an old friend."

"We sang together as teenagers trying to win a trophy. I'm so happy to be singing with him again as we're reaching for the brass ring."

Blaine took a seat at the piano, and the two broke into Vision of Love, reinventing the Mariah Carey classic as a promise between lovers.

Then she broke into Blaine's song, Missing You, a soulful lament that Mercedes knocked out of the park, Blaine backing up on lyrics that were painfully close to his heart.

God knows I'm trying to keep you out of my head

I ain't trying to love no one

I ain't trying to get hurt again, no

But there's something that just gets in my skin

And all I know is I can't let go

Her set left a buzz in the air and a circle of industry insiders around the stage. What was unexpected and a little unnerving for Blaine was that he received as much attention as his longtime friend. He tried to step aside, step back, turn the spotlight over to Mercedes, but guests followed, introducing themselves, offering congratulations.

Blaine saw himself as playing a supporting role in the performance. He was thrilled that Mercedes had made the last-minute decision to perform one of his songs -- one he had played for her in the studio only two days earlier -- but he was supposed to be a background  player. A couple of duets, that's all.

But the NSO executive suite apparently didn't see it that way. Neither did the three producers who stepped up and asked if he planned on recording any time soon, and if he had more songs like that in his repertoire.

Mercedes eventually wandered across the stage to where Blaine stood, planting a kiss on his cheek and a drink in his hand. "Scotch for success," she said. "I don't think I was the only one launching a career tonight."

"Not my intent," Blaine said quietly, shaking his head.

"Doesn't matter to them. And it doesn't matter to me so long as I'm not upstaged. And I'm not about to let that happen. Cheers." She clinked their glasses.

"You are one of a kind, you know," Blaine said, sipping the drink. "You look beautiful and you sounded gorgeous tonight."

"I know," she said with a smug smile. "But it doesn't hurt to have good material," she whispered. "So thanks for that. It's a keeper. Too bad our boy couldn't be here to hear it."

"Ugh. Yeah. But he's on his way, I think. Burt said he expects him to catch a flight this weekend, and Kurt sounds like he's finally committed to the trip."

"Did he give you an itinerary? When does he get in?"

"He's very cryptic."

Cameron walked up and wrapped Mercedes in his arms, a bear hug of congratulations. 

"And she's on her way! Great job, Mercedes, terrific set -- and you've got a line of other producers wanting to work with you. And you," he said, turning to Blaine. "I'd like a word, when you have a minute."

"Is there a problem? Anything I can help you with?"

"When you have a minute."

****

Blaine had agreed to help at an after party, a more intimate get-together in the presidential suite at the W, where he would baby sit a baby grand, playing and perhaps singing songs intended more as background music than entertainment.

He started softly and discreetly, instrumentals only, interspersing familiar tunes with improvised flourishes and surreptitious inserts of some of his own songs. Who would know, really? He played to fill the vacant gaps in conversation during drink orders and hors d'oeuvre noshing.

He volleyed back and forth, playing snippets of past Top 40 songs and of memories ... Misery ... Teenage Dream ... Somewhere Only We Know. As his mind drifted to the weekend, he added songs he connected with Kurt: Blackbird ... even Defying Gravity.

After years of being a frontman, he had learned to enjoy the shift to background player, the musical decor for the embellished room. The intended anonymity gave him freedom to explore nuances in the music that standing at the mic never allowed. It reminded him of the hours in the practice rooms of Juilliard, the hours alone with his thoughts and a keyboard; attacking the music, then willing it forward, coaxing it from his hands and his heart.

Those were the moments he treasured. Not the solos. Not the applause. Not the gigs fronting friends' bands. Not even the moments leading his beloved Warblers. Those had all mattered once, back when he needed affirmation that he was worth it. But time, maturity and maybe love had changed that, save for a solitary person. Kurt's opinion, Kurt's acceptance, of his performances always mattered.

He'd grown confident in himself, and found the peace he'd always lacked by focusing inward. He could still hold a room in his hand, he just didn't need to any more.

He had grown to love the intimacy of writing, creating and developing music from its first notes to its final, polished  form, and he was learning the craft from some of the best in the business, many of whom were in the room, some beginning to gather around the glossy black enamel Yamaha he was currently seated at.

A hand on his shoulder, a sing-song voice in his ear.

"I know what you're thinking."

Mercedes cozied up, resting her forearms on Blaine's shoulders, whispering. "No one else in this room knows it, but those songs are the story of your life, Blaine Anderson. And those last two -- they weren't yours.

She smiled. She knew. 

"By the sounds of it -- and by the whispers in the room -- I'd say you have a lot on your mind."

"Mmmm. You could say that," he said, focusing more intently than ever on the keys.

"They're gathering, Blaine. They're not going to let this be your private refuge forever."

He looked up from the piano, looked around the room, then looked her straight in the eye. 

"I know."

****

Confirm. Click. Purchase.

Done.

Kurt had finally made a commitment that had made his stomach churl, and he didn't entirely know why.

But after a couple of calls, he was cleared for take-off. "We'll survive," said his Starbucks manager. She wasn't thrilled, but she wasn't objecting, either. Soriano was a little more blunt about Kurt extending his time off. 

"It's about fucking time. Go get him," he said.

So, with a little trepidation about what the future may hold, he found a seat on Southwest that could get him to Los  Angeles by the late afternoon on Saturday without breaking the bank. Not that it mattered. Burt insisted on buying the ticket, no matter what the cost, if it meant that his son would "do what you should have done weeks ago."

Well, I guess I know where he stands, Kurt thought.

He began the regimen of pre-packing his luggage, trying to force his stress into the far corner of his brain.

It didn't work. He would fold a shirt then stop, absent-mindedly thumbing the collar and thinking about how to navigate the clumsy, uncomfortable conversation ahead, and how to explain his attitude these past few weeks.

If he was being honest, it would have included blunt inquiries: Are you seeing someone else? Who is this Christian guy and why is he such a big part of your life? Do you ever intend to come home? 

If he was being brutally honest, he would have had even tougher questions for himself: How could you doubt him? Is he not allowed this? Are you not supportive of Blaine getting the same chances at success that you've had?

But it boiled down to one undeniable fact: Kurt missed him. He wanted Blaine back, and soon. He wanted to settle back in to their domesticated bliss, finish college and get on with their lives and careers. And the longer Blaine was gone, the more uncertain Kurt felt about whether he would return to New York.

He had made new friends, important jobs contacts and discovered a life that hadn't included Kurt -- and that was unnerving.

He didn't just want Blaine back, he wanted him back in their apartment, in their bed, in their life -- as soon as possible.

He took his phone and sent a simple, one word text:

Saturday.

****

The last 48 hours had been a blur, between the showcase at the Catalina, and the after party, and the Friday evening wedding and reception.

But in the center of the whirlwind, Blaine felt he'd found some clarity. He knew what he had to do.

Whether it would be as clear to Kurt was uncertain.