Author's Notes: The thing about driving in the heartland is, there are vast expanses of road and not much else—billboards offering free breakfasts with hotel stays and the occasional sign citing dubious science about beating hearts. And when there is nothing else, there is no way to avoid thinking that one thing you don’t want to think about.

Mile after mile, the memories enveloped him—from the moment he first set eyes on the fresh-faced Warbler, eyes shining, brimming with confidence, to the very last look on Blaine’s face just before Kurt left: sad, resigned, maybe a little hopeful. On the long road home the memories slid together and apart like scrims on a stage, transparent, painted in watercolor, a love in pictures.

Kurt sips his mocha, stares out at the vast expanse of dark nothingness and contemplates his next move. He’s not even sure what town he’s in, just that the green Starbucks sign had beckoned him off Highway 30 and now he’s sitting in a rented Toyota in Nowheresville, Indiana, wondering how the hell he made such a mess of his life.

Did I really walk away from him, just moments after I got him?

Yes, Kurt Hummel. Yes you did.

The ground had been shifting beneath his feet for days; he was not the same man who arrived at the Albuquerque airport nearly two weeks ago. Half a lifetime rising above and making the most of things, and suddenly there was no need; suddenly the secret wish he had tucked away under layers of well-intentioned living was fulfilled. Real. Telling the truth about what he wanted, taking it, feeling no shame, turning toward the beautiful scary thing, it rattled him; like an earthquake of the soul.

He hated leaving Blaine, but it was the right thing to do. Changing his plans last minute in favor of returning to Ohio was also the right decision, no matter how important it was for him to sort things out with now-ex-fianc�. Sure, Paul would have to deal with the reporters’ questions on his own, but Kurt was quite certain he preferred that anyway. Besides, it was Paul’s own fault, issuing a press release without discussing it with Kurt.

Paul was incredulous at first, but in the end he opted not to make a scene. He simply picked up his carry-on and marched off to his gate.

In the end Kurt decided that flying into Chicago, renting a car and making the four-and-a-half-hour drive to Lima would be faster than a layover in Minneapolis. Now, with two hours of highway behind him, he’s only an hour outside Fort Wayne. Time to make a decision.

He should call home, he really should. But he hasn’t so far, and with every Midwestern mile before him he dreads it more and more. It’s not that he doesn’t want to face his dad; he’ll have to see him, and explain everything, and hope he isn’t judged too harshly. It’s just that he’s not ready yet. He needs a soft landing with someone who will simply be thrilled to see him, no matter what he’s done or how long it’s been since they’ve talked about more than routine updates require; someone who just wants Kurt to be happy, simple as that. Someone who will get him drunk and not ask too many questions about why. Someone who knew him before Paul, before Blaine, before all of it.

Kurt thumbs through his contacts and presses the number he’s ignored for far too long.

“Kurt?”

“Hey, Finn. Is this a bad time?”

“Nah. Just catching up on some grading, watching the game,” Finn says. “What’s up?”

“I’m not far from you, actually. About an hour away. May I come over?”

It’s after nine o’clock when Kurt comes up on the outskirts of Fort Wayne, and just a few minutes more before he’s parked on a quiet street in front of Finn and Erin’s small yellow colonial. He smiles when he notices that Finn has left the porch light on for him. As he walks up to the door he’s hit by the sweltering humidity, a sharp contrast to the bone-dry heat of Santa Fe’s high desert.

Finn swings the door wide not ten seconds after Kurt rings the bell and immediately grabs Kurt in a giant bear hug. He smells like soap and freshly mown grass; like home.

Once inside, Finn carries Kurt’s bag to the first floor guest room and then ushers him into the kitchen.

“I shouldn’t have rung the doorbell,” Kurt says, glancing around the newly remodeled “country chic” kitchen. He helped Erin come up with the color scheme over email and is pleased now to see that she followed his suggestions and nixed the blue in favor of tangerine. On a bulletin board next to recent pictures of Meg, a school calendar and an impressive drawing of a unicorn, Kurt notices an old picture of the New Directions after their first performance, curled up a bit on the bottom corners.

“S’okay. Meg can sleep through anything and Erin passed out in bed while she was reading to her. She’ll only wake up if she has to pee or eat.”

“How’s she feeling? Everything okay with the baby?”

“Other than the fact that he’s kicking Erin’s ass, everything’s fine, yeah,” Finn says, digging through the refrigerator. “I have pop, and orange juice and beer. Take your pick.”

“Beer’s fine,” Kurt says, ignoring Finn’s look of surprise. “When is she due again?”

Finn smiles. “Thanksgiving, just about.”

“Wow. Are you ready?”

“You’re never really ready,” Finn says, motioning for Kurt to follow him into the living room. “But you know, the baby comes whether you’re ready or not. You just deal.”

Kurt sits on one end of the sofa, Finn on the other, the muted television turned to ESPN. Finn leans across, clinks his bottle with Kurt’s and says, “I thought Dad said you were in Arizona, or something.”

“New Mexico.”

“Right. That the place with the aliens?”

“What aliens?”

“In Roswell. Aliens landed there I think,” Finn says, glancing at the scores running along the bottom of the television screen.

Kurt laughs. “Yeah, well, I didn’t go there. I was in Santa Fe, primarily.”

“Awesome. Would I like it?”

Kurt imagines Finn gobbling down plate after plate of green chile, traipsing through the artsy Santa Fe Railyard, looking for treasures, trying to hold his robe closed waiting for treatments at Ten Thousand Waves. “Yeah. I think you would.”

“You on your way to Mom and Dad’s?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t say you were coming.”

Kurt looks at Finn, shrugs. He plays with the label on his beer bottle, softening from condensation. He can tell Finn wants to ask What’s up, why are you here, are you okay? And while he’s grateful his brother has grown into a man of decorum and patience, he wishes Finn would just drag it out of him.

Kurt remembers how, when he would come home from Dalton on weekends, Finn would trail behind him like a shadow and ask him question after question. “Are they giving you any trouble? Any Karofsky’s I need to know about? You’ll tell me this time won’t you, if you don’t feel safe?”

Maybe Erin trained Finn not to be so nosy, or maybe he’s just older and less inclined to think that he has to save the day and lead everyone to victory.

“Did you know?” Kurt asks.

“Did I know what?”

“That I was in love with Blaine in high school?”

Finn turns to him, eyebrows raised. “Pretty sure everyone knew. I thought you were dating the entire time, until you started going out with the Cable guy.”

“Caleb.”

“Right. What a douchebag.”

“You really thought Blaine and I were dating?”

“You were with each other all the time. And you were always touching each other, and you know, you’d get happy whenever he was around.”

“Yeah.”

Finn looks at him like he’s trying to figure something out and says, “What brought this on? You getting cold feet?”

“I ran into Blaine in Santa Fe. We were staying at the same hotel.”

“By accident?

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

Finn takes a swig of his beer, then another. “Dude, that’s—I mean that is really… you don’t think that’s kind of like a giant sign?”

“How so?”

Finn looks at his beer, then abruptly stands up and leaves the room, throwing a “hang on a sec” over his shoulder. He returns moments later with a bottle of Wild Turkey and two shot glasses.

Kurt scooches forward on the couch so he’s closer to the coffee table. “When did you graduate to this stuff?”

“Believe it or not, Erin turned me on to it.”

“Innocent little Erin?” Kurt asks, as he accepts the shot from Finn.

Finn laughs, then leans in to whisper, “She’s not so innocent.”

“Do tell.”

“She’d smack me for telling you this—and don’t tell Mom like, ever—but we didn’t meet at the library. We met when I helped her down off of the roof of her ex-boyfriend’s truck. We were at the same house party. Erin was half-dressed and drunk out of her mind, singing a song made-up mostly of curse words. She looked like she was gonna fall, so I—”

“Came to her rescue?”

“Sort of. She wasn’t happy about it. She wanted to finish her song.”

Finn smiles, caught in his memories, and shifts his attention back to Kurt. “So look, I like Paul. He’s real smart and he seems to think you’re amazing, so I can’t fault the guy just for being, I don’t know, a little much—”

“Erin’s words?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah. But I don’t care about him. I care about you. And—it’s okay that I’m saying this now, right? Like, if you’re going to end up marrying the guy I don’t want it to be weird at Christmas, you know?”

Kurt laughs. “Not happening. Just say it.”

“You weren’t yourself with Paul. I mean, it’s not like you were a completely different person, like Invasion of the Body Snatchers or something. You were just… less you.”

“It’s okay. I know.”

“Good, I don’t want to piss you off,” Finn says. “It was definitely worse with Paul, but that had been happening for a while. Like, we were all growing into ourselves and you were just, I don’t know—doing something else.”

Kurt sits up taller. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s like—hanging out with you was like hanging with Kurt, but on dimmer.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Finn settles back into the couch, “I don’t know. We only see each other once a year. I didn’t want to mess up your time at home. And honestly, I didn’t think about it too much. I figured you said you were happy, so you must be happy. Was that wrong? Should I have, I don’t know, staged some sort of Kurt-intervention?”

Kurt smiles. “What with like a flash mob or something?”

“Totally! We could do a medley of gay songs.”

“Gay songs?”

“Yeah, like that Donna Ross song they always play at Columbus Pride,” Finn says, eyes big with excitement. “It goes, ‘I’m comin’ out, I want the world to know…”

Kurt looks at Finn—earnest, well-meaning, loyal-and-true Finn, Finn who labels songs “gay” but drives to Columbus every June to take his family to Pride, Finn who is a good brother and a decent friend—and laughs. He laughs so hard he falls back on the couch, belly heaving, legs splayed. He laughs and laughs, and then he’s laughing because he’s laughing.

When he calms down Finn has stopped singing and is smiling down at him. Kurt sits up just a bit, his body lax. “I came out when I was fifteen, Finn.”

“Dude, I know. It’s a metaphor,” Finn says, pouring bourbon into two shot glasses and handing one to Kurt. He clinks his glass against Kurt’s and says, “Rock on.”

“Cheers,” Kurt says as they both take their shots. “And it’s Diana Ross, not Donna Ross.”

The alcohol burns; it’s not his favorite but it will do the job. He looks around the living room at the little touches, the evidence of a life well lived—a toy box in the corner; a green afghan crocheted by Carole (his is blue) over a brown leather recliner; Finn’s high school football jersey, framed and under glass; two stacks of pop quizzes, one graded and the other ungraded, on the coffee table; wedding photos and portraits of Meg proudly displayed on the mantel above the fireplace; the set of six Tiffany champagne flutes he gave Finn and Erin as a wedding gift, neatly lined up in the hutch.

It’s all right out there for anyone to see. There are no secret parts of Finn hidden in a box in a closet, no forgotten dreams locked up in storage, no pieces of his past he’s afraid to show, much less honor. Finn isn’t holding anything back or wishing he were somewhere else; he isn’t denying himself in any way.

“Where’d you find the New Directions picture, the one in the kitchen?” Kurt asks.

“Meg took it out of one of my photo albums. I don’t know why she put it up on the board, but she won’t let us take it down.”

“We were such babies.”

“You especially, with your chubby baby face,” Finn teases.

“Back then you couldn’t have told me I would become an interior designer. Buying stuff other people make and arranging it for people with no taste, instead of singing on Broadway? I would have slapped anyone who told me that—verbally, of course.”

Finn snorts. “You got me good a few times, dude.”

“With a pillow! I hit you with a pillow, Finn.”

“And a turkey leg. Don’t forget the turkey leg.”

“Ugh, are you ever going to stop talking about that fucking turkey leg? Kurt asks.

“Nope.”

Kurt tosses a pillow at Finn’s head; it lands on the floor. They both laugh, then Finn pours two refills and hands one to Kurt.

“I’ve done a lot of things I never thought I’d do, since then,” Kurt says, looking in the direction of the kitchen. He doesn’t have to see the picture to know that look in his eyes, that fierce determination, that black-and-white morality, that certainty.

“Yeah, well—it’s not hard to fuck up. It’s the easiest thing in the world, doesn’t make you a bad person,” Finn says.

Kurt takes his shot and motions for Finn to do the same. They both chase the burn with a sip of beer, then Finn continues, “After what I did to Rachel, breaking up with her five times—”

“Seven.”

“Seven times—after that, I sure as shit didn’t think I deserved to be happy. But when the chance literally fell into my arms I didn’t think twice, man.”

Kurt looks over at the mantle, at Finn’s girls, smiling. “I’m going to stay a couple of nights. Is that okay? Will Erin mind?”

“Nah, she’ll be stoked.”

Finn flops back against the couch; Kurt follows. They stare at the television for a few moments, quiet, and then Finn says, “So how is Blaine, anyway?”

Kurt smiles, eyes still on the screen. He wants to say, He loves me, and he’s amazing, and I left him because it felt like too much, but he loves me. He loves me.

But all that comes out is, “He’s good.”

***



Surprisingly, Mitch’s old black leather couch is quite comfortable for sleeping. After two days and nights camped out in the studio, Blaine is ready for some sunshine. He’s made it up to the guesthouse twice to shower and change clothes, and over to the main house a few times to shovel home-cooked food into his mouth and thank Mitch profusely for his hospitality, but other than that he’s mainly been stuck in these two rooms.

Stepping out into the courtyard, Blaine squints up at the stunning azure blue sky. He’s heard Sarah call it “Pecos blue”—something about a memorable camping trip she and Antonio took in the Pecos National Forest, further north of Santa Fe than Galisteo. Out here where the horizon stretches on forever and every hour brings a new picture postcard, it’s easy to feel like you’ve been dropped into an epic movie, one you can only appreciate on the big screen.

Blaine slips two fingers into his pocket and pulls out the small folded-up piece of paper he’s been transferring from one pair of jeans to another since Kurt left. That day he slept for hours, and when he woke he knew—he had to get out of there. The hotel held too many memories for him, so he packed up and checked out, intent on taking Mitch up on his invitation to crash at his guesthouse.

As he turned away from the reception desk, Amy called after him. “Mr. Anderson, I almost forgot. Mr. Hummel left this package for you.”

The box was small, no bigger than a postcard, wrapped in purple paper with gold stars. He tore off the paper and into the box as if he’d find all of the answers inside, but instead he found a large chocolate sacred heart milagro, covered in what looked like hand-painted silver foil.

Stunned, Blaine traced the edges of the heart. How had Kurt known about the milagros he had offered up in the Santuario? Had Antonio told him?

Inspecting the box further, he noticed a folded-up piece of paper stuck to the inside of the lid. On it, Kurt had copied the poem “I carry your heart” by e.e. cummings by hand. Blaine read the poem twice, mouthing the words as he stood there in the lobby of the Eldorado with no concern for who might be watching him.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate ,my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

It was then Blaine knew that whatever this separation was about, it was only temporary.

Driving out to Galisteo later that day, the cut on his face was a stinging reminder of Paul’s accusation that their love was a joke, that if they really wanted each other they would have fought for each other, or at least tried harder. Blaine couldn’t get his wits about him at the time, but he wanted to say so much to Kurt about that, about why:

Maybe we couldn't be together, then. Maybe we'd like to think we should have been, but maybe we would have broken up. Maybe this is our time, and everything is perfect, and we shouldn't regret the missed chances because we took the only one that mattered.

By the time he had the presence of mind to say all of these things, Kurt was gone and all that was left to do was write about it.

When the sun came up on Sunday he had two songs written—one simple piece with a catchy melody that he showed to Mitch, and the other a melancholy song he decided to keep for himself—and a good start on a third. It felt like cramming for an exam, each song an answer to one of Kurt’s questions, or one of his own.

And it wasn’t just his own music he worked on while he practically lived in Mitch’s studio—somehow, in the midst of his creative purge he had figured out how to make “Forever Man” work.

Stuffing the poem back in his pocket, Blaine takes off in search of more of the relentless New Mexico sun, and a little exercise. Right off the back gate a trail runs parallel to the main house over to the stables, so he follows it. In his mind he hears Adele singing the song they’ve tried to hard to get right. It was a good song, maybe even a great song. But both Blaine and Adele knew it could be a phenomenal song, on par with “Someone Like You,” so they kept at it. Now, Blaine is sure of the song. He’ll wait for Adele to show up this afternoon and confirm it with her miraculous voice, but it’s only a formality.

Rounding a corner, the main house in view, Blaine notices the front door open and is surprised to see Deidre walking out. Like he did, she squints into the sun. When her eyes adjust she spots him on the trail. He doesn’t have to be able to hear her to know that she’s probably saying, “Fuck” or some other curse word.

Almost immediately she’s marching toward him, her oddly normal ponytail bouncing behind her as she walks. He meets her halfway.

Sparing him a greeting she says, “This is not what it fucking looks like.”

Blaine chuckles. “Okay,” he says.

Two weeks ago he would have scoffed and thought, “Yeah, right.” But he’s been on the other side of the looking glass now and he knows while the old adage “where there’s smoke, there’s fire” is true, in situations like this, things rarely are what they seem.

“Nothing happened,” Deidre stresses.

“Okay,” he replies again, this time with a reassuring smile.

“Would you stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“I didn’t fuck him, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying that!” Deidre shouts, her voice loud enough to wake the dead.

Blaine raises both hands in the air as though she’s holding a gun to him. “Ok—sorry. Want to take a walk with me?”

“A walk? Why?”

Blaine shrugs. “Don’t know. Just thought I’d offer.”

Deidre looks back at the house, at her expensive rental, parked in Mitch’s circular driveway. On her feet she wears simple pink flats—not great for hiking in, but they will get her down to the stables and back.

It’s the most awkward walk he’s ever shared with anyone in his life. He tries to talk to her, but she only offers mumbled responses. Music still in his head, he starts to hum, and then sings softly, trying out the lyrics for one of his new songs: “I don’t think you’re right for him. Look at what it might have been if you took a bus to Chinatown. I’d be standing on Canal and Bowery.”

The song takes him back to a time when he still thought he and Kurt would end up together, back in college, Kurt and Rachel still visiting Blaine in Boston every spare weekend they had; before Adam, and Caleb; before all of the boys and men who weren’t right for them.

He stops when they reach the paddock next to the stables. Deidre is so tense even the horses seem to sense it, staying far away from the fence. He tries small talk, tells her that when he’s driving out to Galisteo from Santa Fe, he always thinks of that U2 song, “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

“I love that song,” she says, finally.

“Come back to the studio with me,” he says. “I’ll put the song on your phone and you can listen to it on your drive back up to the Waves.”

Deidre doesn’t answer him at first. Hands on her hips, she looks out at the horses, at the vast landscape; her mask of indifference falls away in the quiet between them. Face turned toward the sun, at last she says, “He’s not in New York, by the way. He’s in Ohio.”

“What? Why?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deidre replies. “Paul wouldn’t tell me more than that, just that Kurt didn’t go back with him after all, that he went to Ohio instead.”

Blaine can’t help himself—he grabs Deidre, lifts her up and spins her around. She seems surprised, and even giggles a bit, her cheeks flushed when he puts her down.

She comes back to herself quickly. “Aww, we’re you worried he would go back to the most handsome, eligible bachelor in all of New York?”

He waves a finger at her and starts back toward the studio, a new spring in his step. “Uh-uh, lady. I’m not falling for your drama.”

He’s walking fast and she’s tiny; it takes her a few seconds to catch up to him. “I can be—I know I should apologize, but I won’t, because I really hate doing that… but I’m… thinking it.”

Blaine laughs. “Don’t worry about it.”

He hadn’t let himself think too much about the possibility that Kurt would decide to go back to Paul; he hadn’t let himself think about much of anything at all, poring everything into his music, instead. Yet, now that he knows that Kurt never even made it back to New York; that he went home, back to where their story began; back to where he has family who loves him; Blaine is overcome with relief.

They’d had had so little time together before it all blew up in their faces, and there was so much left to repair, and decide; thinking about any of it would have sent him into a tailspin. He realizes now that his worries and emotions were there all the time, he had just left them on page after page of sheet music—where they belong.

As they reach the point where Deidre joined him in the walk, Blaine sees Adele walking from the main house to the studio.

He says, “I have to get back to the studio. See you later? Maybe? Or not. Either way, thanks for the walk.”

He’s almost to the studio when Deidre catches up with him again, dust covering her shoes. She taps him on the back. “What if it’s worse?”

He raises one eyebrow in question, waits impatiently for clarity.

“What if it’s worse than an affair?” Deidre says, looking him straight in the eyes. “What if I like myself around him? A lot? What if talking with him makes me feel like I could be different or… more?”

Blaine looks at her, this hard-edged, tiny woman who seems to be experiencing for the very first time what he felt more than a decade ago, and holds out his hand. “We’re recording a song I wrote today. Will you stay and let me know what you think?”

Deidre offers him a half smile, and then takes his hand.

Later that day, after they work on “Forever Man,” the band assembles and they record the first new song for Blaine’s album, "Ho Hey." Mitch wants to lay down one track with everyone at the same time; Blaine knows he’s looking for a special feeling for the song, that he wants to capture the energy of the group, the way they have risen up to support Blaine, the way they celebrate him.

Deidre pouts in the corner, holding a tambourine Mitch will not let her play, until Blaine winks at her. Somehow the day in the studio has softened her. She’s smiled more times than he can count and actually managed to be friendly to almost everyone.

Looking off to the corner at Adele and Kit, he shakes his head. He still can’t get over Adele singing backup for him. Even after all they’d shared, even after all they’d accomplished together, he still can’t get over the fact that he knows her, that she loves him; that she believes and trusts in him. He wants to tell Kurt all about it, but he can’t.

So, instead, he sings: “I belong with you, you belong with me, you’re my sweetheart.”

Despite the inherent angst, with the band backing him up, and the happiness in the room, the song is bright and fun. Mitch has that look on his face, the one that betrays his excitement, which means he likes it enough to make sure it’s great.

Take after take, whether he’s in the booth or sitting next to Mitch at the board, Blaine is on autopilot. Without his love, all he can do is make music. That he is willing to share it, and record it is a supreme act of faith, but like everything else, he can’t think about that too hard. So he works. He sings, and plays, and listens, and sings again. And again. And still more until Mitch leans back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face and says, “Now, what about the other song?”

He doesn’t want to sing it tonight—they’ve had a great day, and the song will change the feel of the night, take them to another place, a place he has been avoiding for two days.

“Let’s hear it one time through, and then I’ll sleep on it,” Mitch says. There’s a casual ease in Mitch’s voice, but it’s not a suggestion.

Blaine nods, then goes to the booth, Adele at his heels. He can feel her staring at him as he sits down at the keyboard, finds the sheet music for "Honey Please." and lines up each page. When her stare becomes uncomfortable, Blaine says, “What?”

“Don’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried, I’m just… impatient.”

“Tell me another one,” Adele says, sitting down next to him on the bench.

“It’s not a lie.”

“It’s only me, you know. Nothing wrong with having one person you can fess up to.”

Adele rests her head on his shoulder for a moment and then leans over the keyboard to peek at his song. Her lips move as she recites the lyrics to herself. He whispers along with her: Don’t tell me so, I know. Don’t try to fight, hold tight. Don’t be afraid of what we made. Love is always right.

When she comes to the last sheet she picks it up and holds it in front of his face. “It’s okay to be pissed. Or sad. Or whatever-the-fuck-ever you feel.”

“It’s just—what if ‘more time’ stretches on into years, into all the days? Are we ever going to be able to just… start?”

“I think we’ll all die from heartbreak if you don’t get your happy ending,” she says.

He looks at her and tries not to crumble. If he can just stay focused on the song, he can handle not hearing from Kurt. He can handle wondering, and waiting, and feeling like shit about all of the years lost and the mistakes they both made. He can handle being sure of Kurt, and their love, even though Kurt is not sure of himself.

After a moment Adele squeezes his arm. “Fear not, my lovely,” she says. “Mind if I sit with you while you sing?”

Blaine kisses Adele on the cheek. “Not at all.”

***


When Kurt pulls into Hummel Tires & Lube late Monday morning, he is nursing a three-day hangover.

He spent Sunday with Finn and the girls, Meg squealing with delight when she realized her Uncle Kurt had come for a surprise visit. She tugged him around with her as if he was her pet, showing him every doll, every LEGO set, every sticker book in her playroom, and then forced him to sit through two hours of her favorite YouTube videos, most of which made no sense to him. He loved every minute of it.

In the afternoon he sat on the porch with Erin and watched Meg ride bikes with her neighborhood friends. Now seven, she had started to grow like a weed; being Finn’s child, she towered over her friends of the same age.

Later that night, after a backyard barbeque reminiscent of every summer Sunday in the Hummel-Hudson household, the adults stayed up late talking. Finn and Kurt managed to kill the Wild Turkey bottle and the rest of the beer, thus marking the third night in a row that Kurt had gotten drunk out of his mind.

Now, as he steps out of his rental car, Kurt’s head feels like it’s caught in a vise, his body sore and heavy. “Never again,” he mumbles, walking toward the main office.

It’s quiet in the shop for a Monday, just two guys working on a few cars. He spots Jim, his dad’s must trusted employee, and waves. Jim smiles big. “Hey, big city. Whaddya know?”

“I know you need a haircut,” Kurt shouts back. Jim laughs and Kurt carries the familiar feeling of camaraderie into his dad’s office, for a moment forgetting that he’s about to face the firing squad.

He finds his dad crouched down, searching through his old, beat-up four-drawer filing cabinet. He looks the same, maybe a few pounds heavier, a little bit older.

“Hey Dad,” Kurt says.

Burt turns toward him and stands up, using the file cabinet for leverage. He’s got Kurt in a tight hug before he says, “Good to see ya, kid. You hit much traffic?”

A few minutes later Kurt follows Burt out of the shop out into the parking lot, carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of donuts. As Burt passes Kurt’s rental he says, “They all out of American cars?”

Kurt laughs, shakes his head. “Come on, Dad. You know Toyota makes cars for Chevy.”

“The whole damn world is turned upside down,” Burt mutters, climbing into the back of Henrietta.

A 1956 Ford pickup his dad got for a song just before Kurt’s mom passed away, Henrietta was the shop’s mascot. Burt had intended to fix the truck up and sell it but Kurt loved it “as-is, Daddy,” which really meant, “as it was the last time she saw it,” so he parked the truck and there it remained.

Just as he’s done dozens of times before, Kurt climbs over the side and sits on one of the two plastic crates they use for seats. He looks in the bag and fishes out a glazed donut for his dad, a chocolate cake donut for himself.

“So, did you do the right thing?” Burt asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You get right to it, don’t you?”

“Saw your name in the paper yesterday. Something about a November wedding?”

Kurt sighs. He knew there was no way to stop the press release. He also knew that Paul would not want to be the source of any gossip or controversy that could possibly cast a negative light on equal marriage so close to the vote. So he wasn’t entirely surprised to see the brief article in USA Today announcing their marriage in the context of exploring the viability of the forthcoming bill.

“Did you tell him or not?”

“I did, just… not before he had already approved he press release,” Kurt explains. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”

As Burt eats his donut, Kurt gives his dad the abbreviated, cleaned-up version of the last couple of weeks. He watches his face closely, looking for any signs of disappointment, but Burt’s neutral expression gives nothing away.

When he’s finished, the giant “to be continued” hanging in the air, they sit in silence for a few moments, looking out at the sunflower field behind the shop. They’d planted the rows and rows of flowers when Kurt was just four years old, his mother’s idea for brightening up the overgrown lot that had previously been used as a graveyard for junk cars. How many days had they sat out here in Henrietta, staring out at his mother’s sunflowers while they ate a quick lunch or finished off ice cream cones from the Dairy Queen down the street?

Finally Kurt can’t wait anymore. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I know I should have told Paul right away, before I did anything with Blaine. I should have told him a long time ago that—”

“That you don’t love him?”

“No, I do love him. Just not… not the way you should love someone you want to spend he rest of your life with. Anyway, I’m sorry that—”

“Kurt, stop. You’re a grown man. You don’t owe me an apology for a mistake you made that doesn’t affect me.”

“I know, but I feel just awful about—”

“Kurt,” Burt interrupts, his large, strong hand gripping Kurt’s shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s time you forgive yourself?”

“I hardly think a couple of days is enough time to forgive myself for cheating on Paul, Dad.”

“No, son. When are you going to forgive yourself for giving up? You were just a kid. You thought you had a bucketful of chances left, all the time in the world, and you were supposed to feel that way. Don’t keep punishing yourself just because you weren’t ready for the real thing.”

Kurt’s eyes well up with tears; he looks out at the sunflowers, her flowers, row after row of golden faces, taller than him. He lets silent tears fall as his father’s grip on his shoulder strengthens. A breeze blowing through the field makes it look as though someone is walking through the rows, invisible, and that’s all it takes for him to forget where he is—the guys in the shop, the people on the street behind them, the town—and let the tears fall.

He says, “Hummels never give up.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be so hard on yourself. Pretty sure you had something to prove.”

Kurt turns to look at his dad. “What do you mean?”

“I think that, sometime when I wasn’t looking, you decided life would be better if you didn’t need anyone or anything. If I had been looking when you made that choice I sure as shit would have told you what a foolish move it was. But you were already on your way, so…”

“I’m just so… ashamed. I’ve always thought of myself as strong, a go-getter, someone who goes after what he wants, and I’ve been a total coward all this time—”

“Don’t bother with that.”

“But—”

“Kid, just do better, okay? Just do better.”

Kurt stays sitting in Henrietta long after Burt goes back inside the shop to call in an order for parts. He folds the back down, scoots forward and lets his feet dangle over the side. His father may be right—there’s no sense dwelling on the past—but that doesn’t do much to rid him of the shame, the shame that surely pushed him out the door, away from Blaine, again.

It’s not just that he walked away from Blaine; it’s that he walked away from himself. When you give up on one great love, it’s easier to give up on the rest, and that is a shame he’ll need time to deal with.

You can build back up strong from disappointment; you can build something livable, even beautiful, from broken pieces. But when you build an entire life on a lie, on something you forgot or refused to do, it’s hollow to the core. Now, he’ll build something new, something entirely his own, something he needs.

The cloying heat tempered by the setting sun, Kurt swings his feet. In the sunflowers he sees movement again; rustling in the breeze the leaves seem to say, “Hush, listen, all will be well.”

Kurt pulls out his phone and finds the only name that matters. He pushes the text button next to the name and taps out a message.

Kurt: Hey, love.

***


“So, are we allowed to talk about it yet, or are you still engaged to the most eligible gay man in all the land?”

Deidre smirks and takes a sip of her Bloody Mary, bright red lipstick smudging her glass. Kurt likes her new look—longer hair, now a light brown, probably her natural color, less eye makeup and simple hoop earrings. She seems softer somehow, less angry.

As is typical during the lunch rush, The Coffee Cup on Union Square is packed with beautiful people eating twenty-dollar salads and drinking local beer. It’s their regular hangout, or was, but they haven’t seen each other since just before Thanksgiving, when she hand-delivered his final payment for the Santa Fe house project.

“I was never engaged,” Kurt replies, readying his burger with ketchup and pickles.

“Whatever. Are you done keeping up appearances, then?”

“If you’re asking if after five months I can finally I tell people I broke up with Paul, the answer is yes. He announced our ‘amicable parting of ways’ just before Christmas, actually.”

After a week in Ohio with his family, Kurt had returned to New York to find his life packed up in boxes and a fat envelope of legal documents pertaining to the “dissolution of domestic partnership.” Paul had ensconced himself in his D.C. apartment and left everything to a team of assistants and attorneys and professional movers, all who looked at Kurt with disdain.

It hurt, to see their relationship dismembered, packed up and secured with packing tape, but Kurt knew he deserved whatever ending Paul saw fit to give them. He left his ring on the dining room table with a note that simply said, “I’m sorry. I hope you find him.” It was such a Paul thing to say, he hoped it would appease him somewhat.

The bulk of his belongings in storage, Kurt sublet his sometime-design assistant’s one-bedroom on the Upper East Side and immediately set about finding a new workshop. Determined to “follow his bliss,” as suggested by one June Merryfeather, he had cancelled every design job he could get out of without causing his clients undue stress and started assembling all he needed for his new venture—tools, equipment, ideas, interested buyers, curious retailers and supporters of any and every kind.

His social life was severely limited, due to his agreement with Paul that he would keep quiet about their breakup until President Landry signed the marriage equality bill into law. So Kurt spent most days holed up in his studio, getting reacquainted with his first love. Every day he made something—a piece, a fragment, a possibility. And every night he sketched more ideas—retro dining chairs, a series of mirrors, abstract milagro wall art, a table from his dreams.

Slowly, calmly, over weeks and months, and with a steady confidence and newfound purpose, he had come back to himself.

“What’s up with Mr. Sex Scandal?” Deidre asks.

“Are you referring to my one true love?” Kurt teases, waiting for her inevitable gagging noises.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re so easy, Deidre.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” she replies, munching on a long pickle for effect.

“God, why are we friends again?” Kurt asks.

“Hell if I know.”

Kurt winks at Deidre. She blushes, still not entirely comfortable with their legitimate friendship, no longer shaped by contracts or influenced by dollars.

“Blaine is fine—good. I think,” Kurt says. “We text each other nearly every day, little things. Pictures. Updates. Silly stuff.”

“Sexy silly stuff?”

“No, we—I asked him to give me time and he’s been great about doing that,” Kurt replies. “It’s nice, actually. Before Santa Fe we had lost touch, and now it’s like the old days, but better. We have our friendship back and I needed that. I think we both did.”

Deidre looks at him like he’s speaking gibberish. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I told you I wanted some time to myself to figure things out—”

“I know, but—damn, Kurt. How much time do you need?”

“I’m not sure, it’s just—”

“Wait. Stop. I don’t want to hear your bullshit answer,” Deidre interrupts. She fishes in her purse and pulls out an envelope, slides it across the table. “Here. It’s from Adele. She’s doing a show at The Beacon tonight, some sort of album pre-release deal for her fans.”

Kurt opens the envelope to find a VIP ticket to tonight’s concert and a backstage pass. “How did you get this?”

“Mitch. He asked me to give it to you.”

Eyebrows raised, Kurt asks, “You’re still seeing him?”

Deidre blushes again, and shifts in her seat. “I like him, okay? And he seems to like me back. So just shut up already.”

“The divorce, it’s still happening?”

“So my idiot lawyers tell me.”

Kurt looks down at the envelope again, runs his finger over Adele’s name. He marvels at how much their lives have changed because of one amazing visit to that odd little jewel of a city.

When he pulls the ticket out to get a closer look, he sees it: Opening Act—Blaine Anderson.

“Blaine is in New York?”

Deidre shrugs. “Apparently.”

“He didn’t—why didn’t he tell me?”

“I suppose because he’s a goddamn gentleman and respects your wishes, or some such shit,” Deidre says.

Kurt thinks back over the last few weeks, trying to remember any mention of Adele’s concert, any hint that Blaine would be coming to New York. They talked of Blaine’s album, now finished, and its March release date, just two months away. Kurt shared pictures of Finn’s new son, Charles Wallace (completing the pair from Erin’s favorite book, A Wrinkle in Time), all decked out in the clothes Kurt sent for him. They said, “I love you” at the end of every text. Twice, just before they hung up the phone Kurt said, “Soon, love.” But Blaine had given him no indication that he would be here in just a few days.

He can barely finish his burger, the unsettling thoughts about Blaine’s intentions so insistent he’s lost his appetite.

“And you said this came from Adele, not Blaine?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah,” Deidre replies, eying him warily. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?” Kurt asks.

“That thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you overanalyze everything until you can’t remember why you thought it was a good idea in the first place,” Deidre explains.

Kurt slips the envelope in his wallet, flags the server down for the check. “And what good idea are you referring to, crazy girl?”

“The concert, dumbass.”

Kurt sighs. He’s had enough of her tough love and relentless cursing. “Since when are you Team Blaine, anyway?”

“Since you fucked up your entire life just for one chance with him.”

Deidre offers him a small smile, the best she can do, and when the server drops the tab off at their table without so much as a “Thanks for coming,” she slams her hand down on it before Kurt can grab it. She pulls a credit card out from the pocket on her phone case and gets up, ready to move.

“Don’t thank me for lunch. Don’t thank me for bringing the ticket. Just go. Go.”

Kurt meant to head straight to Whole Foods on 14th Street after lunch to pick up a few things, but now he’s sits on a bench in Union Square under the cover of tall trees, an earbud in one ear, listening.

"PRESS PLAY."

He turns the volume up loud so he can hear Blaine over the sound of children in the park, New Yorkers and tourists moving quickly through life. It’s the one song Blaine hadn’t sent to him after he recorded it; instead he heard it for the first time when he received an advanced copy of Blaine’s album in the mail, in old-school CD format. The other songs came to him one at a time, at all hours, as if Blaine couldn’t wait to share with Kurt what he made.

The Monday after Kurt left Santa Fe, Blaine had responded to his text almost immediately, sending a photo of himself with Antonio and Sarah at The Pink. And then later that night Blaine sent him a song, along with a text message:

Blaine: To be clear, I wrote this song for you.

That first song, the one that Scout Records released as a single in October, the one Adele tweeted about, the one that gave Blaine a near-instant fan base, Blaine wrote it for him.

Throughout September, the songs kept coming, always with the same message: To be clear, I wrote this song for you.

There were new songs, and old songs, and one cover—a slowed-down version of “Teenage Dream”—which came accompanied with a variation on the same message: To be clear, I’m singing this song for you. It was always for you.

Soon after, Kurt started sending pictures of what he made—sketches, a bench, a list labeled “FRESH START” written in green ink—along with similar messages.

Kurt: To be PERFECTLY clear, I love you, and I always will.

Kurt: To be clear, you were right. I should have told you how I felt.

Kurt: To be clear, I’m sorry I left.

Kurt: To be clear, I still want you just as much.

It seemed they were determined not to let misunderstandings come between them, and as the months ticked by they shared frank conversations about past choices, about the reality of falling hard and fast when they were so very young.

Kurt meant it when, on their last call, he’d said, “Soon.” He was better, more sure of himself and of them. Old hurts had been healed over long distance, as they should have been ages ago, and he had stopped blaming Blaine for his cowardice and berating himself for his own.

“Soon, love.”

Now, listening to Blaine’s voice, so haunting, so sad, he wonders if he waited too long. He knew Blaine recorded the song in London after he returned home from Santa Fe—had the distance caused irrevocable harm? Was that why Blaine hadn’t told him about his trip to New York?

He’s lost count of how many times he’s played Blaine’s album, but especially this song. In his studio, he listens to it on repeat while he works. Sometimes, when he’s so exhausted from the work, his arms and back too sore to continue, he’ll sit on the floor with his back against the wall, listening. Repeat, listen, repeat, listen; Blaine’s words, and music, and voice soothe him, mend him, inspire him to both honor and let go of all that once was.

Pulling Blaine’s CD out of his bag, he re-reads Blaine’s acknowledgments for what seems like the twentieth time:

I am ridiculously lucky to have a host of collaborators, champions and friends to whom I owe a stiff drink and my undying gratitude: Adele, my confidante (and backup singer!); Mitchell Shepard, my producer and mentor; Barry Weber, Angel Lugio, Kit Jordan and Lulu B., my “on-loan” band; Suzy Crane, my long-suffering manager; Shep Vasovic, Curtis Fogg and everyone at Scout; everyone at Galisteo Studios in New Mexico and Sound Off in London.

Thank you U2 and Katy Perry for permitting me to play with your songs.

For reasons known only to them, I’d also like to thank the Dalton Academy Warblers, Class of 2012 (except Jeff); Jim and Ruth, my family; Antonio, Sarah and the good people of Santa Fe, New Mexico. See you at The Pink—next round’s on me.

You might have noticed that there are no liner notes for this album. The reason for this is simple: Every single song—every word, every note, every whisper—is for you, Kurt. Baby, I never want you to wonder, “Is this song meant for me?” It’s all you, as ever. In the words of e.e. cummings, I carry your heart. (I carry it in my heart.)

What is he waiting for? Blaine could not be clearer. And yet something is holding Kurt back, keeping him from saying, “I need you. Please come. I’m ready.”

Hours later, Kurt boards the #4 train bound for the Upper East Side, two grocery bags in tow. Somewhere between the park and the frozen food aisle he decided not to go to Adele’s concert. If Blaine had wanted Kurt to attend, surely he would have told him, invited him himself. He doesn’t want to miss Blaine’s debut, but still… he’ll stay in instead and text Blaine after the show.

The car is packed with people, so there’s no place to sit. Kurt shifts both bags to one hand and grips the nearest pole. Next to him a man sits with a large, skinny aspen sapling between his legs. It reaches all the way up to the top of the car. “New York, oh my god,” Kurt says, still mystified by the strange things he sees both above and below ground.

He’s reminded of the aspen trees on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, shimmering in the breeze. Suddenly he’s met with an intense longing, once reserved for an elusive boy.

Can you fall in love with a city? Can you miss it like a friend?

It’s an odd feeling, missing a place you don’t really like and surely never wanted to visit in the first place. He speaks to Antonio a few times a month and sometimes Sarah, if she’s home when he calls. But the calls never satisfy his desire to walk the dusty, narrow streets of downtown Santa Fe, the sunset at his back.

The train coming up on 86th Street, he prepares to get off and head home. He can hear it before the doors open, before a dozen people push past him to get off and on with their lives, before he falls in line behind them: "the unmistakable sound of the song that changed everything."

The moment the doors slide open, Kurt steps off to follow the sound of the busker singing Adele’s “Someone Like You.” Positioned near the stairs, beating a dirty white bucket for a drum, a dark-skinned man in gently worn attire, hat as his feet, sings beautifully, sings his heart out. He sings the song that seeped into Kurt’s bones, the song that moved his heart just enough, enough to try.

Suddenly he realizes he’s been playing the same old game—testing Blaine’s patience, limiting contact and letting distance fuel new insecurities. He’s been waiting for Blaine to come find him away from the magic of Santa Fe, outside of their last best chance.

Dropping a five-dollar bill in the hat and his groceries next to it, Kurt rushes for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Just as he had that horrible morning after Paul arrived, his mind races with one thought: Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, Blaine.

I’m such an idiot. I’ve been waiting for him all this time, just like before. Telling him I need space and time and secretly hoping he’ll come for me, defy my reasons and come for me. I’ve telling him to wait while secretly waiting for him to show up.

"PRESS PLAY"

On the street, he hails a cab and tries to remember to breathe as the driver cuts across Central Park on the byway. He looks at his phone: the concert is about to start. Once on Broadway the traffic slows, and by 80th Street, Kurt is out of the cab and running the remaining four blocks.

Inside the venue, the sound is deafening. The place is teeming with screaming girls (and some boys); they’re screaming for Blaine. The concert has started, a song just beginning. Kurt skirts the edge of the crowd looking for a decent view of the stage, avoiding the VIP section so as not to be spotted. He doesn’t want to mess with Blaine’s performance by surprising him.

The song swells and builds and he lets his heart swell along with it, lets the music fill him. He screams with the girls, watches Blaine’s every move as stands there, backlit, his fingers moving swiftly on his guitar as he plays the familiar opening riff from “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

It’s exhilarating. Here he stands among the crowd again, watching this boy, his man, perform for a room full of adoring fans. “The Warblers are like rock stars.” Kurt laughs, because now, it’s true.

Gorgeous in a sweat-soaked plain white t-shirt and jeans, Blaine is mesmerizing. He works the crowd with that same charisma that garnered him every Warbler solo, stacks of phone numbers—from girls and boys, alike—ridiculous opportunities (hello, Adele!), friends for days, and Kurt. He had Kurt from the first moment they met.

Blaine is beautiful.

Blaine is who he was always meant to be.

Blaine is here. And his, ever his.

Kurt is alight with the magic that is a Blaine Anderson performance, Kurt's face one giant grin, just as it was that very first day fourteen years ago. He remembers all of the silliness and comfort, now, all of the joy. He remembers the friendship, perfect, this boy who made him laugh and kept him safe and called him home.

And he remembers nine enchanting days—for Kurt, a dream fulfilled; and for Blaine, a miracle; an answered prayer.

Kurt sings along to every song, smiles as Adele joins Blaine onstage for “Ho Hey” and “Least Complicated.” Kurt dances, and sings some more and whistles as loud as he can. Now, he can adore him, because he, too, has come into his own. Now, he can love him completely, come to him willingly, and say yes to all of it, without fear.

After his last song, Blaine thanks the audience, his band, and Adele, sweat pouring down his handsome face. Kurt knows Blaine will probably have to change for Adele’s set, but he can’t wait. He has to see him now. Now that he understands, now that he’s seen him, now that he knows, he can’t wait one more minute.

It takes him a good ten minutes to push through the crowd, and another ten minutes to wait for security to confirm his name is on the list. By the time he’s ushered through a side door, Adele has taken the stage. He looks over at her briefly, and, remarkably, despite the massive room, she spots him. Her smile is huge as she waves at him, motions for him to go further backstage.

As he slides in through the door he hears her say to the crowd, “Excuse me while I switch things up a bit. Have to sing a song for two friends.”

"PRESS PLAY (AND WATCH IT AFTER THE END OF THE STORY)"

Inside there is a second checkpoint. Flashing his backstage pass, Kurt winds around the darkened wings, looking for Blaine. He finds him quickly, bending down over his guitar case as he fastens it shut. Kurt watches as Blaine stands up and moves toward the exit, a determined look on his face.

When Blaine sees him standing there in the shadows he stops, lets his guitar case fall to the floor. Kurt’s heart beats so fast he wonders if Blaine can hear it over the din of the crowd.

“Hi,” Kurt says, breaking the tension.

“Hi.”

“Adele invited me,” Kurt explains.

Blaine smiles and looks off on to the stage. “She’s a romantic. What can I say?”

“Blaine, I—I’ve been an idiot.”

Blaine takes a few steps closer. He laughs and says, “Again?”

“Yeah.”

“At some point I stopped needing space and started needing you to show up on my doorstep with flowers and a well-written plea,” Kurt says, offering Blaine a rueful smile.

“I can do that. You still love peonies, right?”

Kurt laughs, takes a few steps closer. “I’m so sorry—”

“I think we’re done being sorry. Okay? Can we be done?”

“I think so.”

“Good. All I want is you, Kurt. However I can get you.”

Just a few feet between them now, all that’s left of half a lifetime of divide. Just a few steps and he’ll be in Blaine’s arms, press his lips to his skin, grip his damp shirt and hold on tightly, so tightly. Just a few seconds and he’ll surrender to his forever man; he’ll let it all unfold as it would, without his interference, without restraint. Just a moment now and he’ll say yes, and please, and won’t you give me this, and aren't we perfect for each other, and I adore you, please come home with me.

“To be clear," Kurt starts, "I don’t need any more space, or time, or reassurance. I just want you. All of you. In London, or here, or some other place. To be totally, completely, absolutely clear, I’m asking you, Blaine Warbler, if you will be mine.”

“You’re coming for me this time, huh?” Blaine says, his eyes sparkling.

“Yup. I’m taking a chance.” Kurt notices Blaine’s leather jacket and says, “Were you going somewhere?”

“I was coming to find you.”

Kurt closes the distance between them, pulls Blaine close and says, “I found you fir—”

Blaine’s mouth is on his before he can finish his sentence. The kiss is desperate, all of their patience gone. He hears the crowd sing along with Adele: “I’ve known it from the moment that we met. There’s no doubt in my mind where you belong.” Kurt lets himself go, lets Blaine pull him into this life he always wanted, lets him love him, lets him in.

In between kisses, Blaine says, “Say it. Tell me again.”

Kurt speaks the words onto Blaine’s lips. “You are so in love with me. And I am so in love with you.”

“Yes, baby. Yes.Yes.”

When they stop to breathe, Kurt rests his head on Blaine’s shoulder. They begin to sway back and forth, dancing, recalling that night in August when Adele’s voice, and the song, set them free.

He lifts his head to see Adele is watching them from the stage. He watches them, Blaine beaming at Adele, and Adele shining back at him, her eyes filling with tears. Kurt steps back a bit. He says, “Do you need to get out there? You promised you’d never walk out on one of her concerts again. I can go back out—”

“No. Stay by me tonight. Don’t leave my side.”

He slips back into Blaine’s arms and they watch Adele sing, her voice as clear and perfect as the first time he heard her cover of “Make You Feel My Love” on the radio. When she sings, “I could make you happy, make your dreams come true,” it’s for them, because she knows, because she loves them.

She sings, “No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do,” and then suddenly she stops and turns away from the microphone. She’s overcome; she can’t finish the song. She tries to sing the next line, but she’s too choked up.

Blaine tenses in Kurt’s arms. He can sense Blaine wants to run out there, but then she’s smiling through tears and turning the microphone back on the crowd. They sing the next line for her: “To make you feel my love.”

Adele salutes the audience and steps offstage for a moment to take a few deep breaths. She salutes Kurt and Blaine as well, with a big smile, then heads back onstage to thunderous applause.

Blaine hugs Kurt, laughs into his ear. When he pulls back he says, “You still owe me three days.”

Kurt laughs with him. “They’re all yours.”