If This Gets Out(27)
“Not me,” says Jon, trying his best at an English accent and horrifically failing.
“What is that?” asks Angel. “I think you’re going more for ‘fancy a tea, poppet?’”
I can’t bring myself to join in. I mean, I’m never usually the loudest in these anyway (Angel obviously is), but right now I’m only speaking when directly asked to.
“I think I can do one,” says Ruben, before clearing his throat. “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plains.’”
It’s actually pretty perfect. Figures. Of course he’d have a musical reference perfected and ready to go. I try to keep my eyes away from him. He’s acting like he’s already recovered from what happened last night, as he doesn’t seem any different than normal. Right now he’s smiling and looking directly into the camera, same as always.
Or maybe he has fully recovered. Maybe I think this is a bigger deal than it is. That does sound like me. It’s my first guy kiss, but it’s not his. Maybe this truly is a non-event to him. Maybe the hurt I thought I saw was all in my head. I do overthink things.
“So, clearly, it’s Ruben,” says Angel. “Unless you want to give it a go, Zach?”
“Nope.”
“Fair enough.” Angel reads the screen. “Oh, this one is juicy: how do you all feel about the sexiest men list?”
The question has been put in bold, which means the Chorus assistant who runs these has flagged it as a question we have to answer. I’m not sure Angel would’ve read it otherwise. I wish this list could die in a fire. It has whipped our fans up into a frenzy, with each of our fandoms fighting each other over it, which is exactly what Chorus wanted.
“Sexiness is subjective,” says Jon. “Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Says someone who made the list,” says Angel. “It’s rigged! Clearly rigged. Any fair list would objectively put me at the very top because I’m, objectively, perfect, don’t you agree, boys? Come on, Jon, you know you think I’m hot.”
“Oh, naturally,” says Ruben. “In fact, why put others on the list at all? They should keep the title the same, put in a full-page photo of you, and call it a day.”
“Exactly. Although, nah, I’ll let the three of you on my list, too. You’re sexy, too, Ruben. In a subjective sort of way.”
I scratch my arm and fidget in my seat.
“Thoughts on the list, Zach?” asks Angel.
“Oh, um, yeah. It’s probably rigged.”
“Hold up,” says Angel, clearly enjoying himself. “So you’re saying you don’t think Ruben and Jon are sexier than us? I thought we’d just established Ruben’s subjectively sexy!”
“I mean, I can’t really see it, but sure.”
Angel lifts his eyebrows up.
“Yikes. Okay, sore spot, clearly. Anyway, let’s go to the next question.”
Ruben is watching me like he doesn’t even know me. But cameras are on us and we’re live.
I look away.
SEVEN
RUBEN
The thing about your dreams coming true is that, for a gold-spun moment, you catch a glimpse of what life could be like. Then when you lose it, and you crash back to reality, it’s from such a great height, all you can do is lie there, winded and bruised, while you come to terms with the idea that a happiness like that isn’t meant for you.
It never was.
I don’t know how to adjust to this new world. Last week, Zach was my best friend. The one I locked eyes with whenever I laughed. The one whose side I gravitated to wherever we went. The one who always sought me out to check on me whenever I felt unbalanced.
In this new reality, Zach can barely even look at me. He puts as much space between us as he can, and he barely seems to notice that I’m dying with every century-long second.
I feel frozen in place. Equal parts of me scream that I need to back off and give Zach the space to process and move past it before we cause irreversible damage, but also that I need to beg Zach to notice me, and talk this through with me, and see what this is doing to me. I can’t do both, but it feels as though if I pick the wrong approach, I could lose him forever.
A desperate, terrified twisting in the pit of my stomach warns that maybe I already have.
Right now, we’re rolling through the darkened streets of Madrid post-concert, on our way to try some authentic tapas. It wasn’t on our schedule, but Pauline, along with the Spanish guards, convinced Erin it was a low risk—and much needed—downtime detour. We’re in Spain, the place my parents were born. I should be ecstatic to be here, surrounded by the culture that formed such a big part of my upbringing, and standing on the same ground my ancestors once trod. Instead, I can barely process the sights and sounds over my racing, fearful thoughts and the aching misery clamping down on my chest.
I’m wasting my chance to appreciate the country I’ve been tied to by blood, and I can’t seem to snap myself out of it.
Zach’s two rows ahead of me, chatting with Angel like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like he does that all the time. Like he hasn’t sat in the back with me every trip we’ve ever taken, from Saturday’s conception through to that night in Paris.
Jon’s my seat buddy instead, and he’s not trying to make conversation. My face is probably so cloudy it’s scared him off. But I do appreciate that he climbed in beside me. I’m sure he knows something’s up, but he doesn’t press. Just gives his company.