If This Gets Out(38)

It’s one of our cleaner conversations. Usually she can tell I’m making an excuse to get off the phone and it starts an argument. Thank god for Jon.

I throw my phone into the holder as soon as we hang up, letting out a guttural groan to the ceiling. A ten-minute conversation and I feel like I’ve just fielded a high-stakes interview with one of the nosier TV stations.

At least I came into this gig with a lifetime of experience navigating conversational minefields and noticing traps before they’re sprung. I should send Mom some flowers in thanks for that skill.

Screw your mom, says the memory of Zach that lives in my head. We’re in the bouncy castle, at Angel’s party, and he’s kneeling in front of me, and his eyes are intense, and I know that it’s going to be okay. He’s going to make it okay.

Then I snap back to the present. Zach’s not here.

“Your parents?” Jon asks, returning to his machine.

“Mom.”

“The worst,” he says. Everyone in the band has their opinions on my mom. They range, politely, from “nope” to “hell fucking no.”

“She read about The Tension,” I say. That’s our name for it. Even though neither Zach nor I will give them much of an explanation, both Jon and Angel are fully aware that Zach and I are at odds, and that it’s inexplicably bigger than a snide comment made during a livestream. Angel’s even stopped making jokes about Zach not finding me sexy, which means shit’s gotten serious.

“She was gonna find out sooner or later, I guess. Did she give any advice?”

I shoot him a look.

“Point taken. You sure I can’t give you any advice?”

“You don’t even know what’s wrong, how can you give me advice?” I say.

“Exactly.”

“Jon—”

“You don’t have to tell me specifically what happened! Just give me the vibe. The essence.”

“I can’t.”

“The seasoning,” he begs. “Not even the main meal. Just, the pepper and paprika of it.”

“That’s poetic.”

“Thank you,” he says, straightening with a pleased smile. “I did that on the spot.”

There’s literally no way to hint to Jon what happened without risking him putting two and two together, though. Even innocent, vague explanations, like, “I did something I shouldn’t have,” or “There was an awkward moment” risk setting Angel and Jon on a trail that could end in them figuring it out. I might not be embarrassed about it, but Zach sure as hell is. So, it doesn’t matter how hurt I am, or how resentful I am that Zach won’t even try to resolve this with me. That’s a line I’m not crossing, period. So I just offer a meek, one-sided shrug.

“Okay, Ruben,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice. I bristle.

“Are you asking because you care, or because Erin or Geoff want you to?” I ask.

“What?” he asks. “Because I care, obviously.”

“Really? Because you’re pressing the point pretty hard for someone who just wants us to be okay, given I’ve said we don’t want to talk about it.”

“I want you to know I’m here to help.”

“No,” I say, adjusting my position to use the leg press while we talk. “You want to force us to fix things.”

“Of course I want you to fix things! You’re my friends.”

“And it’s making the band look bad,” I add, raising my eyebrows.

Jon studies me, then shrugs weakly. “What do you want me to do, say that’s not true? You know it’s true.”

“There it is,” I say. Mom’s bite has crept into my voice. This always happens after speaking with her. It’s like she infects me.

“For goodness’ sake, Ruben, not everything’s a conspiracy against you. Not everyone has an agenda.”

“I already know you have an agenda,” I say. “An agenda’s your birthright.” Wow, that sounded a lot crueler out loud than intended. I backtrack. “I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I just, like, your dad puts pressure on you. We know he does, and I know you can’t help that. But I just … need you to not manage me right now. I need you to be my friend.”

He breathes out long and slow, and I can almost see him counting to five in his head. “I am trying,” he says slowly.

“Tell me it won’t matter if Zach and I are never friends again. Tell me you won’t hold that against me.”

He seems confused, and I guess I don’t blame him. Everything’s muddled in my head, and I don’t know quite how I got there, but it’s suddenly very important to me to know that our friendship isn’t conditional based on how well I handle this situation. I need to know it’s okay, because I don’t think I can control this. It’s gotten away from me.

“I’ll still be your friend, if that’s what you mean,” he says carefully. “But I wouldn’t say it won’t matter.”

“I need it to not matter.”

“But it will. I can’t help that. It sucks being stuck between you two all the time. I don’t want to choose.”

“No one’s asking you to choose.”

“Maybe, but it kind of feels like it sometimes.”