If This Gets Out(39)

I go harder on the leg press. “I don’t know how to fix this,” I grunt.

“You could start by being a bit nicer to him.”

“What?” I ask, pausing. “He’s the one who keeps making comments about me.”

“I’d honestly say it’s about fifty-fifty.”

I shake my head without speaking, and Jon shrugs. “I’m just giving you feedback. You don’t need to take it.”

You always get so defensive whenever someone tries to give you feedback, Ruben.

Screw this. I throw my hands up, startling Jon. “Fine. Sure. I guess I’m the asshole here. Zach’s not doing anything wrong, and it’s all on me.”

“Ruben—”

“You want me to be nicer to him? I’ll be super fucking nice. I’ll be the nicest goddamn person you’ve ever seen, and if he doesn’t magically become my friend again, maybe you’ll finally catch on that it’s not actually me doing this. I am just responding, as well as I goddamn can.”

“I’m going to go.”

I scoff as he gathers his gym gear. “Yeah, okay. Go. Sorry for not being super nice to you, either.”

“Okay, Ruben.”

“Tell your dad not to worry. The feedback’s been noted! I’ll be so pleasant from now on, you won’t recognize me.”

I shout the second half of the sentence to a closed door.

Keegan raises an eyebrow at me. “You know, kid, you probably could’ve handled that better,” he says, lowering the dumbbell to his side. My cheeks burn, and I scowl and turn back to my workout.



* * *



It’s really, really difficult to keep up a pleasant appearance during the interview. I manage it, though. Because unlike some people, I understand that it’s important to leave emotions at the door when you walk into work.

I’ve been as nice as I possibly can be to Zach ever since we left the hotel. On the minibus over here, I asked Zach how he was (fine, thanks). I asked him how he’d slept (yeah, fine). I asked him if he’d heard of the chocolate-covered strawberries they have in Belgium, and if he thinks we’ll get the chance to try them (I dunno, maybe).

With every question, he shrank further away from me, staring at me with wary hazel eyes. Like I was threatening him with a weapon, not asking him pleasant conversational questions. Every now and then I looked over to Jon, to see if he noticed. He spent the ride staring pointedly out the window, chewing frantically on his bottom lip. Angel spent the whole ride on his phone.

In fact, the interview is the first time I’ve had someone properly acknowledge my existence since Jon left me alone in the gym.

Jon and I are sitting on a cream-colored couch, with Angel and Zach taking the armchairs to either side. Against the wall, Erin’s sitting and scrolling on her iPad, Keegan’s bouncing his crossed legs as he scans the room, and Penny’s watching us eagerly. Our interviewers are two women in their twenties, both dressed head to toe in couture. They’re sweet and, luckily, don’t seem to be trying to lead us with their questions like some others do.

There’s not as much banter as there usually is, today. The Tension is sitting over us like a blanket sucking away our oxygen, putting out our fire.

Jon’s the best at ignoring it. Right now, he’s rhapsodizing about our history. He takes a lot of the “band-centric” questions. He’s spent a lifetime in training, after all.

“I actually didn’t bond with Angel at first,” he says. “Ruben was my best friend, and he sort of squeezed me into the group for the end-of-year concert.” He mimes shoving something into a small hole, and the interviewers laugh.

“They didn’t want to perform with the son of a famous producer?” one of the interviewers asks, eyes glinting. Ooff. Talk about a touchy subject. But Jon doesn’t flinch.

“They didn’t know! I kept it a secret, fake name, everything. That’s why I know they like me for me.” He winks.

“Except, maybe, Angel?” the other interviewer asks.

Angel puts up his hand. “Can I say for the record that Jon is my boy?”

“Your boy?” she repeats, uncertain.

“I’m totally cool with Jon. He’s all right.” He goes over the top with this “admission,” and Jon makes a heart with his fingers to hold over his chest.

The interviewer grins and leans forward. “Now, when you boys all met, they knew you as Reece. That was your name at the time, yes?”

“Yes. Still is, if you ask the government. But what do they know?”

Jon smiles to himself.

“Why did you change it?”

“It’s actually a funny story. One day, a girl sees me on the street and she faints, right? Just, boom, woman down, middle of the sidewalk. And she comes to and says to me, oh my god, you’re so gorgeous, I thought I saw a real-life angel. And the name stuck.”

He deadpans the whole thing. It’s a running joke to the fan base that he gives a different story every time he’s asked about the origins of the nickname, and I’m pretty sure these women are in on it, because they don’t look taken aback at all.

“So, you two are good friends?” one of them asks, and I notice the change in tone immediately. I grimace.

“Yup.”