If This Gets Out(47)

“No, no, you said it.”

“Ew, I was trying to answer in a way that didn’t seem corny—”

“You failed.”

“I totally failed, that was super corny.”

“This is not a good start to the relationship.”

I falter at the end of the final word, realizing too late what’s coming out of my mouth. He freezes, eyes widening, and my breath catches in my throat as I blink rapidly. Shit. Jesus. I did not mean to say that. It’s like my mouth went ahead and signed off on something without waiting for my brain to review and cosign.

It’s been several days since the canals, and though we’ve snuck into each other’s rooms to make out at least once per day—after breakfast, after interviews, before shows—neither of us has made a move to define what, exactly, we’re doing.

Zach couldn’t look more alarmed if I’d announced I was throwing him out the window to the mercy of the group of fans camped outside. “I mean, I didn’t mean that,” I stammer before he can reply. “I just mean, you know, relationship, as in, the relationship between two things that exist in … relation … to each other.”

“It’s fine, I know what you meant.” He relaxes a little, but not entirely.

“Two things that are related. That have a—a relation.”

“You’re overthinking it, it’s really fine,” he says, smiling wryly. The last of the tension leaves his posture, and I return his smile, feeling a little sheepish.

It was honestly a slip—and an especially unexpected one at that, considering I haven’t thought of Zach as someone I’m seeing. At least, I hadn’t. Obviously, given Zach’s shocked reaction, it’s way too soon to explore. More of a thing to file in the “to revisit later” pile.

But, still. Now that the idea is lingering on the peripheries of my mind … I’d be lying if I said the idea of having a relationship with Zach one day doesn’t make warmth radiate from the center of my chest out to my fingertips.



* * *



Jon looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust.

Our choreographer, Valeria, has singled him out for some brief one-on-one time to slightly alter his dance steps in “Guilty.” We’re not sure where this sudden change came from, but none of us are impressed with the idea of any changes made to the choreo we know inside-out. That’s not how it’s supposed to be done. And yet, here we are.

“I just need you to go a little harder on the hips,” Valeria says to Jon, running her hands down the length of her body, her fingernails dragging on her skin and clothes, resting them just beneath her hip bones.

Jon mimics her, but with about a billion percent less passion and sex appeal. And Jon knows how to dance better than any of us. It’s no mistake.

“Where’s this change coming from?” he demands, as Valeria physically manipulates his hands to demonstrate what she wants.

“Just general feedback,” she says airily.

Zach glances at me and pulls a face. So, Geoff. It’s come from Geoff.

“It’s like this, Jon,” Angel says, running his hands from his neck to his crotch, then falling to his knees on the stage, pulling his shirt down at the neck to bare his chest, panting like he’s in the middle of a porno shoot.

Valeria scowls at us. “You three take a break while I work with Jon.”

The three of us have been standing around with nothing to do for over ten minutes now while Jon resisted the new moves, so we gladly hurry off to the wings to grab our water bottles.

“Do you think Geoff’s punishing him for something?” Zach asks, popping his bottle open with his teeth.

“Nah,” I say. “Geoff doesn’t do anything he thinks will make us look bad. He just … seems to want sex, lately.”

Zach gives me a weird look at the word sex, then becomes very interested in the label on his water bottle.

“Hey, if he wants sex, I’ve got sex,” Angel announces, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Speaking of which, I’m running to the bathroom. Be right back.”

“Speaking of which?” I repeat. “What do you—Angel, what are you doing in the bathroom?”

Out on the stage, Valeria’s showing Jon how to accidentally-on-purpose knock his jacket off of one of his shoulders. Until this moment, I’ve never seen this expression on his face, though I’ve seen it on mine in family photos. This particular expression is best described as “silently begging for the sweet release of death.”

“Do you think we can save him?” Zach asks after a while.

“What are you thinking? An intervention with Geoff?”

“I was leaning toward something quicker. Like, a distraction?”

“Phantom of the Opera style?” I perk up. “There aren’t any chandeliers to crash, but maybe—”

“No, you don’t have my permission to wreck the set,” Zach says quickly. “Maybe a scream or something?”

“You want me to stand here and scream? I think that’ll just annoy them, honestly.”

“Nah, go down the hall a little bit. You can pretend to be kidnapped.”

Wait. Speaking of kidnapping. “Hold that thought. Not that it’s any of our business, but Angel’s been in the bathroom awhile now.”