The crowd buzzes with laughter.
“And Zach and I met Ruben, and he dragged us to hang with Jon—who none of us knew was Geoff Braxton’s son because he was lying about his name, which is supposed to be a sin, but whatever—”
Jon cups a hand over his forehead in disbelief.
“—and if that’s not fucking destiny, I don’t know what is.”
Hah. Destiny, it wasn’t. At first, I think Jon’s unhappy moan is because he knows as well as I do that my becoming friends with him was anything but fated. Then I realize, no, he’s just panicking, still.
He’s like a parent with a toddler. If the toddler was high off its face and standing on a ledge.
“He’s not gonna fall,” Zach reassures Jon. “Look, he’s not even rocking anymore.”
The speech goes on for another few minutes, in which Angel remembers to thank his actual family, goes on a rant about staplers, and tells everyone they can pick one peacock each to bring home before his party planner reminds him that the peacocks are rented and not legal pets. Then, finally, the platform starts lowering him back down to land. Only when I’m sure he’s safe do I make eye contact with the bartender and hold up two fingers, shooting him a smile. He nods and gets to making our second round.
Angel makes a beeline for us, swaying more now than he was on the platform. “Where’s mine?” he asks as I grab the drinks.
“Sorry, figured you’d have one,” I say. It’s less judgy than “I thought you’d had enough,” and therefore less likely to result in Angel downing a bottle of vodka to prove a point.
“Come with me,” Angel says, walking off suddenly. The three of us follow him into the night, our way lit up by bushes and trees covered in glittering string lights, along with the flashing carnival rides.
“Where are we going?” Jon asks warily.
“Bouncy castle.”
“Why?” I grin, and Angel flips around to point at me and Zach in turn. “Chug. Chug. Bouncy castle time.”
I knock back my glass and take my coat off, and Zach tips the rest of his into the grass. Then we all kick our shoes off and follow Angel to climb into the unused inflatable castle.
Angel throws himself onto his back, laughing like a little kid, and Jon, by now the only sober one of us, sits primly down beside him. “You could’ve texted us back.” he says. “I was worried.”
Angel laughs again. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Also, I wasn’t checking my phone.” He pulls out said phone and starts filming Jon. “You’re live. Jon, tell everyone what you just told me. I want it on record that you were worried about me.”
Jon rolls his eyes. “I just wanted to make sure you were having a good time at your party.”
Angel climbs onto his knees, going full shaky-camera mode. Bet his viewers love that. “Isn’t that sweet, everyone?”
“Why don’t you show everyone your party? They’re more interested in that.”
“No, they want to see you. Admit it. You love me, and you were all worried about me because you couldn’t find me at my birthday party.”
Now I know for sure he’s high. Jon’s right—there’s nothing that irritates a sober Angel quicker than being fussed over. Apparently, whatever he’s taken tonight has made him unusually affectionate. Molly, I’d guess.
“Angel.”
“Say it!” Angel puts on a babyish voice and cups Jon’s cheek with one hand so the camera can see. “Say you love me and you were worried about me.”
“Of course I love you, and I’m glad we found you so we can have some fun!” Jon says, swatting Angel’s hand away and turning his attention to the camera. “Everyone, be sure to wish Angel a happy birthday so he can read all of your messages on our flight to Europe tomorrow! Here we come, baby!”
A lifetime of media training definitely wasn’t wasted on Jon.
Out of view of the camera, Zach stands coltishly in the middle of the castle, unsure of himself. Angel and Jon start to wrestle for control of Angel’s phone, Angel screaming about freedom of the press and workplace assault at the top of his lungs. Their scuffle disrupts the castle and Zach stumbles, but manages to keep himself upright.
Not for long.
I take a running start and throw myself to land a few feet away from him, propelling him into the air with the force. He lands hard and bounces, gasping. “Ruben!”
He lunges at me and wrestles me into the floor while I cackle, pinning me down as best as he can with his legs. I squirm to get out of his grip, laughing so hard I’m out of breath. It strikes me that, as much as we take every opportunity to have fun when touring, we’ve had very few nights where we could just have fun together as a group. I’ve missed them.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to find a message from Mom. Found this. Worth being aware of, she’s written, along with the link to a YouTube video. I don’t click on it, but I don’t have to—the title’s visible in the message preview. Ten times Ruben Montez moves his mouth weird in that spot during “Guilty”!
“What are you doing?” Zach asks, panting and propping himself up on his elbows.
“Mom sent me a helpful video,” I say lightly, showing him the screen.
“Oh my god, absolutely not.” All traces of mirth vanish as he wrenches the phone from my hands. I try to retrieve it, and he shoves it in his back pocket, pressing a hand on my chest to ward me away. He’s straight, I remind the butterflies that flutter to life in my stomach. “No. Stop. You’re perfect, and you’re the best singer I’ve ever heard in, just, my whole fucking life, and screw your mom. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. But also, kind of?”
“She didn’t make the video. She just wants to make sure I—”