Somewhere deep within me, my sixth sense pricks up. When you’ve survived a lifetime of passive-aggression and veiled threats, your stomach starts to recognize them before your mind quite knows why. This, I can already tell, is one of those moments. “What kind of notes?”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal, or else he wouldn’t be so quiet. “She said you were distracting me tonight and it made me really out of time. Apparently I’m actually out of time a lot, and I need to work on it with her in our filming breaks next week.”
Valeria is fucking lucky she’s not in the room with us right now, or I’d have a word or two to say to her. “You’re not out of time,” I say, trying to keep calm.
“How do you know? It’s not like you can see me when we’re dancing.”
I get to my feet and stride over to him. “Um, because I’ve been working with you for three years now? And I’ve seen you dance a million times?”
He fiddles with the curtain. “Yeah, but it’s Val’s job to tell us if we’re doing something wrong. And I am the worst dancer out of all of us. I’m just really frustrated at myself. I’m trying. But I’m not the one with the perfect body, or the charisma, or whatever. I just want to write music and sing, and they’ve known that since the start, but they want me to be a pop guy. I’m just not … as good as…” He trails off, a muscle in his jaw working.
I take his hand. “Well, you are,” I say. “You’re great, actually. And that whole meeting had nothing to do with your dancing.”
He squeezes my hand, but keeps looking out the window. “What do you think it had to do with, then?”
Honestly? I think we pissed them off by daring to interact onstage even a little, and they’re freaked out about rumors but don’t want to say it in as many words. I think they’re laying the foundation to find an excuse to separate us as much as possible, and they think if they blame it on professionalism and distractions, we can’t accuse them of doing anything wrong. I hadn’t noticed it when Erin was yelling at me, because a part of me had figured I deserved it.
But hearing them come for Zach? No. That I can’t accept as deserved criticism.
I should say so to Zach, but instead, I hesitate. He’s only just come out. He’s still processing, for god’s sake. He hasn’t even told his mom. So, yeah, a part of me wants to protect him from the realities of what it means to be queer, and how it changes things in a million subtle ways. How it always leaves you a little uncertain if things are fair, or if there’s a tiny shred of hate underlying it all. How, much of the time, you can’t even call it out without turning people against you and calling you overly sensitive, because it can be so insidious, you’re the only one who notices it for what it is.
If I can keep him shielded from the dark side of reality, for just a little bit longer … I will.
So, despite some reservations, I drop his hand and step back. “We’re all just tired. And they were paying more attention to you and me because we were laughing, so they noticed. If it wasn’t for that, they would’ve missed it, guaranteed.”
Zach finally turns away from the window. “Can you help me? Now?”
I blink. “Zach…”
“Just let me show you. Tell me if I’m out of time, and you can’t lie.”
We stare at each other for a few moments, then I give in and pull out my phone to search up our discography. “Fine. Which song?”
“‘Unsaid.’”
A corner of my mouth rises at this while I search. I’d had a feeling he’d say that.
I kick off my shoes and settle on the bed while the music blares through my phone speakers, and Zach moves to the center of the room. He launches into the dance easily, flying through the moves we both know inside out and back to front. There’s no stumbling, or awkwardness. Not that I expected there to be; they put us through boot camp over these songs before the tour began. It feels like a lifetime ago, now. Back home. Before … everything.
In fairness, it actually has been a while since I’ve stopped and watched Zach dance. For weeks, months, even years now … he’s right. We’ve been side by side, in synchronicity.
Back at the beginning, he’d needed more help than me. I had a lifetime of musical theater experience and jazz lessons thanks to Mom. Zach had … soccer. So, my memories of Zach dancing are of someone competent, but maybe not so fluid.
Now? He makes it look as easy as breathing. There’s no stiffness, no look of concentration. Just skill. After one particularly smooth turn, he catches my eye, and smiles self-consciously, but doesn’t stop.
I’m glad. I don’t want him to stop.
He’s mesmerizingly beautiful.
When the song finally ends, he stands still, waiting for feedback. He’s not even out of breath. I guess this kind of thing is below our skill level, now. Once, we could barely get through a song without dying on the floor, begging for water. Now, we do it while belting song after song, night after night.
“So?” he asks impatiently.
I get up slowly and cross the room to him. “So,” I say, scanning from his socked feet all the way up to his eyes, which have darkened to a deep gold in this light. Burnt caramel melting into honey. With a soft smile, I place my hands on either side of his waist to line him up with me as I drop my voice to a murmur. “You’re in time.”
He pauses while he stares at me. For signs that I’m lying, or going easy on him, I guess. Then, breathing out with a heavy gush of air, he kisses me hard and deep, his arms flying around my shoulders. His chest presses against mine and I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the rapid thud of his heartbeat, and suddenly I can barely hold myself up.