Eight. Freaking. Hours.
Honestly, during this time I’ve started to feel as if the four of us are the least important members of Saturday. We’re just pretty props that the Chorus bigwigs can move around however they like. They can dress us up, or strip us shirtless if they want, to satisfy the public’s desires. We’re sold as dream boys. Anything human about us only makes us more difficult in their eyes. Anything real is ugly and breaks the illusion.
We file into Erin’s room.
A laptop is on her desk, showing Geoff, in his office at Chorus HQ. A board of suits is already in the room, mostly publicists and other people like that I don’t generally have much to do with.
“Well,” says Geoff. Clearly, we’ve walked in on him mid-conversation, and he just glances at us, then continues. “We don’t know when he’s going to be able to go back onstage yet, but there are options. We can change the choreo to accommodate his injuries.”
“Hold on,” says Jon, before we even sit down. His chest puffs up. “You’re not considering going ahead with Angel on the tour, are you?”
That finally gets his full attention. “Respectfully, Jon, this isn’t your decision to make. Just focus on helping each other through this trying time and leave the logistics to us. Now take a seat.”
Jon huffs, his eyes on fire. He moves toward an empty seat, but then stops, standing his ground.
“You know what? No. Angel needs help. You do know he’s been high almost every day, right? He’s not coping. Dad, he almost died!”
“We are well aware of the grievous nature of his accident, but we’ve been assured it is safe for him to perform once he has recovered—”
“What is it going to take for you to care? This tour can’t continue. Angel only needs to be one place now, and that’s getting the best help money can buy. Otherwise there won’t even be a Saturday for you to pick at much longer.”
The room goes silent. A PR manager tugs at her shirt collar.
“All right,” says Geoff. “We wanted to include you in our discussions about the immediate future, but emotions are clearly too high right now. We can talk about this later.”
Geoff moves to end the call.
“What about the tour?” asks Ruben. “We have a show in two days.”
“We’ll discuss, and get back to you soon with a plan.”
The screen goes blank.
And that’s it, I guess.
I look to Erin, I guess searching for some sort of comfort, or at least some answers.
“So what’s going to happen?” I ask. “Are they going to make us perform without Angel?”
“I’m really sorry, Zach,” she says, frowning. “But I can’t talk about this.”
Wow. Okay. So that’s where she stands.
Ruben and I go back to his room.
“This is fucked,” he says.
I nod. Because yeah. Guys in Saturday might not be allowed to use that word in public, but it’s the only appropriate one for this current situation.
“Do you want some space?” I ask. “I can go, if you want?”
He shakes his head. “Stay.”
We move to the bed. I lean back against the headboard, and Ruben sits in my lap, his legs curled underneath him. I look him in the eyes and push a strand of hair back into place. He smiles softly at the contact, which makes my stomach fill with butterflies. I wonder if he even knows how cute he looks when his hair is a little messed up. Or how beautiful I find him.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Not really. Are you?”
“Same.”
“I keep thinking about last night. I keep seeing it, like it’s on a loop. And I can’t stop thinking about what he said.”
“Which part?”
I put my hands on his hips, holding him close to me. Maybe I’m not the best at saying exactly what I want sometimes, but I hope maybe I can show him by doing this, by listening. Maybe that will be enough for him to just know. I start rubbing him with my thumb, feeling how warm he is through the soft material of his shirt.
“All of it, I guess,” he says.
“I’m sorry they’re being so shitty.”
I reposition, lying down and putting a hand behind my head. Ruben starts touching my necklace, like that’s all he wants to be doing, but I know from his furrowed brow that he’s going to ask me one of those questions he’s wanted to ask for a long time, but has held back, waiting for the perfect moment.
“Zach, how do you actually feel about coming out after Russia?”
“What makes you ask?”
“You know I want to come out, and you know they’re saying we’re allowed to after Russia, but what about you? Just because we’re allowed to doesn’t mean that’s what you want.”
I sit up, my brow furrowed. “I want to.”
“Do you really though? Or are you just going along with it because you think it’s what I want? You know you don’t have to, right?”
“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not scared of coming out.”
“Not being scared of something and wanting to are very different things.”
“I know, but like … I don’t mind being out. In a lot of ways it’s been a relief. It’s fine.”
His stare drops down, and his shoulders slump a little.
“What?” I ask. “Did I say something wrong?”
“You never do.”
“Wait, what?”
“Sorry, that sounded harsher than I meant. I’m just really tired and crabby.”
“Do you need a nap?” I grin, but he doesn’t return it.
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay, I get it.”
He frowns, and turns over on his side. I lie back down and I shuffle closer, so we’re spooning, our bodies pressed together. I press a kiss to the back of his head.
“I just never know what you want,” he says quietly.
I hear alarm bells.
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
It sounds like I should worry about it, but I’m tired, too, and I’m really not in the mood for an intense evaluation of my feelings and motivations right now. Not now. “Maybe I should go, so you can get some sleep?”
There’s a heavy pause. When Ruben replies, his voice is small. “Don’t.”
I pull him closer, trying to ignore the fact that, clearly, I’ve done something wrong, and I don’t know what it was.
“Okay.”
* * *