But then the pilot announces we’re about to land in LA, and I finally open my eyes. Zach, whose shoulder has been pressed tightly against mine the whole flight, locks eyes with me, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile, either.
Usually Angel and Zach stay on the plane together while the rest of us disembark here. Today, though, we’re leaving him to go on alone. The team files past Zach, saying their goodbyes with forced cheer. Jon gives Zach a tight hug, and a lump lodges in my throat as I watch. The seconds tick away.
And now they’re gone. It’s time for my own goodbye.
I’m not ready for it.
I haven’t been apart from him for more than a few hours since we began this leg of the tour. Now, I feel like I’m being wrenched away. How am I supposed to get off this plane alone, and go home without him, and fall asleep without his scent on my pillow, and wake up to only the echo of the symphony we made together?
I feel like life is about to enter the off-beat. That leaves me out of sync.
Gritting my teeth, I pull him roughly against me, breathing him in and gripping his hair between my fingers, to refresh my memory of holding him, so I can live off that until I see him again.
“See you soon?” I say as we break apart.
He swallows, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “Soon. Message me when you get home safe?”
I nod instead of replying, because I’m worried if I open my mouth, the words will crumble.
With a deep breath, I head out the door with Jon, and down the steps to the tarmac. I try to comfort myself as I walk. We have our phones. We have WiFi. This is going to be fine. It’s just a break.
There’s no fanfare as the team is steered by the two waiting Chase guards into the airport this time. Instead, we’re ushered through a back entrance into a private area, away from the crowds with their photos and videos and screams. Just an empty, low-level buzz punctured by airport announcements and practiced greetings by efficient airport staff. I barely have time to rub my eyes and shake the stiffness from my limbs before I’m saying goodbye to Jon by the curb. Then he’s whisked into his own car, and I’m directed into mine, and it’s over. I’m alone. Going back to my parents, with no way to avoid them. Nothing standing between me and them. No time difference.
Was it only a month ago I was upset to be leaving their time zone?
I steady my breathing as the car rolls out of the parking lot. After half a minute, I whip my phone out and turn off flight mode to message Zach. But as soon as my phone signal returns, a message comes through from him. He must have sent it while the plane was still grounded.
Hey. I miss you.
And despite the heavy ache in my chest, I smile.
TWENTY-TWO
ZACH
Now that I’m home, staring at Mom’s front door, it’s become obvious I can’t keep doing this.
Mom’s weirdness has finally gotten to the point where I can’t ignore it anymore. It’s turned her place from a safe haven into a spot that, honestly, I don’t even want to be.
I’m so sick of it.
I’ve been trying my best not to let the wall she’s put up bother me, because I thought that was the best move. I thought it was a good idea to give her some space, so she could come around to my sexuality.
Now, though, I’ve decided that that’s bullshit. My mom is starting to make me feel like I’ve come out as an axe-murderer, not bi, and I’m dreading seeing her. That means it needs fixing.
I unlock the door and go inside.
“Hey,” Mom says, turning the TV off. She’s in an oversized top and sweatpants, and her hair is messily tied back.
We hug. It’s cold, both of us keeping a safe distance.
“How was the flight?” she asks.
“Okay.”
“Really? You look tired.”
I wince. “Yeah, I am. I’m going to crash.”
“Sorry about the mess,” says Mom, picking up a cardigan from the couch and folding it. Mom, like me, can generate huge amounts of mess in record time. “Work was hectic today.”
“It’s not even that bad.”
“See, now I know you’re lying.”
I think she meant it as a joke, but it sounds harsh. I chew my lip.
She keeps cleaning, like I’m not even here.
I could just go to my room, but I can’t help but think about the time I came back from the first leg of our tour. Now she’s acting like I’m a bother. An annoyance. I know she has a life and it doesn’t revolve around me, but like, I can’t help but think this is because I came out to her. It’s the biggest difference I can think of between then and now.
This can’t go on.
I need to talk to her about it.
“Hey, want a coffee?” I ask.
“Oh, yes, please.”
I turn on Mom’s coffee machine. I bought this for her one Christmas, the first one after Saturday started making serious money, and Mom and I both spent an enormous amount of cash on each other. Back then, every big buy felt scandalous, and they still kind of do. That’s the thing about being poor, it never really leaves you. I still weigh the worth of every dollar, even though I don’t need to do that anymore. My first impulse is to get the cheapest thing available because it’s just the same. I remember wanting new clothes or a video game or even something from a coffee shop but having them be off-limits because they cost too much. Even if I did get them, guilt always followed. And for her whole life Mom had always wanted, in her words, a “fancy-ass coffee machine,” but she held off, focusing what she had on other, more practical things, like rent and bills.
That Christmas was honestly one of the biggest highlights of the first year of Saturday, and maybe my life. This coffee machine was the crown jewel; she flipped out when she saw it in a way I don’t often see from her. She lost her shit, basically.
I put some coffee beans into the grinder and blitz them, which makes the whole place smell like a coffee shop.
I want to bring up the weirdness, to finally talk this out, but the words get stuck in my throat.