“Are you okay?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’m … whatever. Nice shirt.”
“Nice sweater,” I say haltingly.
He picks up another rock, and throws it. I shove my hands into my pockets and step closer to him. Usually, I’d let him get away with changing the subject to small talk. But something happened to him, something to do with that guy, I can feel it. If I’m going to fix it, we need to cut to the chase.
“Does this have anything to do with a guy?” I ask. “Want to talk about it?”
“Um. Nope. Not really.”
I pick up a rock, and try skimming it. It only skips once before sinking. Back at Camp Hollow Rock, the performing arts camp where Saturday started, I got really good at this, but I’ve clearly lost my touch.
“Okay, so,” he says. I smile, because Ruben has never been the silent and stoic type; I’m not shocked it only took him two seconds to crack. “I was talking to this guy, and it was going well. Like, really well, you know?”
“I do.”
“But then he asked me if I could listen to his demo, and show it to Galactic Records if I liked it.”
“Oh fuck.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Well. It’s not like it’s your fault.” He skips another rock. “Sorry, I’m being moody. I just thought he might’ve liked me for me, you know?”
As I scan his face, I get a pang in my chest.
Ruben’s the sweetest, best guy. But he seems to be a magnet for guys who just want to use him. I don’t even know why; objectively, Ruben is hot, and funny, and cool—the trifecta, essentially. Yet he’s always treated like he’s disposable. Someday someone is going to figure out that he’s a dream guy. It’s just a matter of time.
I hope it happens soon, though. Because seeing Ruben like this guts me.
“I’ll be over this in ten minutes,” he says, gesturing to himself. “I just need a second. You don’t have to stick around for it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You’re missing the ‘biggest event of our lives.’”
I smile.
Because, honestly? I know I’m exactly where I want to be.
THREE
RUBEN
Zach sits with me while I simmer down. I didn’t mean to throw a tantrum in the middle of Angel’s party, and I’m annoyed at myself for dragging Zach away, but mostly I’m grateful to have him here.
My mood is twofold. I’m pissed about being used for my connections—by a guy I’d started to suspect was actually straight by the end of our chat, to add in an extra helping of humiliation. This would be bad enough for most people, but after my experience with Christopher Madden (Oscar-winning actor for a reason, apparently, because he did a world-class performance at convincing me he was into me before abruptly insisting he was straight when the lines got too blurry last year), I’m especially impatient with being treated as a new experience rather than a human being.
Usually, I’d be able to take this in my stride and push past it, but tonight, I’m essentially a toddler that didn’t get his naptime. This four-day break was meant to be my opportunity to slow down and recharge, but after all that quality time with my parents I feel more wound-up than ever. I guess I’d forgotten what being at home was really like. It’s funny how time and space cast a rosy glow over memories, making them seem less painful than they were in reality.
There’s no such thing as recharging, or downtime, in my family. They think it’s time wasted. And, hey, I did end up here, a member of one of the biggest acts in the world right now. So, maybe they’re on to something. Maybe I wouldn’t have achieved this without them. Maybe I need their little reminders, their jagged pep-talks, their acidic constructive criticism.
I shove my hands in my coat pockets to ward off the evening chill and rock back on my heels. “We should head before Angel sends a search party.”
“Actually, we can’t find Angel.”
“What?” A gust of wind blows through, and I tuck my arms in for warmth against the early March chill.
“You haven’t seen him, have you? I figured you noticed.”
“Um, I couldn’t find him when I got here but I thought he was probably on a ride or something. Then that guy distracted me. Why didn’t you tell me he was missing?”
“He’s not missing,” Zach says. “He’s probably around somewhere. I was gonna tell you but you were upset about the guy.”
I groan. “Fuck that straight, social-climbing asshole.” I spit out the words. “We need to go find Angel. Come on.”
“Yeah, fuck straight people,” Zach deadpans as we walk, and I’m reminded why it’s imperative for me to squash these recent crush-like feelings for him, stat.
“No offense.”
“Some taken. Ruben, it’s okay. Angel will be around somewhere. Jon’s probably with him by now.”
The concern that’s niggling at me must be obvious on my face. He’s right. He’s totally right, I’m just being overly anxious. But the thing is, Angel’s had a few particularly wild nights lately, especially during the second half of our tour. Mix exhaustion with unlimited money, low supervision, and connections with dozens of celebrities who use all sorts of cocktails to treat their own exhaustion and boredom, and things are bound to happen, I guess. Only tonight’s a gigantic night for Angel, and he’s surrounded by those very connections, many of whom will be giving him birthday presents. Is it paranoid for me to want to make sure someone in this ridiculous event has spotted him over the last hour? If he’s not unconscious in a bathroom somewhere, someone will have seen him. He’s unmissable on his most casual days.