I close my eyes, and see the fans assembled outside. They know, now. They finally know. I saw a young guy in the crowd, and from the look on his face when we said it, I knew he got it. He saw someone like him, up onstage, and we gave him hope. That alone makes what we did so worth it. Screw Chorus. If we made someone feel good about themselves, then that’s so much better than breaking another record or making Geoff more money. This is what Saturday should be about. I’ve never been prouder to be in a boy band.
The host of Good Afternoon United States, Kelly, comes up to us, with her co-host, Brendon. We’re in an ad break. They were supposed to talk to us after the performance, but clearly, that plan has changed.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Brendon says.
“You can say that again,” says Kelly. “Nice work, boys. You know, my nephew is gay.”
“A heads-up would’ve been nice,” interrupts Brendon, his usual sunny disposition changing to something acidic. “So I didn’t look like a gaping fish on-camera when they cut to me.”
“Sorry, but if we warned you, Chorus would’ve blocked the interview,” says Ruben, and my chest fills with pride. “It had to be a surprise.”
He sneers, and steps toward him. “You do know what happens after this, right? You’re done, kid. You all are.”
“Well, good,” I say. “If people are mad at us for being together then we don’t want anything to do with them.”
“Yeah!” adds Angel. “Zach, I might love the new you.”
Brendon laughs, but it’s harsh. “You’re all smiles now. But when you’re washed-up has-beens begging for attention, you’ll change your mind. Trust me.”
“Easy, Bren,” says Kelly.
“No, the boys deserve to know. You betrayed your team. Nobody will work with you ever again. You think you’re heroes, but you don’t see that you’ve ruined yourselves.”
Erin comes up to us. Her face is red, flustered.
“Well, Geoff wants a meeting with you all, obviously.”
“When?” asks Jon.
“He hasn’t said,” she says. “He wants to talk to his lawyers before he talks to you.”
* * *
Chorus’s headquarters are a gleaming, modern building in downtown LA.
Out front, a huge crowd has assembled, lining up on either side of the road. Chase Protective Services has set up barricades to fence people in, and to keep the road clear from the swarm of fans that has appeared, predicting this move. As we slowly drive down toward the building, the screams of the fans become almost deafening. Some are openly crying, and I don’t think it’s because they’re overwhelmingly happy to see us.
In contrast, there are also a few rainbow flags in the crowd, being waved proudly.
We reach the front door, and our security team climbs out. The roar of the crowd becomes even louder, hurting my ears, and cameras start flashing violently. In my pocket, my phone buzzes again. It’s been going off nonstop, but I haven’t really wanted to check it. But I do now, to deflect from the situation outside and what’s about to happen. I have countless notifications, from my Instagram and also from people who have my number, like Dad (A buddy texted and told me the news, I think it’s fantastic! Love you no matter what—Dad) to Leigh, one of my friends from middle school who I haven’t talked to in years (YASSS BUDDY WERKKKK, WELCOME TO THE RAINBOW FAMILY). I even have one from Randy Kehoe (Nice work today, man. Proud of ya.).
Wow. We might not sing punk songs, but I guess what Ruben and I did is pretty punk.
We climb out of the car, and I’m blinded by the camera flashes and deafened by the sound. There are just so many people here, and the speed at which they’ve assembled is mind-blowing. I see reporters and news teams and countless paparazzi, all scrambling to get our picture or footage of us.
Shielded by a Chase guard, I am hurried inside, into a grand white foyer. It’s spacious and cold, designed with minimalist white furniture.
Once we’re all inside, the doors are closed and locked. Two Chase guards step across, blocking it. It’s like we’re trapped.
The receptionist glances up at us, then gets up out of her seat. “Follow me.”
We follow her down a hallway, her heels clicking on the polished cement floor. On the walls are posters of the other bands that Chorus also manages. We nearly reach the meeting room at the end of the hall when we finally see the Saturday one. It was taken just after our first album came out, and we look so young. I remember I had a pimple that day, but they photoshopped it out. We’re onstage, with our band name in golden lights underneath us. Each of us is smiling, and it looks genuine, because it was.
The receptionist opens a frosted white glass door for us, and we go inside.
Inside, there’s a number of suits sitting at a long desk. Geoff sits at the head of the table.
“Take a seat,” he says.
The four of us go in, and sit down at the end of the table.
The lawyers all watch us, their expressions cold.
“Now,” he says, a tone of smugness in his voice. “I want to make it clear that what is about to happen is not because Zach and Ruben announced their relationship. We at Chorus pride ourselves on building a supportive environment for all, regardless of nationality, sexuality, or gender expression.”
“Right,” scoffs Ruben.
“However, in the process of announcing your relationship, you have defamed us, and done irreversible damage to our brand. You signed a contract stating you would never publicly speak against Chorus, and you couldn’t fulfill your end of the bargain. So, it is with great sadness that I have to inform you that we will be taking legal action against all of you. There will be extreme punishment for what you just did.”
“Wait, Dad, what?” says Jon. “You’re doing this all because Ruben and Zach came out?”