“Ruben,” Zach whispers. I pause, and turn to him. He holds his hand out for the microphone. I draw my eyebrows together in a question as he takes it from me. “I don’t want this to be something that just happens to me,” he whispers, before bringing the microphone up. At first I misunderstand him, and think he’s changed his mind. Then my words from our fight last week come back to me, and I realize.
“Ruben and I have been forced to hide things, too,” Zach says. “The biggest one being that Ruben is my boyfriend. We’re together, and we have been for a little while now.”
The noise that comes from the crowd isn’t one I’ve ever heard before. I can’t pinpoint the emotion, or even if it’s positive or negative overall. The best word for it is probably, simply, shock.
“We’re telling you this because the freedom to be ourselves, and express whatever truest version of ourselves we know of to the world as we see fit, is the most important freedom we have. We want that freedom back, even if the truth is something not everyone wants to hear from us.” Zach blinks, looks at the microphone like he’s just noticed he’s holding it, then hastily passes it back to me. I guess what he’s just done has hit him all at once.
I finish for him. “We’re standing here sharing it with you, sharing ourselves with you, because we love you. We trust you. We respect you. Most importantly, we think you deserve more from us than just a well-choreographed show. And so do we.”
I place the microphone back on the stand and look at the cameras with my head held high. There’s nothing to hide behind, now. No persona. Just me—us—and the crowd, and the millions of eyes that will pore over the clip of this very moment today, tomorrow, and for the rest of our lives.
Taking Zach’s hand in mine, I turn to the crowd. At first, I see it as a whole. It writhes, and cheers, and yells. Then I look closer, and focus in on some faces. Someone in the third row is covering her mouth with both hands as she jumps on the spot. Fifth row center, a girl stands still, staring at us with a slack jaw, while the girl next to her waves their clasped hands in the air. In row two, toward the left, two boys hug each other. One seems to be crying into the other’s chest, but he turns his head just enough for me to confirm they’re tears of joy.
I drag my gaze across the rows slowly, meeting the gaze of as many individuals as I can. There’s nothing between us. For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m looking down on them from unreachable heights with an impenetrable wall separating us. Suddenly, I belong to the crowd. I’m part of them. We all are. All four of us.
The band plays the opening chords to “Unsaid,” and Zach lets out an exhilarated breath and turns his head to look at me. He swings our linked hands up between us, hailing the crowd, and a cheer swells up to greet us back in return.
I smile and lift my mic to start the first verse, Zach’s hand still in mine.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ZACH
As soon as the cameras turn off, chaos breaks out.
We’re pretty much pulled offstage by security guards. The crowd starts to boo, at them, not us. At least it seems that way.
“Zach, we love you!” calls someone.
Backstage, Erin is waiting for us.
“What have you done?” she asks, her eyes wide. “I can’t fix this.”
She brings her phone up and charges off down a hallway, I guess to get some space. Seems Angel definitely got what he wanted.
We’ve wreaked havoc.
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.”