“Ruben, just…” Angel circles a hand in midair. “Just be cool, okay?”
Suddenly, Zach climbs onto his knees with his phone brandished. “Hold on, let me get a picture of this,” he says. He places a firm hand on my thigh to steady himself as he takes a picture of the scenery, because he wants me to spontaneously combust, apparently. I do my best to think about anything except for the pressure and weight of him. In the end, all I can do is stare out the window and try to distract myself.
We’re driving through a residential area that consists of dozens and dozens of creamy apartment buildings. It’s the windows that grab my attention first, stretching tall with ancient panes and wrought-iron balconies, all adorned with rows and rows of flowers. There are flowerbeds in every window, and even more flowers hanging under every streetlamp in sight. I focus on counting the flowerbeds because Zach’s still on me, and the warmth of his skin is seeping through my jeans, and—five, six, seven, eight, nine—
“Boys, I have a piece of good news!” Erin stands and shakily makes her way down the aisle to us.
Zach climbs off of me to sit back down in his own seat, and I don’t know whether to feel relief or despair. “First, though, here. The wonderful ladies at the magazine gave us a welcome to Paris treat,” she says, grabbing handfuls of plastic-wrapped candies from a black cardboard box. “These are salted butter caramels from Maison Le Roux. Hopefully these’ll tide you over till lunch.”
Thank god, food. We each shove a caramel square into our mouths, and I have to force myself to slow down and savor it instead of swallowing it whole. It’s not like any caramel I’ve had in my life, a perfect balance of sweet with a hint of salt and a thick, gooey texture that coats my mouth in a melted layer that feels almost like cream.
“Okay, yep,” Jon says thickly, unwrapping another one. “I like Paris.”
Zach tips his head against his seat and closes his eyes, a tiny, funny smile on his face. Seeing him look like that makes my chest tighten.
I have just enough time to wonder if Erin’s buttering us up with sweets when she makes her announcement. “The results from Opulent Condition’s Top Fifty Sexiest Men are in, and Ruben and Jon, you’re both on the list!”
My first reaction is, honestly, to be sort of pleased. I can’t help it. Positive feedback is my bread and butter, and you can’t beat being told you’re crowd-voted beautiful for positive feedback. It takes me longer than I’d like to admit to realize that if only Jon and I are on it, Zach and Angel aren’t.
“How did he get on it and I didn’t?” Angel asks in a huff, gesturing to Jon.
“That’s not nice,” Zach says. “Jon’s sexy.”
“Jon’s repressed,” Angel snaps. “Pretty isn’t the same as sexy. Jon blushes anytime a girl looks at him.”
Jon blinks rapidly, eyebrows sky-high. “Tell me how you really feel next time.”
“You can’t tell me this shit isn’t rigged,” Angel scowls.
“Of course it’s rigged,” Jon snaps, before turning to Erin. “They don’t come up with this on their own. Dad submitted us, right?”
Erin doesn’t deny it, and I suddenly realize I was stupid to think I’d been voted in by adoring fans. Of course Chorus picked who went on the list. I’ve understood the importance of maintaining our roles as romantic fantasies at all costs since the very beginning; Geoff made it very clear when I first told him that my hope was to come out publicly at sixteen. Think of this like one of your musicals, Ruben. You’re playing a part in a show. Those who want the part need to prove they’re the best person for the role. His point was that there would always be understudies. He didn’t spell it out, but he didn’t have to.
“You got on the list, Jon. Why aren’t you happy?” Erin asks.
Jon scrunches the caramel wrapper in his fist, but won’t look Erin in the eye. “Wouldn’t you be weirded out if your dad submitted shirtless photos of you to a magazine?”
“I’m yet to take shirtless photos,” Erin says. I think she means it as a weak joke, but no one laughs. She sighs. “That’s what you get when your dad’s your manager, I guess. Try to see the bright side. It’s positive publicity.”
“At least you’re in it,” Angel says. There’s an edge to his voice.
Zach, who hates confrontation more than anything in the world, wilts beside me.
“It’s not your brand, Angel,” Erin says in exasperation. “But I get that you’re disappointed.”