Angel lifts his eyebrows up.
“Yikes. Okay, sore spot, clearly. Anyway, let’s go to the next question.”
Ruben is watching me like he doesn’t even know me. But cameras are on us and we’re live.
I look away.
SEVEN
RUBEN
The thing about your dreams coming true is that, for a gold-spun moment, you catch a glimpse of what life could be like. Then when you lose it, and you crash back to reality, it’s from such a great height, all you can do is lie there, winded and bruised, while you come to terms with the idea that a happiness like that isn’t meant for you.
It never was.
I don’t know how to adjust to this new world. Last week, Zach was my best friend. The one I locked eyes with whenever I laughed. The one whose side I gravitated to wherever we went. The one who always sought me out to check on me whenever I felt unbalanced.
In this new reality, Zach can barely even look at me. He puts as much space between us as he can, and he barely seems to notice that I’m dying with every century-long second.
I feel frozen in place. Equal parts of me scream that I need to back off and give Zach the space to process and move past it before we cause irreversible damage, but also that I need to beg Zach to notice me, and talk this through with me, and see what this is doing to me. I can’t do both, but it feels as though if I pick the wrong approach, I could lose him forever.
A desperate, terrified twisting in the pit of my stomach warns that maybe I already have.
Right now, we’re rolling through the darkened streets of Madrid post-concert, on our way to try some authentic tapas. It wasn’t on our schedule, but Pauline, along with the Spanish guards, convinced Erin it was a low risk—and much needed—downtime detour. We’re in Spain, the place my parents were born. I should be ecstatic to be here, surrounded by the culture that formed such a big part of my upbringing, and standing on the same ground my ancestors once trod. Instead, I can barely process the sights and sounds over my racing, fearful thoughts and the aching misery clamping down on my chest.
I’m wasting my chance to appreciate the country I’ve been tied to by blood, and I can’t seem to snap myself out of it.
Zach’s two rows ahead of me, chatting with Angel like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like he does that all the time. Like he hasn’t sat in the back with me every trip we’ve ever taken, from Saturday’s conception through to that night in Paris.
Jon’s my seat buddy instead, and he’s not trying to make conversation. My face is probably so cloudy it’s scared him off. But I do appreciate that he climbed in beside me. I’m sure he knows something’s up, but he doesn’t press. Just gives his company.
The bus pulls to a stop and Erin lets us pile out. I’m surprised by how cool it is here in March. When I listened to the stories my abuela used to tell me when she was still alive about her life in Spain, I always pictured heat and humidity, an oppressive blanket of warmth. Not temperatures dipping to the low forties, woolen coats, and boots. But here we are.
I’ve heard people do things a little later in Spain, but if I’m honest I didn’t expect it to be this busy at eleven p.m. It’s practically bedtime for us, but the city’s sprung to life here like six in the evening does back home. The paved, narrow streets are filled with people heading out to eat or drink, and the restaurants and bars we pass are buzzing with people and warm light. Instead of heavy drinking like I’d expect to see this late, though, it’s much more casual. More groups of friends sitting at outdoor tables, sipping red wine and picking at tapas, fewer stumbling drunks knocking back beer after beer. The sound from inside the buildings isn’t thudding music or raucous laughter and shouts, but the hum of social chatter. In a weird way, it feels familiar. Like, down-to-my-bones familiar. Is it possible to inherit memories through your genes, or am I just overtired? Probably the latter. We’ve been awake for eighteen hours now.
The smells of garlic, oil, and tomatoes waft through the air as we enter a dimly lit restaurant. It’s crowded, and usually an extra group filing in past tables wouldn’t attract attention. But Pauline standing by the table with one of the Spanish Tungsten guards while the other guards station themselves closer to the entrance apparently gives us away. If that doesn’t, the growing crowd of fans gathering outside to gawk and scream at us through the windows sure does. It feels like every eye in the restaurant is fixed in our direction right now.
I move to slide into the seat at the back at the same moment as Zach. We both halt, and I give him an awkward smile. “You go,” I say.