Not really.
Well, excuse me if I’m not instantly appeased by this convincing display of remorse.
What in the fuck is his problem? What right does he have to be angry at me? If anyone should be pissed off right now, shouldn’t it be me? I’m the one who got my heart broken. I’m the one who got humiliated by him in public. I’m the one who’s been iced out for days now.
And why is he icing me out? Have I somehow offended him? Did I say something? Do something? Could he tell the kiss meant more to me than it did to him, and is annoyed I turned a drunken experiment into something that needed an explanation?
Or am I somehow a bad enough kisser to destroy an entire friendship?
It’s become more and more obvious we need to sit down and hash this out properly, whether Zach wants to or not.
The problem is, if I can’t even get him to make small talk, how am I going to convince him to discuss that night?
And what will happen to us if I can’t?
* * *
A local radio station in Rome ran a backstage pass competition a while back, so tonight we’re all hanging back to meet some fans, sign stuff, and take photos. Usually this is one of my favorite parts of the job—we get whisked aside by Penny for a quick refresh and liner reapplication, then it’s basically an hour of being gushed over, and meeting the people whose lives you’ve touched, and being able to drop your walls just a little because no one’s recording what you’re saying—the dozens of contract guards make sure of that.
Tonight, it’s dampened early when a girl of about fourteen, with thick black hair and large brown eyes, asks me in accented but fluent English, “Is it true you and Zach don’t like each other, Ruben?”
I pause midway through signing her tour poster and look up, alarm flashing across my face before I can arrange my features into calm reassurance. Zach’s only a couple of feet away, talking to another fan, and both of them have stopped to listen in.
“Absolutely not,” I say with as much firmness as I can muster. “These guys are my best friends. We were friends before we even formed the band. I love all of them.”
Relief breaks across her features. “Oh, we’re so glad to hear that,” she says, turning to Zach’s fan. Apparently, they’re friends, too. “We love all of you, so much. The media makes up lies, eh?”
“Yup,” I say, but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Zach, like she’s waiting for him to jump in and validate what I’m saying. Instead, he gives an awkward smile, and goes back to signing his own poster, under the pretense of not overhearing. For god’s sake, he’s got to know how obvious that looked. The girls exchange a concerned glance, and I go into damage-control mode.
“Why don’t the four of us take a selfie?” I suggest, and the girls nod enthusiastically.
Zach’s face is unreadable as I go over to him. “I could take the photo of the three of you?” he asks, and I could strangle him.
“Your hair’s fine,” I tease, as though the reason he doesn’t want a photo is vanity based. He stiffens as I stand beside him—I’m not even touching him—and shuffles to put an obvious gap between us while he smiles, his head tilted away from me. It makes the gap look even bigger in the picture.
“I have a question,” Zach’s fan asks before they leave. “About … Anjon? Is it … yes?”
“Huh?” I ask. I’ve understood their accents fine up until this point, but I have no idea what she just said.
“Anjon?” she repeats.
I blink. “What’s the question?”
“That was the question. Anjon? Yes?”
I glance at Zach, who’s distracted by something across the room. Of course. “Uh, sure?” I say, to be polite. “I guess?”
The girls break into shrieks and head over to get in the line to meet Jon and Angel, and I whisper to Zach while keeping a smile on my face. “I think we need to talk.”
“Okay, if you want.” He’s not doing a very good job of acting pleasant.
“Meet me in my room when we’re back? To talk,” I clarify quickly as Zach stiffens again.
“Sounds good.”
“Okay. Can we call a truce until then? You’re acting really obvious.”
“I’m acting obvious? You’re the one who’s forcing me to take photos with you so you can prove a point.”
“I’m not trying to prove a point, I’m trying to prove we’re okay,” I whisper, even though maybe it’s a bit of both.