“Not all of us spent years in theater, Ruben. I’m not a good liar. Plus, if you actually wanted it to look less obvious, you’d keep your distance so we don’t have to pretend.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so difficult for you to act like you liked me.”
“Can you stop reading into everything I say? I don’t mean it like that, I just mean it’s weird, and you know it.” He sighs. “I’m trying, Ruben, okay? If I’d known it was going to mess things up this badly I would’ve never—”
He stops, apparently remembering we’re in a public place. And I bleed, and I bleed, and I bleed.
It’s Christopher all over again. But infinitely worse.
My voice is venomous. “Yeah, well, it’s weird for me, too, but forgive me if my heart isn’t breaking for you the one time you have to act one way in public when you feel another way, because that’s every day for me. If I can do it, you can. So please—”
People are staring at us. I shove my smile back on.
“Just be cool for the next thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be fine if you just leave me alone.”
Oh my god. “Whatever, Zach.”
We split up and head to opposite sides of the room. I can feel eyes on me, and I scan the room quickly, to find Erin watching me with her lips pressed together in a hard line.
If I don’t get this under control now, we’re going to be in a world of trouble with Geoff any minute now.
And who knows what’ll happen then.
I, personally, don’t want to find out.
* * *
Even though Zach still doesn’t sit with me on the bus back to the hotel, I’m feeling hopeful for the first time in days. Just the fact that he’s open to talking means our friendship isn’t a write-off, right? I spend the trip in the back row with my legs drawn up to my chest, running through different scenarios in my head.
Zach says he hates me now, but is open to working together to keep the peace （not my favorite）。
Zach says he could never hate me, and he’s so sorry for his hurtful words, he just felt embarrassed and awkward about what we did. （This one seems most likely of the bunch, and I’ve decided I’ll accept it and apologize in return if this happens. I just need to hear an acknowledgment that the comment about my looks was unwarranted. That’s all.）
Zach says he’s madly in love with me, and has been weird because he didn’t know how to confess it （not going to happen, but still nice to envision）。
Zach says he has no feelings for me, but proposes a friends-with-benefits agreement. （I mean, he was super into the kiss at the time. My reactions to this fantasy range from “hell no” to “oh, well, maybe” at random.）
Jon sticks his head over the back of his seat to smile down at me. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“I know what you mean. It feels like we’re working way harder here even though we have the same routine as we did at home, right?”
“Jet lag?” I suggest.
“Maybe. Or maybe we just need a break.”
“We just had a break,” I remind him.
“Hmm.” He raises his eyebrows. “True. But, also, most people have breaks as often as weekly, you know.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I swear on my life. I knew someone once who got a break every Saturday and Sunday.”
“Not possible. How did they stay productive?”
“They said their worth as a person wasn’t tied to their professional output.”
“Weird.”
“So weird.”
I try to catch Zach’s eye as we pile off the bus and into the hotel, but he’s definitely avoiding me. Still, I stay hopeful, even with my stomach plummeting, all the way to my room. As soon as I close the door, I whip out my phone and text Zach.
Ready when you are.
My heart starts pounding like I just sprinted up a flight of stairs, and I grip the sheets beneath my fist as three dots appear.
I’m so sorry, but I’m actually really beat. Can we raincheck? Sorry. Almost asleep already.
I stare at the message, crestfallen.
Almost asleep already. Twenty seconds after he went into his room.
Uh-huh.
I let my hand fall into my lap limply and I stare at the stark cream wall with blurring eyes.
It’s not okay. As much as I desperately hoped it would be, it’s not. And I don’t know how to fix it.
Maybe I can’t fix it.
I slowly roll onto my side and curl into a ball, hugging my knees into my chest and touching my forehead to them. I feel like this is the sort of moment where I should cry. But I’ve never been allowed to cry. My whole life, I was taught that crying is a waste of time. Don’t cry. Fix it. Sort it out. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.