But I can’t. And it feels like something inside of me is being sliced in half, and it wants to pour out, but it has nowhere to go. Instead, it presses against the inside of my chest, choking me, until I feel like I can’t get enough air in. So, I bury my head in even tighter, trying to hide in the darkness. Like if I block everything out for long enough, it’ll reset itself.
To think that only days ago I’d held Zach between my hands, and breathed in his scent, and tasted him, and for a moment I’d let myself believe that maybe miracles happened.
EIGHT
ZACH
I’m guilty of loving you.
That’s the first line of the “Guilty” chorus, and it’s stuck in my head now, so wherever I go, I hear that. It makes me think of Ruben, and the day we recorded it. We had the most fun ever in the studio that day, back when it felt like we shouldn’t be there, and someone had surely made a mistake letting us in. Ruben had given me some really good pointers, teaching me vocal warm-ups and breathing exercises. There’s no way I’d sound as good as I do on that song if he hadn’t. Plus, I can hear how much fun I was having that day in my voice, which, again, is thanks to him. It was our first single, and it hit number one, so who knows where we’d be now if he hadn’t helped me.
He’s always been the best guy. Focused, sure, but also so kind and gracious and fun to be around. He wants to be a superstar, but he’s never pushed anyone else down to get there, not in the way a lot of others do. He does the opposite, actually. Mom has always said that’s why Saturday is so successful, because we’re an actual team, and we’re all genuinely close friends.
Right now, I’m being a bad friend. Not just bad. The worst.
I wanted to talk to him when he messaged, I really did, but as I was getting ready my anxiety skyrocketed, and I just knew I couldn’t go, because I don’t have an answer yet, and he’d expect one.
I’m not sure it’s all my fault, though. I asked for space to think, and I haven’t been given any. Instead, every second of every day, I’ve felt Ruben staring at me, like I’m supposed to tell him the split-second I figure my shit out, and our entire friendship hinges on my answer. The guilt is suffocating, the pressure enormous. I know he’s hurt and I made it worse, but he hasn’t exactly given me what I asked for, and the end result is I still don’t know what I want.
Every time I start leaning toward the thought that maybe I kind of like him, that maybe the kiss was real, it gets confusing, because what if I only want to think I like him because it means I can say what he wants to hear? So I can be someone other than a shit guy who mistreated him? So I don’t have to risk losing him forever?
And then I swing the other way and decide to tell him I used him to experiment, figured out it meant nothing, and genuinely apologize, but that doesn’t feel right, either. Because even if my thoughts are a mess, I know that there’s no way that kiss meant nothing.
And that would mean I’m what? Bi?
The word makes me feel queasy. Like, it’s too close for comfort, breathing down my neck.
I bump into Angel, pulling me back to reality.
“Watch where you’re going, Zach Attack.”
I groan. I made the mistake of telling Angel one time that every single soccer coach I’ve ever had has called me that, which I despised, and now he loves to use it. I do what I did with my soccer coaches: try to ignore it.
Luckily, there are a lot of distractions. At the moment the four of us are on a guided tour of the Vatican, with Erin, Keegan, and some Tungsten guards. We got here at four a.m., to be a part of an early-bird tour, to make sure it’s quiet enough that we don’t get swarmed by fans. They’ve still found out we’re here and are crowding outside, hoping to see us. Without the guards, they would’ve stormed the place. It’d be just like the airport. They’d fight their way to me, screaming and pushing until they get to touch me. I shiver.
Up ahead, walking slowly, is Ruben. I wonder what he’s thinking about. I doubt it’s me. There’s no way his thoughts are as consumed by me as mine are by him.
I know we should talk to try to close this rift. But the thought of doing that makes my head spin. In a lot of ways, as much as avoiding him has been torture, it’s also felt safe, because thinking about this stuff is one thing. Having to say it? That’s terrifying.
Jon is walking next to me. His arms are crossed and he has an uncharacteristic slouch going on. Without any makeup, I can see the darkness under his eyes. Angel is on his phone, and even Keegan and Pauline barely seem to care about where we are. We’re walking down the gallery of maps, and even though I have a lot of opinions on the impact that religion has had on the world, I have to admit, this place is impressive. Every inch of it is covered in art. It has to be one of the most incredible places I’ve ever seen.