“No, you just sound happy.” It’s a lie, but it’s one designed to make her relax. She gives me constructive criticism all the time, but even imagined criticism is enough to raise her hackles. Compliments, affection, and gushing are the only tools in my arsenal to make her claws retract. Enabling is just another word for self-preservation, sometimes.
“I am happy. It was a lovely night,” she says, and I finally relax. I’ve successfully navigated into calmer waters.
Someone enters the gym, and I glance up. It’s Jon. He heads over and sets himself up on the machine beside me, silently. When he’s close enough for me to touch, I grab his arm and mouth “help.”
His eyes crinkle and he takes a few steps back. “Ruben!” he calls when he’s at enough of a distance that it doesn’t blare down my phone speaker. “We’ve got to go!”
“Hang on, hang on, Mom,” I say quickly. “I’ll be a minute,” I call out.
“The bus is leaving,” Jon sings.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss to Mom, like she’s a conspirator.
“Oh no,” she says warmly. “Sounds like you have your marching orders.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “We can talk on the bus? But we won’t have much privacy.”
“No, you go, I need to get to sleep now, anyway.”
It’s one of our cleaner conversations. Usually she can tell I’m making an excuse to get off the phone and it starts an argument. Thank god for Jon.
I throw my phone into the holder as soon as we hang up, letting out a guttural groan to the ceiling. A ten-minute conversation and I feel like I’ve just fielded a high-stakes interview with one of the nosier TV stations.
At least I came into this gig with a lifetime of experience navigating conversational minefields and noticing traps before they’re sprung. I should send Mom some flowers in thanks for that skill.
Screw your mom, says the memory of Zach that lives in my head. We’re in the bouncy castle, at Angel’s party, and he’s kneeling in front of me, and his eyes are intense, and I know that it’s going to be okay. He’s going to make it okay.
Then I snap back to the present. Zach’s not here.
“Your parents?” Jon asks, returning to his machine.
“Mom.”
“The worst,” he says. Everyone in the band has their opinions on my mom. They range, politely, from “nope” to “hell fucking no.”
“She read about The Tension,” I say. That’s our name for it. Even though neither Zach nor I will give them much of an explanation, both Jon and Angel are fully aware that Zach and I are at odds, and that it’s inexplicably bigger than a snide comment made during a livestream. Angel’s even stopped making jokes about Zach not finding me sexy, which means shit’s gotten serious.
“She was gonna find out sooner or later, I guess. Did she give any advice?”
I shoot him a look.
“Point taken. You sure I can’t give you any advice?”
“You don’t even know what’s wrong, how can you give me advice?” I say.
“Exactly.”
“Jon—”
“You don’t have to tell me specifically what happened! Just give me the vibe. The essence.”
“I can’t.”
“The seasoning,” he begs. “Not even the main meal. Just, the pepper and paprika of it.”
“That’s poetic.”
“Thank you,” he says, straightening with a pleased smile. “I did that on the spot.”
There’s literally no way to hint to Jon what happened without risking him putting two and two together, though. Even innocent, vague explanations, like, “I did something I shouldn’t have,” or “There was an awkward moment” risk setting Angel and Jon on a trail that could end in them figuring it out. I might not be embarrassed about it, but Zach sure as hell is. So, it doesn’t matter how hurt I am, or how resentful I am that Zach won’t even try to resolve this with me. That’s a line I’m not crossing, period. So I just offer a meek, one-sided shrug.
“Okay, Ruben,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice. I bristle.
“Are you asking because you care, or because Erin or Geoff want you to?” I ask.
“What?” he asks. “Because I care, obviously.”
“Really? Because you’re pressing the point pretty hard for someone who just wants us to be okay, given I’ve said we don’t want to talk about it.”