Problem is, future-me is about to become present-me.
I knew there was a flaw in the plan.
I raise a sleepy hand as I remember there is one question I have. Well, two. “Can I triple-clarify you’re not surprising me with tickets to a West End show?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t be a very good surprise if she told you,” Jon points out.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Erin says. “But just so you don’t get your hopes up, I can confirm we definitely don’t have time for a West End show. Sorry, Ruben.”
I can’t muster up the energy to be disappointed. “I figured. But you said we might be able to check out the Burgtheater in Vienna…？”
Erin smiles. “I did, and we will. I promise, I’ve made a point of getting it on our itinerary. We should be able to spare an hour.”
I perk up at this. My family is made up of theater geeks. I was raised on Andrew Lloyd Webber and bred on Sondheim. My mom threw me into private singing lessons to perfect my vibrato and belt in kindergarten, and I started touring with professional theater companies in elementary school. I’ve seen everything America has to offer in terms of musical theater history, but I can’t go to Europe without at least doing something touristy, and I’ve always been in love with the vibe and history of the Burgtheater. That, and we don’t have time to visit the Globe, to my disgust.
Jon, who’s the only one of us not slumping in his seat, speaks up now. “We’re still visiting the Vatican, right?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Because of course, we couldn’t put aside four hours for a West End show, but we’re spending a whole morning at the Vatican for Jon. It’s not surprising, I guess: Jon’s super Catholic, like his mom, and even though his dad, Geoff Braxton, isn’t, Geoff’s obviously going to make sure we have time to do whatever’s important to Jon. It’s how things have always been.
Erin nods at Angel. “Anything you need to clarify, hon?”
Angel pretends to think about it. “Um, is the drinking age in London still eighteen?”
She sighs. “Yes.”
Angel grins. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
I lift my head to look at Zach, who’s resting his chin on his palm. “You’re quiet,” I say.
“Hmm?” He blinks. “Oh, no, I’m good. No questions. Theaters and drinking and, um … Jesus … all sound good.”
“Bedtime, huh?” I ask, and he nods, his eyes heavy-lidded.
Erin takes the hint. “Okay. The minibus’s out front. Email me or text if you have any questions, otherwise I’ll see you bright and early on Sunday.”
We all scramble to get out of there before Erin remembers any more items on the agenda. “I know all of you follow the law and don’t drink underage!” she calls to our backs. “But just remember hangovers and transatlantic flights don’t mix, all right?”
Zach and I take the back seat in the minibus, while Angel and Jon sit in front of us, in separate seats. Usually we’re chatty on the way back to our hotel, but today I’m a special kind of tired. Like I’ve just finished running a marathon: the final reserve of energy used to propel me over the finish line finally exhausted. We haven’t had four whole days off in … a really fucking long time.
Even though our hotel’s barely five minutes away in night traffic, Angel curls up and naps on his seat, and Jon puts his headphones on to wind down with some music.
Essentially alone, I glance at Zach. “I can’t believe it’s over,” I say.
Zach raises an eyebrow. “We’ve still got all of Europe left.”
When Zach whispers, his voice barely changes. That’s how soft-spoken he is. His voice is a fawn’s pelt. A soft bed of moss. You could fall asleep to its lull.
“True. It feels different, though.”
“It’ll be the new normal in no time.”
“I guess. Like how all this”—I wave a hand around vaguely—“feels normal now.”
“Right.”
“That’s kind of a depressing thought.”
He tips his head back, exposing his neck. “What?”
“That it doesn’t matter how big or exciting something is, it just becomes average after a while.”
The minibus goes over a bump, and Angel snuffles as he’s jolted. How is it possible he’s already asleep?
Zach considers this, pensive, then gives a surprised “hmm” of agreement. It’s never failed to amuse me that Chorus Management insists on branding Zach as the dark, brooding type with a bit of an edge to him, when his real personality couldn’t be further from it. Zach isn’t quiet because he’s brooding or tortured. He’s just thoughtful, and careful—the type to evaluate what you say for a beat too long while he decides what answer you most want to hear. He might not be the type to dominate a conversation or enthusiastically work the room, but he’s dark in approximately the same way a puppy is dark. Whatever the media may claim to the contrary at our publicity manager David’s behest.