When Zach touches me, though, it’s like my skin stops being the barrier that holds me in and the world out. It feels like a boundary he can cross at will, to merge with me and fill me with this fire, from the depths of my chest to the surface of my skin. To make me, the individual, bigger, bursting at the seams, surging outward with something both undefinable and terrifying to lose.
All this to say, I think he’s turned me into a hopeless fucking romantic. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m loving every second of it, it might occur to me to be indignant.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” he says, scrunching his brow. He’s got his serious face on, the one he gets when he’s gone somewhere else, some magical land where song lyrics float around in the atmosphere and he snatches them from the sky and transcribes them onto paper. Or, at least, that’s how it sounds when he describes his inspiration process. It all comes across as a little sci-fi to me.
As I watch him work, a pang of sadness and trepidation hits my gut. I love our songs already—Galactic Records hires only the best writers for us, and they consistently nail the balance between catchy, relatable, and a little thought-provoking—but I would especially love for this to work out. I’ve seen Zach’s drafts, and I know he’s talented enough to produce a hit, if only Chorus and Galactic Records will let him.
I just worry he’s putting too much stock in Geoff’s assurances that they want him to write a song, and not taking the heaping serving of salt he should be taking with any promise from Chorus.
I let him go back wherever he was and scroll through my phone. Mom’s sent me a link to an article that, from the title, appears to be discussing why I’m actually the worst dancer in Saturday. Some good tips for improvement in here, she’s written. Thanks, I type back. I used to beg her not to send me these, but it would just set her off on a tangent about how I needed to grow a thicker skin if I wanted to be in the entertainment industry. Zach’s told me more than once I shouldn’t let this stuff slide, but there’s only so much energy I can put into re-establishing my boundaries again and again, only to get them knocked back down.
Sometimes I fantasize that one day I might bite the bullet and cut off contact altogether. Maybe. If I’m brave enough. If I decide it’s worth the loss—and there will be a measure of loss, like it or not. Of her, and the good times, even if they’re rare. Of Dad, who I don’t want to lose, but comes in a package deal with her. Even of the rest of my family, if they take her side, which they almost certainly will by the time she’s done spinning her side of things.
It feels too enormous to contemplate for too long, but that doesn’t mean I won’t ever do it.
Just not today. I’m not ready for that yet.
“You’ve been writing a lot lately,” I say to Zach, to distract myself.
He doesn’t complain about being yanked out of his stupor. Just leans his shoulder against mine and looks up. “I know. I’ve been feeling inspired.”
My eyebrow twitches of its own accord, and he bursts out laughing, turning beetroot-red. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no, you said it.”
“Ew, I was trying to answer in a way that didn’t seem corny—”
“You failed.”
“I totally failed, that was super corny.”
“This is not a good start to the relationship.”
I falter at the end of the final word, realizing too late what’s coming out of my mouth. He freezes, eyes widening, and my breath catches in my throat as I blink rapidly. Shit. Jesus. I did not mean to say that. It’s like my mouth went ahead and signed off on something without waiting for my brain to review and cosign.
It’s been several days since the canals, and though we’ve snuck into each other’s rooms to make out at least once per day—after breakfast, after interviews, before shows—neither of us has made a move to define what, exactly, we’re doing.
Zach couldn’t look more alarmed if I’d announced I was throwing him out the window to the mercy of the group of fans camped outside. “I mean, I didn’t mean that,” I stammer before he can reply. “I just mean, you know, relationship, as in, the relationship between two things that exist in … relation … to each other.”
“It’s fine, I know what you meant.” He relaxes a little, but not entirely.
“Two things that are related. That have a—a relation.”
“You’re overthinking it, it’s really fine,” he says, smiling wryly. The last of the tension leaves his posture, and I return his smile, feeling a little sheepish.