So, I force a spring into my step as I sing the same lyrics, with the easy-to-hit notes. I dance the same steps. Look out into the same faceless crowd. Read the same posters （I LOVE YOU RUBEN. ZACH KNIGHT, BE MINE FOR THE NIGHT. ANJON!）。 Squint against the same light display, and breathe in the same stage smoke at the same moment I do every night. Beat by beat, planned down to the millisecond.
Then we move onto “Unsaid,” and I return to my body. Jon wiggles his eyebrows at me at the start of the song, and I can’t fight a grin. Sure, the song has nothing to do with Zach and me, but now it kind of feels like our song.
Suddenly, the flashing lights and colors lose their luster. I wish to my bones, to my core, for the freedom we deserve. To be able to talk to the crowd about things that haven’t been preapproved. To share this story with them, a tender little moment between our group, and the newfound significance of the song we just sang to them. To tell them about Zach and me. To hear them scream, and cheer, and let them into our real lives, so they can love us, and celebrate with us, not the curated images of us we’re forced to put on display.
I’m tired of being in so deep we can’t even call it false advertisement anymore, because what they see is what they get.
I’m half gone.
“Unsaid” is a particularly choreo-heavy song, so I can’t dwell on this for too long before I’m throwing myself into the music, spinning and stepping and ducking and turning in time. But the steps bring me over to Zach when his part comes up, and I can’t help but stare at him as he sings.
“You’re the explosion that tore me apart,” he starts in his gritty, strong voice, staring straight into the audience without noticing me, “and I’m sorry to say that you’ve reclaimed my heart…”
Then—hah—his eyes flicker sideways to me. “Baby,” he finishes, eyes sparkling as he bursts into a toothy smile. I return it and let out a delighted, choked laugh. He purses his lips in an attempt to kill his smile, but it’s no use—sunlight is practically streaming out from him. We’re so busy looking at each other we almost, almost, miss our cue to return to the choreo. But we don’t miss it. The song goes just as it does every night, but tonight it feels different, because on top of the lights and the crowd and the moves and the smoke and songs and the steps is Zach’s smile, and the way his eyes locked onto me, and saw me above all the noise.
I have a giddy smile on my face, and a giggle threatening to burst from my lips, for the next few songs. And it feels good.
So, I’m caught off-guard when we pour off the stage at the end of the night to find Erin and Valeria waiting for us with stern expressions. It’s almost like I can feel the band shrinking into ourselves as we try to figure out what we did wrong, and who they’re mad at.
Erin makes eye contact with me first, and that answers that question. Lucky me. “Walk and talk,” Erin orders, and we move, with me falling into step beside her. Zach appears at my shoulder immediately, and though he doesn’t touch me while people can still see us, his elbow bumps against mine and I’m pretty sure it’s not an accident.
“What was so funny?” Erin asks without looking at me.
For a split second, she’s Mom, and I’m several years younger, trapped in the car beside her while she gears up to scream at me about my behavior that day. But she’s not Mom, and I don’t need to panic, because this is business, and we’re all professionals, and it’s just professional feedback.
But then, why is my stomach rolling, and why have my fingertips gone cold? Why are my eyes darting around to pinpoint an escape route, just in case? “Nothing,” I say. My voice comes out uncertain.
“You know,” she says. “I get that everything feels very exciting right now. I remember what it’s like to be in your first real relationship. But you two are going to have to work on remaining professional.”
Something very much like fear stabs behind my heart. “Oh. I thought we were.”
“You thought giggling like schoolkids throughout three and a half songs, onstage, during a concert people paid good money to attend, was professional?” Erin asks, finally looking at me. She’s not smiling. “I know you better than that, Ruben. That’s not you.”
I feel like dying. Finding a small, quiet hole somewhere and crawling into it and curling into a ball to wait out the day, or maybe even the week. She’s right. Mom would kill me if she found out I did that. I should’ve cleared my mind better. We’re not up there for fun. We’re up there to put on a show.