Even though my mind knows that’s bullshit, I’m not sure my heart’s climbed aboard the self-assuredness train just yet. I’m just so used to conditions. My whole life’s been filled with them.
To my surprise, Zach actually smiles. “I could change that.”
“Uh. I guess? You could.”
He picks up on the slight note of panic in my voice. “Or not,” he says. “That’s fine.”
I relax again, and he kisses me gently on the lips. The taste of him, along with his calmness, makes me feel safe and steady. We end up back against the pillows, the kissing growing harder and more breathless. Then he moves his knee over my thigh, and a small sound escapes my throat before I can stop it.
And I realize with a spark of clarity that I feel completely safe. I’m not afraid of what will happen if we do this.
Something in my gut kicks up. Eagerness. Excitement. A longing to be touched like that.
“Actually, okay,” I whisper, my heart hammering. It feels like it’s dropped somewhere inside my stomach. “If you, um … as long as you still want to?”
Zach’s hair tickles my forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs thickly between breaths. “I want to. I want to.”
I grip the blankets beneath my fists and tip my head back. The moment feels enormous. The last thing I’ve never done. But the nervousness evaporates within seconds, replaced by anticipation.
And then that’s replaced by something else entirely. And it might be the heat of it all, or the adrenaline rush, but somewhere in my swirling mind, a thought flickers. A thought about Zach, and how necessary he’s started to feel in such a short span of time. Like he’s the thing keeping me tethered to the ground. Like if I were to lose him, I might have lost the most important, urgent thing to ever happen to me.
But it’s just a swirling thought.
* * *
When it’s over, and our breathing slows down, Zach rests his red-hot cheek against my damp chest. His chestnut-brown hair is sticking into clumps from perspiration, and his bare shoulders are covered in freckles that are becoming as familiar to me as my own, and he has a soft smile playing on his full lips, reddened from kisses.
I press my lips into the soft canopy of his hair. “I’m not going to let them mess with you. Okay?”
He doesn’t ask who they are. He doesn’t have to. “Okay.”
“I mean it. They can come for me all they want, but the second they come for you, it’s war.”
“Sounds serious.”
“I am serious.”
His smile disappears. “Well,” he whispers. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”
I have the same hope.
I’m just not sure if I believe it.
SIXTEEN
ZACH
I’m so thankful for dance rehearsal.
That is definitely not something that fifteen-year-old Zach ever would’ve thought, not in a million years, but now I’m so damn grateful for them. I’m with Valeria, in a dance studio an hour earlier than everyone else, to go over my moves for the show before the others arrive to learn the “Overdrive” music video routine. So right now it’s just us in this massive, mirrored space.
I need this, though. Because earlier, I got an email.
Today, 1:17 p.m. （1 hour ago）
Geoff <[email protected]> To: me
Hey, Zach,
Galactic had a read of your “End of Everything” suggestions and decided that they’re maybe not as strong as the original draft. As a thank-you for your help, you will still be receiving songwriter credit on the song. Don’t be down about this, they liked your suggestions, and hope to get you more involved on the lyric side of things in the near future!
Best,
Geoff
“Okay, Zach, go.”
The chorus of “Yours, Mine, Ours” starts, and I dance, as hard as I can go.
Don’t think about it. But as hard as I push myself, the thoughts come back. I’m getting credit, but the song is in no way mine. It’s Galactic’s song, but it will have my name on it, and now everyone out there is going to think that I wrote “End of Everything”—a sappy, slow ballad, nothing even remotely like the kind of music I enjoy listening to or writing.
Songwriting was my thing. And it feels like it’s been wrenched away from me, just like my appearance and singing style has. The whole thing is moving too fast to stop. We’re recording it tomorrow.
Stop. Thinking. About it.
I hit each of my movements on time, harder and faster than I usually dance. Turns out, frustration is one hell of a motivator. I finish off with a body roll, the last move of the routine. I’m done now, and panting to catch my breath.