Page 133 of If This Gets Out

I nod, but don’t reply.

Zach lets his thumb brush mine, blocking the touch from sight with the angle of his body, and adds, “Plus, there’s more options than ‘living at home’ and ‘no contact.’ You can try creating some space, and see how that goes.”

“True.”

“You should hit up Jon and Angel, see if they’re ready to move out yet. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on Angel.”

I think he means it as a joke about Angel’s personality, rather than a reference to his ongoing recovery, but the words jolt me. Whatisgoing to happen with Angel when things pick up again? When we go on our next tour, for example?Will Chorus keep an eye on Angel? Will he be looked after, and supported to stay sober—a feat that’s going to be difficult enough for him to begin with, without added stressors? Or will they put him right back in the pressure cooker that triggered all of this to begin with?

I think I know the answer, and it fills me with a rage I try to shove back down. I can’t think of all the reasons I hate Chorus right now. I need a clear mind for what we’re about to do. So I focus on Zach’s suggestion. “Just the three of us living together?”

“Well, if all three of you did, I’d obviously want in on that. You’re not leaving me out of all the fun.” I raise my eyebrows meaningfully, and he scowls. “Not like a ‘move in with me’ type thing. I’d want my own room, still.”

“Right. I don’t like youthatmuch,” he says, rolling his eyes, but his scowl is turning into a smile despite himself.

“Mm-hmm. Waking up with you every day. I’dhatethat.”

“Eating meals together, sharing a shower with you. It sounds awful.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you, too.” His voice is low and thick.

A producer in jeans and a red shirt strides over to us. “Sound check in a minute, guys. Time to head on up.”

Zach looks to me, takes a deep, heavy breath, and we exhale together. We head to the lockers to deposit our phones, and as I take mine out, almost as if on cue, it starts to vibrate with a call from Mom.

My stomach drops. Not now. Not when I’m already feeling this on edge. The last thing, thevery last thingI need is to try to navigate a loaded call with her about what I should and shouldn’t remember to do onstage.

“She wants to wish me luck, I guess,” I say to Zach.

He just watches me, expressionless.

The phone buzzes once more, twice, three times. And I dump it in the locker.

“Not now,” I say to him. “I just… can’t right now.”

He brushes his thumb against my shoulder. “It’s fine. You can call her back after. Just say you’d already dropped your phone off.”

I nod, then shake my head. “Actually. I think I might just tell her I was about to go onstage and wanted to keep my head clear. Because that’s actually not an unreasonable thing to do, and I don’t need to lie about it so she accepts it. I think?”

Zach makes a show of dropping his mouth open in shock. “Wow. You know that’s bordering onhealthy,right?”

“I know.” I pause. “I shouldn’t text her right now, should I?”

“No, you definitely should not. Comeon,we need to go up.”

Angel and Jon meet us near the entrance and we make the short trip to the stage flanked by guards. A few people on the edges of the audience catch a glimpse of us, hands waving frantically.

“I still think you three could’ve kept the choreo,” Angel says as we walk. “They could’ve hooked me up to wires and had me fly above the stage. That would’ve been way cooler.”

“You could’ve been our hype man,” Jon agrees.

“Exactly!” Angel says. “You get it. I would’ve been an excellent hype man.”

“Of course, it helps if you can raise both your arms above your head,” I say drily.

Angel glares at me and wiggles his right arm. “I’ll have you know I’ve regained a full eighty-five percent of my original swivel range, thank you very much.”

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