Page 6 of If This Gets Out

He takes out his phone, and leans in close to take a few selfies with me. Part of me wants to wrap it up so I can just get out of here and see Mom, but I stop myself.Don’t be one ofthosecelebrities,a voice lectures me in the back of my head. It’s just a small favor. It’s fine.

Once he’s taken enough photos to fill an album, I go inside, and enter the elevator using my key card, and then go up to the top level. I knock on the door, and a few seconds later, it opens.

Mom rushes out and grabs me in a tight hug. I think she’sdressed up for this, since she’s in a striped button-down tucked into jeans. When we break apart, there are tears in her eyes. She wipes them like it’s something to be ashamed of and not the sweetest thing ever. Then she reaches out and grabs me again, hugging me hard enough it kinda hurts. She’s wearing perfume, so yep, she definitely dressed up just for this. My dad might be an absent piece of shit, but I lucked out with her.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she says.

“Why?”

She laughs and shakes her head, then takes a moment to look me up and down. “When did this happen?”

I tuck a hand into my front pocket. “Erin makes us work out twice a day now.”

Mom frowns. I know she has strong opinions on the, in her words, “batshit” hoops Erin and the rest of Chorus Management make us jump through, and the constant workouts are a part of that. But I’m not being overworked. It’s fine. When I used to go to regular school, I was a forward on the soccer team, and that was a huge commitment, but I loved it anyway. When I’m a part of a team, or working toward a goal, following orders doesn’t feel anything like work. Being in Saturday is similar. Plus, I’m eighteen now, so I get it. There’s only so much mileage you can get out ofcute,and I really need to transition tohotif I want to have a career. Which I do. Maybe not as badly as, like, Ruben, but I still do.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing, you just look so much like your dad.”

I wonder how that must be for her. I mean, I see the resemblance, especially now that I’ve put on some mass. But that means I look like the guy that peaced out on her to start a new family with a coworker ten years younger than him. The same guy who only started regularly calling when Saturdaystarted hitting the news. The guy who told me pursuing music was a horrible idea and he wouldn’t support me if I went down that path, and then expected to reap every single one of the rewards once the band took off.

But I just nod.

Mom’s apartment is sprawling and well-decorated, with an incredible view of Portland through the glass doors that lead to the balcony. I didn’t grow up here; Mom had to move because there was no way to make our old place secure. Which it became clear was necessary when a fan found out where she lived and camped out, hoping to see me. I bought Mom this place a few weeks later.

“How’s the album going?” she asks.

“Good, I think. I submitted a couple songs I wrote to Geoff, so fingers crossed Galactic likes them.”

“I’m sure they will. I’ve always loved your songs.”

“Yeah, but you’re my mom, you have to say that.”

“Would you rather I said I think they’re terrible?” She’s smiling, so I know she’s joking. I shake my head.

“Then watch your mouth.” She grins. “Seriously, how do you feel about it? This is a pretty huge deal.”

“I know. I just don’t want to get my hopes up, I guess. But it’d be cool to have a song out there that’s mine.”

“Then you’ll be a true artiste.”

I pretend to dry heave.

I finally find Cleo, our cat, hiding in Mom’s bedroom. She’s definitely gotten bigger since I last saw her, and is kind of a brick now.

“Hello,” I say as I scoop her up, comically overexaggerating how heavy she is, to make Mom smile.

Still clutching Cleo to my chest, I go back through to the kitchen. Mom’s made a towering chocolate cake with thewordsWelcome Home Zach!!!written in wobbly icing on the top. I’m not sure when she had the time, because she still works full time at a nursing home, even though I make more than enough for both of us.

“It’s okay if it’s too much,” she says, her expression uneasy. “I just wanted to make you something.”

“No, I love it, thank you. I need a shower, though, so can we wait like, five minutes?”

“Okay,” says Mom. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Why don’t we binge trashy TV, maybe order some only slightly healthy food?”

“I’m so in.”

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