He’d thought she was just a kid, but she was a sixteen-year-old woman who could school them all on friendship. Anya sang the lyrics like she owned them—wild, and raw, and so brave—and Ed wondered if Pasha felt the same tightness in his chest as he felt right then.
Pasha stood on the opposite side of the stage, arms crossed, expression a mix of pride and sadness that Ed guessed could be a copy of his own. For all their #TrueBrit tactics, Anya’s performance must have earned her a place in the final.
Now it would be between them and the boy band.
The way the show operated, whoever was sent home tonight wouldn’t get a chance to say good-bye beyond a brief hug or handshake in front of the whole viewing nation. This might be one of the last times he and Pasha got to see each other, withno chance left to open the door Ed had closed so firmly between them.
Ed wasn’t ready for it.
Pasha was just a couple of dozen steps across the stage, eyes fixed on his, widening as if he’d just come to the same conclusion. Ed took a lurching step toward him. Only the production assistant’s hand on his elbow stopped him. He looked from it to her face, and lip-read as she said, “You can see him later.”
Ed wasn’t so certain of that.
The song ended in a crash of applause, and the next few hours were a blur. Between outfit changes and interviews that he couldn’t recall the moment they ended, Ed sought out Pasha. Some sixth sense made him wonder if there was something behind the way he was herded from one place to another. There was purpose to the production assistant’s constant presence and to her insistence for just a few more minutes of Ed’s time.
Whenever Ed walked toward the changing rooms to find him, she headed him off with a sound check that couldn’t wait for a moment. If he tried to scan the stage for glossy black hair or a wide grin, someone else would desperately need a moment of his time. The closer they got to hearing the results, the more certain Ed was that he’d missed his chance to make up.
Hell, making up was something that might take longer than they had left. It might not be on Pasha’s agenda at all. It was the not knowing for sure that made Ed want to break ranks. He did so when he finally saw Pasha, such a sight for sore eyes, dressed all in black that left him looking dangerous and moody.
Ed crossed the stage to meet him, but the host got to him first, along with Gerry Hanson.
GerryfuckingHanson.
The man who had warned Ed that the show would go whichever way he decided slung his arm across Pasha’s shoulderlike they were the best of buddies sharing a whispered secret. Ed lost sight when the host stepped between them, holding a hand to his ear, listening to instructions only audible to him.
The semifinal votes had been counted.
The host summoned Ed, Anya, Pasha, and the boy band to stand on their marks under individual spotlights as the audience started to applaud on cue. One by one he read out the results as a percentage of the total, and by the time he got to Anya’s, it was clear that there was no way the boy band could make the cut.
There was polite applause as the boy band accepted defeat with more grace than Ed had expected. Their spotlight blinked out as they left the stage, and the audience finally erupted when the host formally announced the three of them as Great Britain’s choice ofBritPop!finalists.
It should have been a moment of celebration.
It definitely was for Anya. She bolted away from her mark, cameras swinging to follow as she ran. Their lenses moved in an upward arc as she jumped, leveling again when Ed caught her. She hugged him tight enough to cut off his air supply for a moment, but it was Pasha’s expression that sucked the air from his lungs. Wasn’t this what Pasha had said he’d always wanted? They’d made it to the finals, but he looked as far away from happy as Ed had ever seen him, even after Anya launched herself at him as well.
The host shooed an excitable, giggling Anya back to her mark before asking for silence.
“Bleeding hell,” he said, Cockney accent at full force, “this has been one heck of a competition so far.”
The crowd roared its approval. Behind the host, the backdrop lit up with highlights from the series so far. “We’ve had tears and temper tantrums. We’ve had high points and low points. But this is definitely the first year that we’ve had our very own true-love story.”
A montage twenty feet high crossed the screen behind them. Moments that Ed couldn’t recall scrolled past, documenting a hundred different smiles, gestures and touches. How many times had Pasha blown kisses to him before he’d finally reached out and caught one? How often had Pasha watched him practice while looking so fond before Ed believed it might be for real?
Itwasreal.
Family secrets aside, the emotion he sawcouldn’tbe fake.
He’d fought for things he’d believed in far less.
A quick glance showed that Pasha was just as affected by what he saw. Their gazes met for the few seconds between the end of the montage and the host calling for everyone’s attention. It was so hard to read Pasha’s expression, and then the moment was gone.
“So,” the host continued, gathering them together once more. “Let’s discuss what happens next.” He beckoned at the TV camera as if talking directly to the people at home. Ed had watched him do the same thing each week, inviting viewers to come close like he and they were in the same room.
“Listen up, Great Britain.” He paused for a strategic beat that stretched out. “We need to talk about a few things.” His next pause was even longer, leaving time for the folks at home to pay attention. “There are three people left in the contest.Three. But you might be tempted to vote for the two you always see together.” Another pause. “Here’s the deal. This week, all three go their separate ways. Whether they win next week rests on their talent alone. There’ll be no special musical arrangement. No choreographers to help them with their smooth moves.” He launched into flashy tap-dance steps that broke the tension. The audience laughed when he added, “And absolutely no joint performances in public.”
Someone shouted, “TrueBrit forever!” but the host of the show shook his head.
“That’s exactly why we’re demanding a week of zero contact. Is two against one ever fair?” The host wrapped an arm around Anya to emphasize his question, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Besides, it’s not as if anyone can vote for the hashtag TrueBrit, can they? Only the hashtags for Ed, Pasha, and Anya will register as votes.”