20. Tom Cobalt #2
“I’m trying.” He exhales a deep, steady breath. Is he okay?
I honestly think…no, he’s not. “You should call Beckett.” He can relate to Ben in the way only someone with OCD can.
“He’s at ballet.”
“Then Mom.”
“I’m not worrying Mom or Dad.”
“Your therapist.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He tries to focus on Mister Feathers. “I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.” His chest is taut. “Just go, Tom.” The unsaid thing hangs in the air: I don’t want you to be late because of me.
My feet feel like cement blocks as I move into the living room. I end up texting Harriet, asking if she can come spend the night.
I can’t tell if it’s more for my peace of mind, so I don’t worry about Ben, or if I’m doing something that will truly benefit him. Whatever the case, selfish or not, I wait for her to arrive.
Turns out, Charlie is in Central Park with Beckett, who’s on a break. I urge him to call Ben while he’s not dancing, so hopefully they’re on the phone now. But I’m not leaving Ben home alone, so I loiter in the kitchen.
Running behind.
I’m trying to reassure Phoenix over voice memo that I’ll make it. Without lying. I don’t want to lie to him, even a lie as simple as I got stuck in traffic.
Fifteen minutes pass and Harriet unlocks the door with her key, her backpack slipping off her thin shoulder. Her low-rise plaid pants hug her hipbones, and her belly button piercing is visible while she’s wearing a white crop top.
Her round face shows more concern than scowl.
I make prayer hands at her. “My angel.”
“Ew.” Her nose scrunches. “Never say that to me again.”
“Agreed, it felt gross and inaccurate.”
She gives me a weak middle finger. Her blue eyes dart over to Ben as he emerges in the living room. He rocks to a stop seeing her, then he shoots me a deadpanned expression. “Tom.”
“Look who’s here!” I point at the short blonde and consider picking her up, but I recoil as her murderous eyes hiss at me. I glare back. “Like I would touch my haunting nightmare.”
Harriet explains to Ben, “Your brother said he’s ditching your movie night and you needed better company.”
“Did he?” Ben starts to smile at her. Then his smile veers to me in appreciation. I do know what my brother loves. He scoops her up against his chest so he can kiss her at his height.
I don’t pay attention. I gather my shit around the kitchen. Charger, phone. Where’d I put my wallet?
“You’re going to be late if you don’t go, Tom,” Ben calls out, his arm around Harriet while they’re on the couch together.
“I’m leaving. I’m going.” Fuck, my wallet is in my front pocket. Right. I fill a thermos of iced water as fast as I can.
“It’s still nuts you all don’t have a TV in your living room,” Harriet says, unfolding her laptop.
Ben catches my gaze to ask, “What happened to the last TV?”
Harriet looks up in surprise. “There used to be one here?”
“There’ve been many here, Harriet Stevie.
” I shut off the purifier. “We just stopped buying them because they’d always get broken.
Not by us. Just guests going wild. Parties we’ve held.
” One time was definitely Eliot and a champagne cork, but I would never throw him under.
“We should buy another. It’s been too long. ”
Ben gives me a strange look. “Parties?”
“Yeah,” I frown off his deepening frown and slowly twist the cap to my thermos.
“What are these elusive ragers?” he asks. “I’ve heard you talk about them before, but you haven’t thrown a single party here since I moved in.”
That is…very true. We were just trying to protect our baby brother, and bringing chaos to his place of slumber did not seem smart.
Ben’s face contorts. “You stopped having parties because of me.” He did not want to change any aspect of our lives by moving in with us, so this actually careens him backward. He rests his hands on his head, and they slip to the back of his neck.
“We’ll throw a party,” I say fast.
His arms fall. Is he relaxing? I think he’s breathing, so that’s good.
“A big one,” I add. “Just like all the ones we usually throw. I’ll tell Eliot. He’ll consult our friend list.”
It’s a long list, actually. They’re just party friends only.
People we’ve met at charity events, galas, birthday dinners.
Our New York social circle extends to Tribeca, but lately, I’ve had no time for them.
They’re the people I couldn’t care less if I blow off.
They will continue to invite me to their boozy brunches in SoHo and pop-up events in Greenwich because I’m a Cobalt.
Harriet shrugs at Ben. “Sounds fun.”
Ben releases a breath. “You think Charlie and Beckett will agree to a party?”
“Yeah.” No. “I’ll make it happen.”
That little MFer comes hopping out of our bedroom, dragging his toy beaded bracelet thing. Harriet kneels on the couch to call him over, and after a quick goodbye, I am out of the apartment and en route to Phoenix.
“That went okay,” I tell myself in the elevator. “That went fine. He’s okay. You just agreed to throw a rager, but that’s totally okay. Charlie and Beckett aren’t going to kill you.” I exhale before swigging my water. “Because you have Eliot. Eliot Alice will defend you and this bad idea.”
Thank Rose fucking Calloway for birthing my brother eleven months before me.
Phoenix is calling before the elevator even reaches the lobby. Before he speaks, I blurt out, “I’m literally about to hail a cab, dude. I might be five minutes late. Barely.”
“What’s going on?” he asks roughly. “You keep rambling in your voice memos to the point where I can’t piece anything together. You sound like you’re dealing with a house fire.”
It sort of feels like one.
I must take too long to answer. “Tom. Man, I’m coming to you. Where are you?”
A soft smile curls the edges of my lips. “No need. Like I said, I’m on my way to you.” I pick up my guitar case as the elevator doors open. “I’m a natural firestarter, so I’m just learning how to prevent one. But everything is fine.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
He pauses. “Is your brother okay?” He knows nothing about Ben’s issues, but he must’ve detected my concern for him.
“Yeah. All good.”
“It should feel more explosive,” Phoenix tells me three hours into our rehearsal session.
I don’t disagree. I just really hope he can’t tell I’m struggling to concentrate. And it has absolutely nothing to do with Ben. Or Harriet. Or the rager I agreed to throw.
It’s him.
It’s Phoenix.
The concern he showed for me over the phone was like Cupid’s arrow.
He shot me in the chest, and it’s not the first time he’s struck an organ.
It reminded me of the recording session.
Of how much he cared about what Warner did.
It reminded me of his arms wrapped around my body in a hug I’ve replayed on my route to sleep, and now I feel stupid around him.
My face feels flush whenever our eyes meet.
It’s dumb.
So dumb. And I’m a Cobalt. I’m not fucking dumb.
I waft my black tank away from my chest while my blood simmers. I ditched my jean jacket an hour ago, and I try to stare at my Vans, the chain on my belt loop—fuck, even the waistband of my underwear peeking out from my pants. Anything other than him.
I fail.
Phoenix grips both sticks in one hand while he stands up behind the red drum kit to check part of the equipment. Sweat bleeds through the gray fabric of his Henley, accentuating the lines of his abs. I can practically see every ridge of carved muscle.
I know he’s almost reached the point in our practice session where he’ll pull his shirt off. Which is about the same time my brain loves trying to take a vacation. As if he’s not distracting enough.
In my lingering silence, he explains, “I don’t like the tom fill right before the drop.”
The tom fill. He’s talking drums.
We’re working on the arrangement of an adrenaline-fueled song. The one about Phoenix trying to escape the tragic hold his ex has on him. We’ve named it “Dirty Rise.”
“What about a snare-tom fill?” I propose, crouching down to my pedal with my guitar strapped across my chest. The pedal alters my mic to sound like a grainy radio filter, which we’re using just for this song. I’m still not sold on it.
“Yeah, let’s try it out,” Phoenix says. “This song should have the crowd jumping, not just bobbing their head.” He fiddles with his snare.
“What are you doing?” I plug my pedal back in.
“It’s too high.” When he catches me staring, I swear we both intake a breath.
His throat bobs, but he clarifies, “The sound, not the position. I’m tuning the snare lower.
” When he tests it out with the tap of his stick, it sounds dead.
There’s almost no bounce. He loves the deep snare sound, and it’s so unique that I’ve fallen for it just as equally.
I’ve been inspired by plenty of punk-rock singers, but Phoenix has built a sound on drums that’s all his own. Together, I’m hoping we can stand out as something familiar but new.
I test out the pedal with my mic and curse under my breath when it crackles. I’m back on the ground unplugging the thing. Only to find Phoenix coming around to help me.
I tense. “I have it, dude.” His dark, smoldering presence prods me to go faster because I really can’t have him brushing against my body right now. My skin hums like I’m one electric shock away from flatlining.
I just want to be in the music with him.
Less than thirty seconds later, I have the pedal hooked back up. “This is probably a sign we should ditch the filter,” I tell him.
“We haven’t even tried it.” He glares as he sits back behind the drum kit.
“I’m telling you, it’s not going to sound clean.”
“The song is called Dirty Rise.”
I regret using the word clean. “Exactly.” I motion a hand at him. “It’s not called Disorderly Rise.”
He tips his head with an unamused look. “Just sing with the filter, nepo baby. Then you can reject it.”
I’m only using the voice filter for the intro, so when I go into the chorus without it, I’ll sound crisper and the lyrics will hit harder. That’s what he thinks will happen. I’m predicting a clunky mess.