27. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“You go hard last night?” my brother asks, nodding to the bottle of Pedialyte and two bananas in my hand. I kick the fridge shut with my boot.
Birdie knows I was at The Trench last night. The subject of Tom has come up often enough that I try to skirt around it, if I can. He’s still worried about me catching feelings and getting hurt, so I don’t want to add to his mountain of stress by constantly bringing Tom up.
But last night was different. I was celebrating our progress in the album, and it felt wrong to omit the fact that Tom would be at the club.
Birdie’s response: He texted me a confirmation for an online order he shipped to the apartment. He bought a bulk package of tissue—eighteen fucking boxes. “To either wipe your tears or catch your cum,” he told me. “Either way, you’re going to need them. You’re welcome.”
Little brothers…or maybe I just have one who ruthlessly ribs me.
Here in the kitchen, I’m already wavering whether to tell him the truth about last night. He will have something to say. He will be epically concerned, and I don’t want him to worry right before his two-month North American tour with Nothing Personal. He leaves tomorrow.
Birdie plops his backpack on the counter and opens a kitchen cabinet. He’s obsessed with Cheerios, so I know he’s about to confiscate every box in this apartment to take on the road.
At my silence, he hikes his brows at me. “It’s not a trick question, man.”
I inhale deeply and glance at the drink and fruit in my hands. Fuck it. “They’re not for me. I’m going to Tom’s. He’s hungover.”
Birdie’s raised hand pauses on the box of Cheerios. His face contorts through a series of emotions landing on disbelief. “You’re bringing Tom Cobalt Pedialyte?” He sweeps me from head to toe. “Phoenix—”
“He got drunk because of me.”
“Did you funnel alcohol into his mouth?” He opens the flaps to the cereal box. “Otherwise, I think you should put that back in the fridge and let the little rich kid buy his own electrolytes.” He stuffs his hand inside the box and then shoves a giant fistful of Cheerios in his mouth.
I expel an exhausted breath. “He’s not as bad as you think, Bird.”
Birdie chews slowly, assessing me. “You slept with him.”
“I didn’t.”
He tilts his head, studying me harder. He’s mid-chew when he talks. “How many times did Chase go on a bender? I never once saw you bring that guy so much as a fucking banana. And here you have two bananas and Pedialyte.”
“Jesus, can you stop bringing up the Pedialyte?” I set the bottle on the kitchen table just so I can rub the sweat off the back of my neck. It’s really not about the Pedialyte. Resurrecting Chase’s name increases the angry heat in my core. “Maybe I was just a bad boyfriend back then.”
Birdie rolls his eyes. “Please. You were like the world’s most okay boyfriend.”
“Thanks for that.”
“He was a bad boyfriend. Always gave you shit for practicing late, and when we started doing shows with Sophomore Summer, I think he came to two. The support wasn’t there, man.
I don’t think he deserved a banana.” Cheerio crumbs dust Birdie’s shirt, and he brushes them off.
“But what do I know? I don’t do relationships. ”
“They’re overrated.” I haven’t been in a relationship since Chase, my college boyfriend. I used to think he ruined them for all-time. I never saw myself going down that road again, but with Tom, even knowing he’s a bandmate…I don’t know anymore.
It’s not even knowing he wants one. A boyfriend. Something he’s never had. It’s just feeling like I’d be missing out on so much if I made a harsh line and refused to step over it.
Chase has already taken too much from me. I don’t want him to hold me down anymore. Writing “Dirty Rise” with Tom has been cathartic. Now I want to actually put action to those lyrics.
Birdie slowly closes the flaps to the cereal box. “I guess what I want to know—you actually think Tom is worth the Pedialyte?”
I inhale deeply. “Yeah, I do. I also think I judged him too harshly. He cares deeply about this band, Bird. It’s his entire world.”
“No, I don’t believe that.” Birdie leans back against the cabinet and weaves his arms over his chest. “Because if he cared about his band, he would have hired me.”
“Yeah…about that…” I scrub at my eyes.
He frowns. “Please tell me you’ve slept.”
I nod. “A couple hours.”
He chews on his lip in thought. “That enough?”
“I’m functioning,” I tell him. “Do you want to know why he wouldn’t hire you or not?”
“Because he’s an idiot.”
“Because he thought you were hot,” I express plainly. “And I’m guessing he anticipated you’d be a distraction in his band.”
Birdie double blinks. “Say that again.”
I roll my eyes. “Repeat it in your head.”
“He wants to have sex with me.”
“I did not say that,” I growl.
“He thinks I’m hot.”
“He thought you were hot. Three years ago.”
“Excuse me.” Birdie motions down his body. “Not much has changed.”
“You have about ten more tattoos and two piercings in your lip.” The snake bite hoop piercings are a new addition from last week.
Seeing as how they’re not discreet enough to be accepted at the orchestra, I took this as a good sign.
That maybe he’s letting go of our parents’ expectations and shutting the door on the Symphony.
“Did you ask him if he still wants to fuck me?” Birdie asks.
“Jesus Christ, you’re not fucking him. He’s my bandmate.” The thought roils my stomach. I snatch the Pedialyte off the table. “And I haven’t exactly told him I know about this. I found out from his brothers.”
Birdie pushes off the cabinet. “What are you still doing here? You need to go tell him that you know. And that if he had hired me, I would never have distracted him and jeopardized the band. I wouldn’t have so much as flirted with the guy.”
It’s honestly scary that he’s not wrong. Honestly scarier that I’ve done the exact opposite of Birdie. He’s been determined not to implode his rock band dreams while I can’t seem to get anywhere without putting dynamite in mine.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m leaving my window cracked while I’m gone so that it doesn’t get musty in there. If it rains, can you close it?”
I grimace. “Man, it’s going to smell like burnt pepperoni when you get back.”
“Better than straight armpit.” He hikes the strap of his backpack on his shoulder.
“I’ll see you end of April?”
He shakes his head. “Early April. Label knocked off a month from the tour since we didn’t get the Grammy nom.”
“Shit. Birdie…” I know how much he wanted that nomination for Best Alternative Music Album.
Riot Records had anticipated it and gave Nothing Personal an extra two-month tour.
It felt like it was a sure thing. Birdie thought it’d help legitimize the band to Papi and our parents, since the sales and millions of streams haven’t swayed them yet.
Birdie shrugs. “It is what it is. I think Steffi’s taking it the hardest. She’s already talking about going full throttle on the third album.
” My breathing slows. It’ll be the first album that I don’t help them with—and I’m not sure how I feel about it yet.
Guilt tries to ascend, but it floats somewhere low. Somewhere beneath what I have with Tom.
“Scally and Neil?” I ask.
“Oh, they not-so-secretly hope The Carraways crash and burn so we can get you back.”
I study his face. “You don’t hope for that?”
His gray eyes puncture me. “In what world would I wish my brother to fail?”