38. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“It’s rare to see a rock band with only two members,” a podcaster tells us in her eclectic studio apartment in Greenwich. Tom and I are squashed on a mustard sofa that’s shaped like a giant flower. Microphones in each of our hands, we face Tiff Montclair.
She’s a friend of a friend of Tom’s.
Her phone is on a tripod filming us.
“So as a rock duo,” Tiff says, “how would you describe your relationship exactly?”
Intense. Edging. Like I’m living on a perpetual cliff, but instead of looking down, my eyes are in the sky and I’m looking for him. Oh and I fucked him in his shower this morning. But we’re just bandmates who hookup, apparently.
On instinct, I tilt my head to Tom. Most podcasters seek him out anyway and ignore my presence. He’s a Cobalt, the real draw. But also, he’s not the one who looks like he was dragged into the chair and told to sit down and behave.
“Total honesty?” Tom says, angling conspiratorially toward Tiff. “It was hate at first sight. And since you’re asking, I still can’t stand him.” He’s looking right at me with that stupid smirk.
Cute. The corner of my mouth tics up. “Mutual feeling,” I say into the mic while I sweep the black muscle tee he’s wearing.
Collar ripped. The word ZERO is printed on the forehead of a skull.
“Zero” is a song we wrote before we slept together, and it’s all about trying to let go of immense pressure.
About giving zero fucks.
It looks good on him.
I’m just dressed in my usual shit. Backward baseball cap, a gray long-sleeved Henley. I don’t think I exude “star” energy like Tom, not enough to exist in a two-person band where there’s nowhere to hide, but I’m hot. So there’s that going for me.
Tiff beams at Tom. “You two wrote fourteen songs together, so the partnership must be working.”
“Yeah, how did we do that?” Tom grins over at me.
“Miracles do happen.” I struggle not to call him a nepo baby during these fucking things, but I am watching my mouth.
Tom nods. “Yes, they do. Frequently when I’m around, some would say.”
I cough out a laugh, then tell Tiff, “See what I’m dealing with?”
Her smile is a megawatt lightbulb. “A miracle maker.” She gestures to Tom.
He holds out a hand of reason to me. “It’s been stated. On the record. In front of the universe.”
“To all of Tiff’s listeners,” I correct.
Tiff grins. “Like my friends and family in New York. Thank you for tuning in, fam!”
“The best people in New York,” Tom adds. “Greatest city in the country.” Tom mouths to me, behind Philly. I’m pretty sure her camera caught that.
I think it’d be impossible for Tom to be anyone but himself, even at the risk of coming across like a pompous, rich dick. I love that about him, and he’s the reason I’m enjoying these interviews more than I ever imagined I would.
Still, my leg won’t stop jostling under me. I wish we could perform “Nuclear Winter,” but we’re not scheduled for any performances for press. Riot said they had one for us, but later, we learned it fell through.
Tiff asks about the album, and Tom sits forward in excitement. He loves talking in depth about Silver Sweet, but more so on a universal level. He’ll bring up fears, insecurities, pressure, and passion, but not what they personally represent to us.
Throughout the week, the line of questioning veers off course little by little with each new media outlet.
Especially the silly interview on Madison Ave where we pretend to run into a twenty-year-old girl. Susie Mac has one million followers watching her “candid” street interviews, and Tom is apparently a big fan.
I know nothing about her, but he warns me she always makes her guests eat a spicy candy at the end.
“Like a gimmick?” I asked him.
“Dude, it’s product placement. She’s getting paid by Devil Hots.”
I don’t tell Tom I hate Devil Hots. I barfed all night after getting sick on a Devil Hots tequila concoction in college. I’m thinking I can fake eating them. How fucking hard will that be?
“Oh my God, is that Tom Cobalt?” Susie gasps, swinging her phone toward me and Tom as we pretend to stride past her.
He whirls around, then grips my bicep, stopping me in my tracks near the Ralph Lauren store. “Yeah, I’m Tom. And you are?”
I stare at his hand that lingers on my arm, barely hearing Susie’s response. He’s going to let go, right? Or does he want her to know we’re sort of together? Jesus, what is even “sort of” together?
And he doesn’t want that. We both agreed.
I don’t think he realizes he’s touching my arm for this long. I consider jerking away when his hand finally drops.
I’m more tense at his absence.
“Big fan of the Cobalt Empire,” Susie says. “I know everything about your family. Not in like a creepy way.” She makes an uh-oh face at her selfie camera. “But just a casual, cool way.”
“We don’t mind creepy,” Tom smirks.
I chime in, “Depends on the level of creepy.” I stare her down a little too hard, probably.
Susie giggles. “I promise I don’t have a shrine of Tom in my bedroom. Now Charlie Cobalt…” She sucks in a guilty breath.
Tom doesn’t take the bait to speak about his brother. I haven’t heard her mention The Carraways once yet, but I also tuned out a good portion. After she goes through the charade of acting like she spontaneously ran into us, we agree to a short interview on the street.
“We have a sec,” Tom says as we stand near the curb, out of the hustling footpath of pedestrians.
Susie puts a tiny mic up to her lips. “Are you single, Tom Cobalt?”
“Currently, yep, yeah,” Tom clears his throat, his neck reddening. He’s been asked this four times so far, and it’s the only question he ever fumbles.
“Are we suuuuure?” she draws out, squinting. “That felt like a yes.”
“Very single, Susie Mac.” He leans into her mic and speaks straight to her phone. “If you’re a dude over six-foot and love The Carraways, hit me up. My DMs are open for positive affirmations and other things.”
Wow.
It’s a kick to the ribcage. I can’t breathe for a solid second. The side of my fist rises to my mouth. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s not fine. Because I can’t shut the fuck up. “Unsolicited dick pics aren’t welcome,” I add.
Susie gasps into a grin. “Spicy. Do you agree, Tom? No dick pics?”
“No dicks pics,” he tells me, his smile slowly rising on me and soothing this pain in my chest. “You’ll have to be vetted by my drummer. Something tells me he’s very particular about who I get with.”
“Hmm, yeah.” I’m only staring at him. “I don’t like seeing Tom with assholes.”
Tom tells her, “Wolfgang is the biggest asshole in my life. I don’t have room for another.”
I look him over, just as Susie spins sharply to me and asks, “Wolfgang, are you single?”
“Very single,” I say more to Tom. He tries to ignore me as flush creeps up his neck again.
“Are your DMs open?” she asks.
I snap my gaze down to Susie. “No.”
Tom lets out a laugh. “Wolfgang doesn’t even know how to find his direct messages.”
I give him two middle fingers.
Susie grins up at me. “But if they were open, Wolfgang, who would you want to slide in there?”
I avoid Tom now and eye her. “So about our music…”
She giggles again. “Always about the music. I love the dedication to The Carraways.” She unpockets three fun-sized red boxes of Devil Hots, explains how she’s obsessed with the candy and wants to share the heat.
While she’s asking Tom about the album, we’re supposed to eat this spicy shit, and I’m so amped from the DM back-and-forth bit that I unconsciously throw a handful of candy in my mouth like Tic Tacs.
I bite into a chewy, spicy personal hell. The nauseating flavor explodes on my tongue. It tastes like literal vomit, and I cough hard into my fist.
“Dude?” Tom puts a concerned hand on my lower back. “What do you need?”
A time machine.
“Oh!” Susie gasps, and not because Tom is touching me.
But because I lower into a squat and retch on the curb.
It all instantly comes out. Hell, it never went fully down.
I’m apologizing as soon as I stand back up, more to Tom than her.
He’s glaring at me, probably pissed I’m offering a rare, authentic I’m sorry over this.
She’s still filming us, and Tom tells her, “Hey, can we cut for a sec?”
“Yeah, yeah, I can’t use that anyway. Devil Hots wouldn’t like it, or maybe…” She cocks her head in thought.
I find out two days later she went with the or maybe option and posted my Madison Ave puke fest to her followers. It’s not what goes viral.
I’ve apparently given Tom an “up-down” look during a few interviews, including the Tiff Montclair podcast and the Susie Mac street video. I barely checked him out. Barely. For videos to go viral, I thought they’d need like a billion views, but Tom said over a million was enough.
I’ve had an explosion of followers and guilt at knowing this is my fault.
Tom reminds me they’re also dissecting his body language in the Susie Mac interview, but every clip I’ve seen has been about me.
They’re all speculating my sexuality. They want to know if I have the hots for Tom Carraway Cobalt.
The answer: every fucking day. Oh and he also drives me insane.
Tom’s phone becomes a buzzing nightmare of DMs from guys asking to fuck. Some just send wet and eggplant emojis. “I did not ask for this,” he groans, blocking another person.
I narrow my gaze. “You asked for ‘other things,’ which is about as open-ended as asking to be dicked down by all of New York.”
“I don’t want that,” he professes deeply to me.
“I know. You just want to be dicked down by me.” I laugh when he faceplants onto his bed.
His phone buzzes again. “Okay,” he says fast, rolling over with his phone. “Okay, I’m turning off my DMs.”
Thank God.
At the tail end of the press junket, Riot lands us a local news outlet, and we’re aware the trending videos about our personal lives brought us our first live performance on-air. I have mixed emotions.
So does Tom, but we’re both too ecstatic at the opportunity to play “Nuclear Winter” and for more people to hear our music.