17. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
How many times can I get into a disagreement with my drummer?
The answer: there is no limit.
We’ve been arguing for an hour over the extra reverb in “Fire You Feel”—the two of us seated together in a booth. The neon Pbr sign in the dive bar brightens our sticky table, but the glow of the laptop between us hurts my eyes.
It’s February, and Eliot still hasn’t met Phoenix.
None of my brothers have.
Phoenix and I have been working around the clock. Mostly at dive bars. I could’ve suggested The End of the World, a grimy bar that plays NYC-centric films on a projector screen and where Harriet and Ben bartend on the weekends. But I never offered it.
Phoenix and I have found a solid rhythm alone together, focusing on the music—just me and him—and it feels tenuous.
Like every move I make is a wooden block I’m yanking out of a Jenga tower.
I’m on my toes, ready for it all to topple down.
I guess it’s why I find ways to still be there for my brother and also keep Phoenix separated from my family for now.
I’ve never finished an album, and I’m currently four songs deep into one.
I force my aching eyes to stay open.
Lines blur on the sound mixing software.
Phoenix runs his fingers through his hair. “If you don’t want more reverb, then we should drop in with your backing vocals.” He lifts my headphones to my ears for me, wanting me to hear right away, and my pulse jolts every single time he does this.
To the point where I wonder if I keep pulling my headphones to my neck, just to feel him do it again.
I listen, fighting through the throb in my eardrums.
His muscled side presses up against mine. His bicep slips behind me in the booth. He closes in to hear the melody stream out of my headphones. Neither of us tries to give each other space. We are here for the music.
For the band.
His head subconsciously shifts to the pulsing beat. His concentrated gaze pins to the table. It’s all I see for a second. Phoenix in the zone. It’s arresting, and I try to focus on the sound against my ears and not the sound in my chest.
I exhale slowly.
The song ends. I yank the headphones down, and before I open my mouth, he says, “It’s missing something.”
I agree with that, but I can’t tell if we’re butchering a great song or making an already great one absolutely, unquestionably amazing.
I express this, then say, “We don’t have time to test out the extra reverb and the backing vocals and the twenty different options we’ve posed tonight.”
“I have the time, nepo baby.” His fingers drift along the laptop’s track pad. “Go to bed.” His voice is cutting, a knife to the chest. I’ve been enjoying his blades.
Then his eyes graze my face as he searches for signs of fatigue, like he feels guilty for keeping me awake. “Seriously, Tom—”
“I can work another hour. Just let me get an energy drink.” I slide out of the booth and go to the bar.
When I come back with a slim Lightning Bolt! can, Phoenix is packing up and telling me, “I’ll do this at my apartment. Get some sleep.”
“No, dude, I’m fine.”
“Come on,” he snaps. “You’re about to keel over.”
I extend my arms, showing my great balance. “I can walk a straight line too.”
Phoenix sighs out a breath. “Just let me work on this, Tom.”
I shake my head, grimacing. “No.”
“No?” He runs his tongue over his teeth. We’re both breathing too hard. “I can’t invite you to my apartment.”
It tries to tank my stomach. “Why not?” He did not just reject you. I lower my voice while we stand out of the booth. “We’d just be working. Nothing’s going to happen.”
He tightens a hand on his backpack. “I didn’t say anything would. My room is a shoebox compared to yours, and I have a full-size bed—don’t say anything about it.”
I’m too tired to make a comment, honestly.
Phoenix shifts his weight, his eyes all over my face. I feel like he’s moving at a hundred miles an hour and I’ve slowed to ten. “Please, Tom.”
I must nod.
He walks with me back to my high-rise.
I’m a zombie when I enter my apartment. I can’t even tell if Harriet is here. Did not check to see if there was a tie on the door. So I shove my headphones on my ears and just pass out on top of my comforter.
I wake to frustration and hurt. I can’t tell the origins of the emotion other than it’s Phoenix.
I’m on my phone in the bathroom, recording a voice memo.
“We are equals here,” I say strongly. “That does not mean you being equal parts annoying and impatient. I could have worked an hour longer, even in your shoebox. All right? Bye.” I send the memo, then add a second one very fast. “Also, fuck you.”
I brush my teeth, shower, and when I’m dressed, I check my phone to find Phoenix has responded with twenty different mixes of the song, a middle finger emoji, and a text I reread ten times.
PHOENIX WOLFGANG
You want to work on your bed again? That’s the only way I’m keeping you up that late.
I want to respond: we kept each other up that late. But semantics. And honestly, I cannot detach the visual of Phoenix on my bed. Again.
Of course I tell Eliot everything.
My brother and I walk side by side along the busy streets in Hell’s Kitchen. The collar of his peacoat is lifted to block the chilly February wind. My black hoodie beneath a jean jacket does its job, but I’m mostly warm because Eliot insists on discussing Phoenix.
He knows Phoenix has been bothering me this morning. Okay, fine, maybe more than just this morning.
“He clearly wants to fuck,” Eliot says while our strides match the powerful flow of pedestrians who have somewhere to be. I’m headed to the studio. Eliot, to the theater.
“I think he doesn’t want me falling asleep in a bar’s nasty booth.” Which…is thoughtful, if true. “And dude, there is no fucking to be had.” I lower my voice while we bypass a lingering gaggle of tourists trying to locate Times Square.
They do a double take at Eliot. We never slow enough for them to figure out who we are. I don’t check my surroundings too much. Not when my bodyguard outpaces us by a couple feet and Eliot’s bodyguard is a foot behind.
I tell my brother, “The real question is how he was able to finish those mixes that fast.” I wince in confusion. “Did he not sleep?”
Eliot taps his nose.
Cocaine?
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve spent too much time around him. I would’ve seen it.”
Shouldn’t I just be happy that Phoenix completed a task that would’ve taken me twice as long? My ex-bandmates would’ve never stayed up to finish this, let alone entertain different variations of one song that’ll never be used except to give me peace of mind.
Eliot pulls me toward the stone wall of the theater. Oh, we made it. I didn’t even fucking notice. Holy shit, I am so in my head.
We’re early, so he’s not rushing inside yet. Beneath his coat, his slim-fit, tailored navy suit looks sharp and expensive. Eliot wears the billions we’ll one day inherit, and he wears it well.
I shove my cold hands in my jean jacket.
“They give you a revised script yet?” I ask, and then I switch to French in case any of his theatre friends or coworkers suddenly sneak up around the corner.
“Je peux m’enregistrer en le lisant ce soir.
” I can record myself reading it tonight.
I highly doubt I’ll be toiling over the album as late if Phoenix just pulled an all-nighter.
He rests a shoulder on the stone. “Ne t’inquiète pas pour ca.” Don’t worry about it.
I frown. “Pourquoi?” Why? “N’as-tu pas galéré pour trouver le livre audio du script?” Weren’t you struggling to find the script in audiobook?
“Oui, oui.” Yes, yes. His posture says he’s unbothered, and his deep blue eyes carry mirth and light. “Tu étais occupé. Je ne voulais pas déranger ton génie créatif.” You’ve been busy. I didn’t want to disturb your creative genius.
A sharp pain cramps my side, and I wince.
Eliot never shares with people that his dyslexia is so severe, he cannot read anything.
He’ll use context clues to try to deduce information.
Like if a text is short or long, he can determine brevity, curtness—the tone.
But he can’t read the words without audio.
He’s really good at convincing people he can read with his eyes alone. Sometimes he’ll fool Ben and Audrey, our youngest siblings.
But I’ve always known the truth. And when he can’t find his scripts in audiobook, I’ve always recorded them for him so he can listen and memorize his lines.
“You can disturb me,” I say strongly. “I’m not too busy for you. I will never be that busy.” I can’t stomach my passion taking away from this brother—the brother who I would rather die beside than ever live without.
His grin emerges like a blinding headlight. “I hope you’re busy fornicating—”
“Absolutely no—”
“—le batteur le plus canon de ta vie.” The hottest drummer of your life.
I’m mid-groan, my head slung back. “Eliot.” I huff out a breath and start to smile when I see his humongous grin. “You know I’m here for you.”
“I’d never forget,” he says.
“Then you should’ve asked me. I am actually, seriously, pissed off you didn’t try to disturb me for the most important role you’ve ever had.” I don’t sound angry because starting a fight with Eliot takes rage that I can’t muster with him. Wrath is absent inside the love we’ve built.
“Me, you, Luna.” He speaks more hushed when he names our cousin in public. “We’ve all made goals this year that’ve stolen time, and so, I took the opportunity to seek someone who is goalless.” His devilish grin spurs mine.
There is only one aimless brother in our apartment. I mean, I am sure there are goals inside Charlie’s genius brain, but he hasn’t shared them with us. Other than the goal of disappearing from vital obligations. Which he’s not achieving as much anymore.
Which makes him very goalless.
“Dude.” I rock on my feet in excitement. “You did not ask Charlie to record the script in audio for you.”
“I did.” He might as well be giggling.