28. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
He’s not coming. He’s standing me up. It’s the only explanation I have for the absolute radio silence after Phoenix sent the be there soon text an hour ago.
“Sixty minutes is not soon.” I pace the kitchen.
Freshly showered. I even had enough time to shave my face, spritz on cologne, change out of four different shirts, only to settle on a black Warped Tour tee over a white long-sleeved shirt.
I even hurried to put on a belt like Phoenix was going to catch me with my pants down.
Little did I know, I would be burning footprints into the kitchen floor and eyeing the door every half-second. I could’ve moisturized. I could’ve soaked in a fucking bath. I could’ve penned the world’s greatest novel. I could’ve—
Eliot catches my shoulders to halt me mid-stride. “Maybe an hour is soon for him,” he consoles. “Time is relative, brother.”
“Then explain all the texts he hasn’t responded to?” I hoist my phone in my brother’s face.
TOM CARRAWAY
You still coming over?
We need to work on this song.
I’m seriously fine. 100%.
Are you pissed at me for last night?
Ghosting me as payback is real mature, dude.
Eliot skims the screen and raises his brows. “Five separate texts?”
“Over the course of an hour.” I read each one out loud to him.
He tips his head, not at all surprised at the defensive end note. “You said he rides a motorcycle?”
“Yeah,” I nod.
“Maybe he can’t respond to you.”
“He has a mic built into the helmet. He literally has sent messages using speech-to-text on that bike. It’s never stopped him before.” My stomach churns, and it’s not from all the alcohol last night.
There’s a good chance Phoenix is angry that I called RJ. Plus, whatever else I said or did in the car ride that could’ve turned him off. I blew up a perfectly fine night—and I don’t know how Phoenix deals with personal conflict.
Revenge. Retribution. Putting me in my place by making me wait around for him all day.
It’s not something I thought he’d do to me.
At least, I hoped he wouldn’t. But he must know it wouldn’t destroy the album.
I’d put up with just about anything—even being ghosted by him—if it means he stays in the band.
I push some damp pieces of hair out of my face.
I rose from the dead to drag my aching limbs to the shower.
Muscles I didn’t even know I have still feel tenderized.
If someone told me I did a full Olympic-style gymnastics routine last night, I would believe them.
I probably took home gold for sheer effort.
I’m a winner. A competitor. So yeah, I’m not going to just collapse into a heap from being stood up.
Eliot squeezes my shoulder. “Tom. Tom.”
I’m chewing my thumbnail when I’m smacked in the back of the head with what feels like a book. I almost drop my phone. Eliot wouldn’t slap me with anything but a high-five, so I’m unsurprised to see Charlie enter the kitchen with a worn paperback of The Great Gatsby.
“Hitting me over the head with my namesake?” My middle name comes from Nick Carraway, the novel’s narrator. “Real funny!”
Eliot watches our older brother press buttons on the espresso machine. “Don’t be shy, Charlie. Admit you’re trying to usurp me as the most humorous of the family.”
“Why would I compete for title of jester when you so naturally fit the fool?” Charlie responds, sliding a cappuccino cup beneath the spigot.
Eliot laughs, “See, you are hilarious.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, then searches the fridge for milk. “Beckett left for work already, so he’s not here to tell you to stop spiraling.”
I glance up from my phone. “Who? Me?”
“Does Eliot look like he’s obsessing over his text messages like he’s about to throw himself off the balcony?”
“Okay, first off, there is no balcony in our apartment, dude, and secondly, I would find more creative ways to off myself, and thirdly…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “We should not be joking about suicide with Ben in the apartment.” I pause. “Right?” I’m asking my genius brother for confirmation.
“Do I look like your therapist?”
“No, you’re not bald.”
Charlie bends slightly to a shelf, shoving aside the extra fruit we store for the bird. “I bought a half gallon of milk last week.” His accusatory eyes land on me, then Eliot. “Where’d you put it?”
“I did not thieve the milk.” As much as I would love to blame this on Mister Feathers, I come out and admit, “I gave it to Luna. Okay, she was out of milk and trying to make cereal, and I was about to leave, so I did the neighborly thing and delivered it to our cousin—who you like. You like Luna.” I point at him, accusing him of having a friendship with my friend.
Charlie has an expression like he just smelled a nasty fart. Eliot and I don’t contain our laughter. Not even as Charlie slams the fridge, makes a shot of espresso, and takes it back to his bedroom.
It was a good distraction.
For a moment, anyway.
So is the short minute when Ben hikes his hockey bag over his broad shoulder and fits his blue baseball cap on backward. “I’m out for practice. See you for dinner.”
He reaches out to me as he passes, and we exchange a jock handshake: two slides of the palm, hook the fingers, casual fist bump, and I throw up a peace sign.
“Later, Ben Pirrip.” For the record, he taught me the handshake, and I perform the bro ritual like I’m a professional athlete.
No one would know I spent seventh-grade soccer crushing on the goalie and making excuses to hang back by our team’s net.
When he’s gone, I stare at the door, the time on my phone, and Eliot, who starts marinating chicken breast in balsamic and garlic for tonight. He makes a separate tofu thing for Ben.
I should be helping him.
I should.
But I bow over the counter and reread my messages.
I see the time ticking by. “I’m sending him a voice memo,” I tell Eliot, and I click the microphone button in the text chat before I can conceptualize what I’m going to say.
Gripping my phone to my mouth, I just word vomit.
“Fuck you, dude. If this is your petty way of getting back at me because I what…called my longtime hookup who isn’t you?
Get over yourself. Fuck off. Fuck you and your brother and your dog—I don’t think you have a dog, but your future dog.
Okay, fuck him too.” I end the memo and press send.
“I’m done.” I set the phone on the counter and back away.
Eliot washes tofu juice off his hands. “Feel better?” he asks seriously.
“Not really.”
“You should slander all his future pets and progeny. Go all the way for ultimate catharsis.” He nods to the phone.
I grip the counter, unable to pick it back up. My heart won’t stop racing. “Now I’m thinking I might’ve sounded a little harsh. Childish?”
“No, you’re releasing your emotions. This is good for you.” He cuts off the water using the faucet’s sensor. “As long as you don’t send it to him.”
I slow-blink. “Dude. I already sent it.” Phoenix could’ve listened to my rant by now. He doesn’t keep his read receipts on, so I can’t tell. I take a breath. “Is it that bad, though? I mean, it’s how I feel.”
“Vrai,” he says true in French. “He deserves to hear your internal thoughts.”
“Exactly. Yeah, he needs to hear them.” I’m trying to spin this in a positive direction, but I’m cringing at myself. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes in a long groan. Why do I feel like I’m screwing up at every turn? “Why do I still feel like shit?”
“Might be the hangover.” He dries his hands on a dark-blue dishtowel.
I squint up at the bright kitchen lights. “My eyes do scratch like sandpaper.”
“I’ll get you some eyedrops.” He puts a comforting palm on my shoulder as he passes. Two seconds after Eliot disappears down the hall, an aggressive knock pounds the door.
Holy shit, no.
It can’t be him.
There are about a thousand other possibilities. Maybe Harriet lost her key. Yeah, yeah. That’s it. I’m settled on seeing the five-foot-one blonde demon when I swing open the door to meet the brown-blue eyes of not Harriet.
Definitely not Harriet.
Phoenix taps his foot, readjusts his backpack, and shifts his helmet to his other hand in a wave of impatience that crashes into me.
When our eyes meet, the shared breath we take feels more asphyxiating than life-giving.
Our partnership shouldn’t alter into a different shape—not when it’s been so effective—but in this second, I sense the deep change.
“You letting me in?” Phoenix asks.
The lack of “nepo baby” makes me uneasy. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Like five seconds.”
“I’ve been waiting over an hour, dude.” It suddenly occurs to me he could’ve wrecked his Suzuki.
My heart palpitates. “Are you okay?” I sweep him for any cuts or bruises.
He’s already unzipped his motorcycle jacket.
The plain black shirt underneath melds to his abs.
I can’t see any visible rips in the fabric.
His gray cargo pants aren’t scuffed with dirt or asphalt, and his boots are laced to his ankles.
He frowns at me. “I’m fine. I just got held up in traffic.” Off my next silent beat, he adds, “It’s morning rush hour. Ever been in it? Lots of honking. Slamming on brakes. Right outside your million-dollar apartment.”
“Multimillion,” I correct.
His narrowed eyes perform a partial roll. I open my mouth, then close it even faster, not wanting to sound whiny. I’m verbally and physically stalling out.
Phoenix presses a hand against the doorframe, his tense body inches from mine. “Let me in,” he says, deep and husky. His gaze drives so far into me that I know he’s not just referring to letting him inside my apartment.
I think he can tell I’m ankle-deep in a quicksand of anxieties.