42. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
“You heading out?” I ask Luna as she trashes a Solo cup.
It’s only been two hours since the party started, but a good thirty minutes since the epic body shot that nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I grab a water out of our very treasured casket cooler: an insulated coffin filled with ice and drinks.
“Uh-huh,” Luna nods, which billows neon green ribbons tied to her space buns. “Donnelly is in the hall with Xander waiting for me.” Donnelly, as in her boyfriend. He’s also her brother’s bodyguard, so it makes sense that he’s escaping to the hallway with him.
“No one gave any of you shit, right?” I ask. “I need names if they did because Eliot and I won’t be inviting them again.”
“Nope, no shits given. Xander just had his fill of being in a crowd.” She shrugs like you know how it is? Yeah, he acted like I was bringing napalm to my birthday when he saw the lengthy guest list.
My smile feels gentle. “Our little brothers.”
Luna’s brother has social anxiety, and then there’s mine, who begged me to throw the ragiest rager to prove my life has not changed because of his OCD.
I will ensure everyone’s brother doesn’t run themselves into the ground. Maybe that’s my second major purpose in life.
All brothers will remain standing.
At least the ones I care about. I cannot be responsible for the brotherhood of mankind.
I sigh in lament. “What are we going to do with them?”
“Love them,” Luna sing-songs.
“A whole lot,” I nod strongly. “Too much, maybe.”
“Is there such thing as loving too much?”
My eyes burn. All I think about is Phoenix.
After I hug Luna goodbye, I try to pry my mind away from my drummer. I check Backbeat Ledger, a smaller press, for reviews.
None.
It’s midnight.
I dodge several party friends asking to do shots with me. Acting like I can’t hear, I enter the suffocating heat of the living room. I use my T-shirt like a rag, wipe off my chest, then stuff it into my jeans’ back pocket.
I search for Phoenix.
Did he go to the bathroom? I haven’t seen him in a while. Concern starts to build in my chest. Popping out of the congested area, I reach the floor-length window where I can finally breathe, but I’m not alone.
“I see you’ve perfected the wall-fly stance, Harry.”
“I see you’re ditching your friends,” Harriet says.
“Just to aggravate my enemy.” I join her near the sparkling nighttime view. She’s scowling so hard, no one bothers her. I eye her Solo cup. “What are you drinking?”
She tips the cup to me.
I laugh. “You did not put jolly ranchers in your tequila.”
“I did. And it tastes really fucking good.” She takes a long, defiant swig.
“Don’t come running to me when you choke.”
She bites down on the candy. “I won’t because you look like you can’t do the Heimlich.”
“Okay, pre-med snob, I can pick you up, but I wouldn’t—not even if you were halfway dead.” I scour the party. “Where’s Ben?”
“Your room.” She explains how Eliot and Ben are opening the windows and the doors to their bedrooms to circulate cool air. Sweat soaks through Harriet’s white cropped top.
I rub beads off my forehead. “Eliot knows I won’t care if our friends go into my bedroom, but I’m surprised Ben would want them in his.”
Harriet shrugs. “He doesn’t care about material objects, and Mister Feathers is safe in Xander’s apartment tonight.”
I can’t see how Ben would be okay if someone broke one of my guitars or messed with his girlfriend’s stuffed animal that she leaves on his bed.
Like she can see where my mind is descending, Harriet says, “He’s learning how to process fucked-up, messy situations. He knows he’s not the root cause if things go bad.”
My chest rises. Is he getting better? Or is it just hopeful thinking?
I’m tempted to ask, but I’m too afraid the answer won’t be what I want. So instead, I say, “You can go mingle, you know.” I gesture toward the different clusters of my friends. “They don’t bite.”
Harriet swishes her cup. “I like the air over here.” Her blue eyes flit up to me, then down.
“I do breathe clean air.”
“Not your air, dude. Jeez.”
I catch her arm when I see Phoenix. “There he is.” Then I retract fast when I realize I’m touching my blonde nightmare.
Harriet looks unbothered. “He’s coming over here.”
“Probably for the clean air that has absolutely nothing to do with me,” I banter.
She gives me a middle finger while sipping her drink, and as Phoenix breaks through a dance pit, he stops dead five feet from me.
We take a breath at the same time. He’s okay? He’s okay. I can feel him studying me the same way, then he closes the distance to say, “Your friends are interesting.”
“Interesting as in bad or good?”
“Interesting as in one couldn’t stop name-dropping actors and the other kept backhand-insulting me. He said only no-named bands go on Susie Mac’s channel. Among other things.”
Anger pricks my skin, barely a surface-level burn. “They aren’t friend-friends,” I remind him.
“So they’re fake friends?”
“They’re friends I don’t care about, dude. They can talk shit and be jealous and put me down from afar because they’re not going to touch me. I won’t let them. So don’t let them get to you.” I skim him as he pushes damp hair out of his face. “Have they gotten to you?”
He lets out a laugh. “No. I’m mildly annoyed at most.”
I nod. “Good.”
He checks me out. “Worried about me?”
I shrug. “You’re only a part of my lifelong dreams. It would be weirder if I wasn’t.”
“Agreed.” He watches me peek at my phone and refresh a few tabs.
Backbeat Ledger, nothing.
Rolling Stone, nothing.
Pitchfork, nothing.
His frown deepens off mine. Phoenix doesn’t even give a shit what these critics say. He’s not seeking external validation as much as he just wants to play rock music for a living.
Ugh, I’m ruining the mood.
“Take it, take it.” I shove my phone into his chest. “I can’t keep checking for reviews. It’s bringing emotional distress, and that’s not the vibe tonight.”
He clutches my cell. “You want me to hang onto your phone all night?” he says like I’ve lost it.
“Yes. Protect my phone. My birthday wish.”
He slips my phone in the cargo pocket at his thigh. “You realize you don’t get an unlimited number of birthday wishes?”
“It’s my birthday, dude. I make the rules.”
“Has anyone ever called you a birthdayzilla?”
“Yes. They were all dicks. I’ll add you to the list.”
His eyes perform an attractive roll on me. He zips his pocket shut, and he’s about to reply when we both get distracted.
Harriet is headbanging to a song off our album. Phoenix smiles down at her, and I wince into a groan, “Harry. Do not tell me that ‘Hellbent’ is your favorite song.”
“It’s not my favorite,” she deadpans.
It’s totally her favorite. “You would love the song that destroys my voice.”
“It’s not because of you,” she says. “The drums go hard, dude.”
Phoenix smiles. “It’s because of me, nepo baby.” He fist-bumps Harriet, and I blink so much that I wonder if I can transport myself to another dimension where this isn’t happening in front of my face.
“Made these for you.” Harriet pulls off several bracelets climbing up her wrists. She dangles the purple beads up at me and Phoenix.
I take one and see SILVER SWEET in block letters. “You made me a birthday gift?” I start to laugh.
“I made The Carraways a gift. You just happen to be attached.”
Phoenix slips the bracelet on his wrist. “Say thank you, Tom.”
“Thank you, Tom,” I say.
Harriet grimaces. “On second thought, they should just go to Phoenix.”
My mouth falls. “You can’t take back a birthday pres—”
“It’s not a birthday present.” She snatches the bracelet out of my hand. We play tug-of-war for two seconds before the beads burst off the elastic string.
They scatter the floorboards.
Harriet looks immediately crestfallen, and I don’t ask her how long this arts and crafts project took. “I have string,” I say. “I can fix this.”
Sure, I am not great at fixing things.
But that has to change sometime. This time.
Before Harriet or even Phoenix can utter a word, I’m heading to my bedroom.
Sliding past people means getting random body sweat on my skin.
It’s not gross for me, but I just think about Beckett.
I know he deals with body sweat at the ballet studio, but hopefully none of this is triggering his OCD.
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” I weave between people. “Pardon. Merci.” I duck underneath someone’s outstretched arm, finally reaching the hallway that leads to my room.
I push open the door, and a loud thwomp catapults my heart to my throat.
Ben and a broad, stocky dude are throwing fists, tearing at each other’s shirts. Justin. It has to be Justin Dupont—I don’t have any other 6’5’’ friends with wide, muscular frames. He played defensive end for Vanderbilt in the SEC. Ben body slams him into the wall. Fuckfuckfuck.
I don’t think, I’m just bolting to my little brother. “HEY!” I scream and try to push my way between them, but they’re shoving, pulling, punching.
“FIGHT!” someone screams from the hall. “FIGHT!”
Holy shit, what is happening?
“BEN!” I yell, but he’s all focused rage.
His knuckles collide with Justin’s jaw. I hear a sickening crack and then Ben gets tackled into the wall.
His shoulders make impact with my Thomas Cole painting in a loud thud.
The frame rattles free, and the canvas clips the sharp corner of my dresser on the way to the floor.
My concern lies solely with my brother who looks like he’s ready to murder Justin. I don’t know what fucking happened. I don’t care. I just want this to end before Ben gets hurt.
I turn on my friend. “JUSTIN! FUCKING STOP!” I yank his shirt and slip in between their bodies. Bad move. I’m six-one. They’re both four inches taller. Justin throws a punch at Ben, and I’m at a horrible angle. When Justin’s arm snaps back, his elbow collides with the soft tissue of my eye.
Immediate pain. Sharp, spiky fucking agony.
I drop to the ground in a squat to avoid another assault to my eye socket. Vision blurred, I squint, but everything happens too fast.