57. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
“He’s really good,” I whisper to Phoenix in our velvet-lined box seats at the Whitney Theater. Classical melodies surge from the orchestra pit in powerful crescendos. I’ve seen Birdie play the cello countless times now, but never in this formal setting.
He seems so contained, unlike when he’s playing rock on the cello. His head never thrashes too much in the pit. He’s so hyperfocused, not even glancing at the sheet of music on the stand.
“Your brother,” I clarify off Phoenix’s silence.
His eyes are glued to the stage. “Yours too.” He’s watching Beckett perform a technically demanding variation I’ve also seen countless times.
Swan Lake Act III pas de deux. His technique is always flawless.
To the point where every leap looks sky-high and weightless.
It causes the crowd to intake a breath. “Damn,” Phoenix murmurs.
I bow into his arm again to whisper, “Talent spreads wide in the St. Pierre and Cobalt lineage.”
Phoenix takes a moment to respond. “That looks like more than just talent.”
“Dedication and commitment,” I agree.
Phoenix tilts his head a little so I can whisper better in his ear. I love that he’s not pissed I’m talking during the ballet. Proof I’m acing life: I chose a boyfriend who values my thoughts enough to want to hear them.
“He’s why I work so hard,” I admit, more hushed. “I grew up seeing Beckett give everything to ballet, and I figured if I wanted something as badly as I did music, I’d have to put in the time and effort like he did.”
Phoenix almost responds with an arm around my shoulder. He stops himself short. We’re not onstage or at a concert venue where being overly physical can just pass as friendly camaraderie. Just bandmates goofing around. Having fun. Lightly flirting.
Whenever it’s our days off from tour, it feels different.
I’ve had to remind myself not to hook an arm across his back or kiss him. Which I don’t like. It fucking sucks. I feel like how Birdie looks on cello right now. Restrained. Straitjacketed. When I’d prefer to headbang.
The speculation about Phoenix and me is pretty rampant at this point, but there’s still so much conversation about our music. I haven’t wanted that to change, and it’s likely to once we confirm we’re a real-life couple.
My stomach cramps. I’m shocked I feel anything other than loopy and numb because I’m on Vicodin. A low dosage that stops my wrist from screaming in pain—but clearly has zero effect on any trepidation regarding my private relationship.
Phoenix and I are dressed to the nines for NYBC’s summer benefit performance. Mostly for the cocktail reception that comes afterward. We’re ushered into the theater’s grand ballroom where all the major donors to NYBC mingle with the dancers.
“Beckett hates these things,” I whisper to Phoenix after we pluck steak tartare, on toasted brioche, off a server’s tray.
“The hors d’oeuvres are his favorite part, but the company doesn’t like if the dancers just eat and don’t schmooze with donors, so he’ll usually find one of us to hang around as long as possible. ”
“One of us?” Phoenix washes down the bite-sized food with champagne.
“My siblings. Not a ton to choose from tonight.”
Just Charlie and I could attend the summer benefit. All other brothers and sisters were tied up, and Beckett never pressures anyone to go, since he has many of these things. I’m happy I could be here, even given the circumstances.
My left wrist is splinted, so I have full movement of my dominant hand to snatch foie gras mousse with fig compote off another tray.
“You want to do a lap?” I can tell Phoenix is antsy to move around.
Ceiling-tall burgundy velvet drapes conceal an arched window behind us.
We’ve been loitering in the back for ten minutes now.
“No, I’m good.” His daggered eyes roam over the extreme wealth, then they fall to my punk-rock suit jacket with zippered arms and a chain along my belt loop and pocket.
Phoenix also looks hot in a tailored all-black tux. His dark hair is pushed out of his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline.
“We clean up well, the two of us,” I say. “Red carpet ready.”
“I like this.” He motions a finger off his champagne at my zippered suit jacket. On the ride here, I told him all about the Tom. My fashion designer mom designed suits after all my brothers, using our input.
“The Beckett and the Ben are selling the best,” I tell him now, “but that’s just because very few people have excellent taste.”
“Wow, shots fired at your brothers.”
“No, no, no,” I say fast. “They’re all worthy of being purchased. Mine is just next-level, and of course I’d date someone who recognizes this too.” My voice remains a whisper.
Phoenix is rigid and eyes a young-looking influencer who seems to creep five feet closer every time I look over at him. I don’t blame the dude. We are clearly the shining stars among a rather stuffy event.
The donors here range from twentysomething socialites and trust fund babies to much older aristocrats and blue-blooded elite.
Despite Phoenix’s bitter-etched features and hard-to-approach exterior, he is a social creature. He enjoys conversing with strangers.
He places his emptied flute on a tray. “Okay, let’s do a lap.”
I smile just at the fact that I know him so well. “We should find Beckett and save him from a boring conversation.”
“I’m down—wait.” He catches my bicep before I can move. “I think that girl is coming over to us. You know her?”
A petite girl with springy brown curls and dewy makeup says, “Excuse me, excuse me,” to donors as she weaves between them to reach us. Her pale pink cocktail dress is simple and understated like a lot of the New York fashion.
“Uhhhh, yeah,” I nod slowly. “Ballerina. Not a socialite. She’s…” I trail off in realization of exactly who she is.
Phoenix sees the blood drain out of my face. “No,” he says as it hits him. “She’s not RJ’s cousin.”
I cringe. “I think so, dude.” I haven’t heard RJ’s name in so long. Truthfully, I haven’t even thought about my old hookup in literal months.
We have no time to form a game plan. The ballerina halts a foot from us, her fingers clasping a skinny flute of champagne.
“Hi, hi.” She winces a little. “I know this might be awkward. Wait, wait. You don’t even remember who I am, do you?
Oh God. Okay, let’s start over.” She takes an encouraging breath.
“I’m Roxy—Roxanne. Ruiz. Well, Kotova, but Roxanne Kotova Ruiz.
” She smacks her lips. “This went so much better in my head ten minutes ago.”
“Let’s hope so,” Phoenix says.
I can’t stifle a laugh. Maybe I could’ve, but I didn’t.
We’re terrible. Guilt pricks me at the same time Roxanne’s expression goes pained as if we ran her over with Phoenix’s Suzuki.
“Sorry,” he says first, but it doesn’t sound that genuine.
“No, it’s totally fine. I knew you were a little, um…
well, you weren’t exactly friendly toward my best friend.
Her name is Beth Anne. You probably don’t even remember asking for her number, but that happened…
back in January. So…” She exhales a tight breath.
“I’m sweating. Are you sweating?” She wafts her hand at her chest, her light golden-brown skin glistening.
“I’m mostly confused,” I admit. “Like why would you ask for a girl’s number, dude?” I question Phoenix.
“For my brother.” His inquisitive eyes shift back to Roxanne. “Beth Anne is a ballerina, right?” he asks.
“Yes. Yes. She’s around here somewhere, but you should probably steer clear. She’s not that fond of you, which understandable, but…fair warning.”
“Yeah, why are you giving us those?” Phoenix asks, just as confused. “Your cousin is RJ? He doesn’t exactly like me either.”
“Oh, I mean, RJ is actually the reason I am doing this and suffering through an awkward moment. He knows I’m more likely to run into Tom. And he said if I were ever to see you—”
“Me?” Phoenix points at his chest because Roxanne is not looking at me.
“Yes, you. Phoenix? Wolfgang? Tom’s drummer. We’ve seen The Carraways on social media. RJ already ordered the album on vinyl.”
“Really?” Phoenix frowns.
I’m also slack-jawed in shock.
“Yeah.” She perks up a little. “He told me about The Trench.”
I claw my hand at my burning face remembering my drunken fucked-up night. The universe is smiting me for laughing at her. “He did?”
“Great,” Phoenix says tightly.
“It sounded eventful—anyway, he hasn’t wanted to slip into either of your DMs and cause drama.
But I’m supposed to tell Phoenix, clean slate, no hard feelings, hope you feel the same, and he can tell you and Tom are…
vibing. Okay, that’s not exactly what he said.
” She lets out a dying laugh. “And I am butchering this, so I’m going to stop while I’m ahead, but, um, you two…
” She motions between me and Phoenix, then gives us a thumbs up.
“We like it. I mean not like creepily. Just, we approve of the…partnership?”
My face is on fire. “I’m not sure who this is more embarrassing for, you or me.”
“Oh great, you feel it too.” She gulps a loooong sip of champagne.
Phoenix’s lips tic upward. “Tell RJ it’s forgotten.”
She swallows and releases a breath of relief. “Will do. Perfect. Yeah. I’m glad I did this.” She’s about to spin on her heels.
“Wait,” I call out.
She stops.
“You should go talk to my brother.” I smirk, then scan the crowd to see if I can find him.
“I’ve already spoken to Beckett tonight.”
“I meant Charlie.” I grin wider. Because I remember—Charlie had a thing for her. Okay, he didn’t say it outright, but I could tell there was interest.
Roxanne’s face falls. “Oh…that’s okay.”
“He would love it,” I say, utter joy burrowing in my chest. Sure, Beckett doesn’t want Charlie fraternizing with his ballet friends, but he can’t object over a friendship. Charlie needs friends. He has zero.
She crinkles her nose in thought. “I’m not sure he would…” She cranes her neck. “There’s Beth Anne. See you two around.” She darts away.