57. Tom Cobalt #2
“Dammit,” I mutter. “That would’ve been so much fun to watch.” I explain to Phoenix why, and he’s shaking his head at me.
“You don’t know how to not stir the pot.”
“Says the guy who likes rattling the cage.”
For the record, he’s smiling. A shadowy smile, but it exists. He knows I make these dull events full of life. He says, “I love how we both tried to set up our brothers with ballerinas and failed.”
Okay, maybe that’s why he’s amused, but I could be a secondary amusement.
“I will try again,” I tell him.
“I’m sure you will, nepo baby. Failure is not an option in your head.”
He knows me so well too.
Servers pass us, and Phoenix takes a sparkling water. I’m glad I don’t grab the smoked salmon blini. Because I’d choke on it in this second—seeing Leo Valavanis not even fifteen feet away, chatting with some old aristocratic lady. She’s wearing a dead fox like a shawl.
“You good?” Phoenix gives me a look like I’m acting strange.
“Okay, I have to warn you very fast.” I hold out my hands, including the injured one. “That dude over there is obsessed with me.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
My face flash-freezes, not sure how to react to that. Am I offended? “Dude.”
Phoenix glares. “Tom, he’s barely looking at you.”
There is no way. “I’m not overreacting here. That’s Leo Valavanis, the male principal dancer who competes with my brother for roles. There is a ninety-percent chance he comes over here and tries to flirt with me. Okay, he’s the one chatting with the old lady sporting an orange fox—RIP.”
“Yeah,” Phoenix nods. “That’s who I thought you were pointing…out.” His voice wavers, then he goes rigid. His jaw muscle tics as we watch Leo leave the wealthy donor and saunter toward me.
Justice. I am not overreacting.
I withhold the immature “told you so” response, even if it’s aching to be set free. Sweat builds beneath my suit, and I scan for Beckett, unsure if I want to find him or not.
Leo slides a casual hand through his dirty-blond hair. His ugly smile is too self-satisfied. He carries himself like he’s immune to all common colds and diseases. I literally cannot believe I even momentarily crushed on him.
I can’t believe I crushed on anyone but Phoenix. Everyone has become so unattractive in comparison to my boyfriend.
Quickly, I whisper to him, “I promised Beckett I’d never interact with Leo.”
“Then don’t say anything,” Phoenix tells me fast.
Leo stops in front of us, loosening the bowtie of his black tux. “Fifth-born little Cobalt,” he greets rudely.
“We are the same height, dude,” I retort.
Phoenix side-eyes me like, so much for not talking.
“Age,” Leo emphasizes, then arches his brows at Phoenix’s eviscerating glare. “Did I do something to you?”
“Depends on how the next five seconds go.”
Leo’s smile stretches, his eyes pinging from me to Phoenix, back to me. “Did you find yourself a boyfriend?” I hate how condescending he says it—like I’m in sixth grade with a locker room crush.
It pierces a sensitive part of me that I don’t want Leo touching. Instead of becoming angrily defensive, I just shut down completely.
Taller than Leo, Phoenix straightens his posture into a towering stance. His voice cuts, deep and biting. “Don’t talk to him,” he warns. “Don’t even fucking look at him, man.”
“Ohhh-kay, okay.” Leo lifts his hands in defense, then checks cautiously over his shoulder since this is his place of work. “I’m just teasing him.”
“Tease someone else.”
Leo weaves his arms loosely. “Toooom,” he draws out my name to capture my gaze. Fuck him. “We’re cool. No harm, no foul. Yeah?”
“What’d I say?” Phoenix steps forward in threat, and I smile for one second before Beckett appears, flipping my stomach inside-out.
Beckett puts a hand to Phoenix’s chest. “Pas ici, d’accord?” Not here, okay?
Phoenix steps back beside me and outstretches an incensed hand at Leo. “Il est en train de provoquer ton frère, Beckett.” He’s antagonizing your brother, Beckett.
“Je vais m’occuper de lui.” I’ll deal with him.
“Uh-huh,” Leo nods with a tongue-cluck. “Well, this secret conversation is so interesting. Riveting material.” He cocks his head to Beckett. “You forgot to mention your little brother has a boyfri—”
“Do not,” Beckett forces. His glare is a lethal injection, a thing of real beauty.
Leo reads his face, then stiffens as if he’s being turned to stone. He slides a hand through his hair, and Beckett never loosens his penetrating gaze from him.
“Take him fucking down, Beckett Joyce,” I say quietly.
Leo snaps a look at Beckett. “You want to take me down, Cobalt? I’d love to see the attempt. Maybe the drama will insert some charisma into your dancing for once.”
“Go away.” Beckett’s tone is frostbite.
Still, I pipe in, “That means fuck off and good riddance.”
“Does it?” Leo smiles only at Beckett. “I thought it meant—” He cuts himself off as Beckett shifts with visceral heat, forcing Leo to take several steps away from me.
Leo backs up, staring Beckett down, and then they exchange murmured words that likely stab and slash.
I’m positive Beckett comes out with the W. He always defeats Leo in their rivalry. Middle-aged donors in dapper suits suddenly seize both of their attention and pull them away. Leo layers on the fakest smile while Beckett maintains an impassive expression.
They’re now halfway across the ballroom. Out of earshot, but not eyesight.
“That’s Leo,” I say to Phoenix. “Asshole, right?”
He’s quiet, his brows furrowed. Until he asks, “How long have they been fucking?”
“What?” Shock lurches my internal organs. “Not at all. Beckett is straight, dude.”
Phoenix looks at me. I can’t even decipher that look. I feel woozy all of a sudden. Maybe it’s the painkillers.
I scratch at my temple. “What’s that look?” I ask him.
“I’m starting to understand how you thought I was straight.”
“No,” I shake my head vigorously, then lower my voice to a strained whisper.
“Beckett would’ve told me if he slept with a guy.
He would’ve…” My pulse almost flatlines.
Would he have? He’s so private. If he told anyone, he would’ve shared with Charlie, but why keep this a secret from me?
I wouldn’t have shared with a soul, not even Eliot.
And why am I so hurt that he kept this to himself? He was under no obligation to tell me if he wasn’t ready to. Still, my eyes sting, and my heart suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. It might as well be on the fucking floor.
“Hey, maybe I’m wrong, Tom,” Phoenix whispers. “It’s just a hunch.”
“Based on what?” I ask him tensely.
“The way they were looking at each other, man. But it’s probably nothing. It doesn’t seem like anyone reacted.”
“I don’t think anyone was watching us. We’re in a back corner, dude.” I stare out at Beckett as he produces a faint smile at an older gentleman. His gaze seems lost. Like he senses me, his yellow-green eyes shift around until they find mine.
I open my mouth like I can call out to him, but he’s so far away. I can’t shout across a ballroom, and even if I could, what am I going to say? I wouldn’t want to force him to open up to me.
My lips shut.
Beckett is unblinking, our eyes still locked. He’s too difficult for me to read, even now. His face fissures ever so slightly, then seals up again. His lips form the words, Excuse me, and it takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to the wealthy donor.
Because his eyes haven’t left mine. Not once. His stride is so commanding and purposeful that people naturally step aside for him. Beckett never has to weave around anyone, and he reaches me in one straight line.
“Can we talk?” he asks, then looks gently over at Phoenix. “Just me and Tom.”
Phoenix nods with so much understanding. “I think that’s a great idea.”
I must be wearing every emotion externally, and I’m blaming Vicodin. Never again. I can’t even hide my internal breakdown.
“Yeah, let’s talk,” I say, hearing my strained voice.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” Beckett suggests. Then I’m following my older brother out of the ballroom. The Whitney Theater is his second home. He spends so much time here that it could very well be his first, but he’s always said nothing could take the place of our family.
My throat feels too swollen to talk.
Thankfully, when he brings me into an empty rehearsal studio, he’s the first to speak. “You want a chair?”
“Is this a sit-down conversation?” I ask.
“It might be.” He’s assessing me.
I gaze around at the wall-length mirrors, the wooden barres, and the large windows overlooking the glittery city. At night, the lights from outside cast a bright blue glow into the otherwise dark space. It smells faintly of old wood and sweat, the floors scuffed from pointe shoes, probably.
“Tom,” he says with a sharp inhale.
My brain is reeling so fast. Through a million observations from the past and even more questions. “You don’t owe me anything,” I manage to say. It’s the least selfish thing out of a mountain of selfishness inside me.
If I were a better person, maybe I wouldn’t look so torn up. The mirrors—I can clearly see my red, swollen eyeballs.
Beckett releases a staggered, almost hurt breath. “I do, though. You’re my little brother.”
“Maybe that just means something different to me—and that’s okay,” I add fast, realizing too late that my words are gutting.
I’ve never seen Beckett blink back tears.