59. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
I’m drenched in sweat. The outdoor waterfront venue in Portland, Maine, has one of the most spectacular views of the entire tour—but fuck, it’s hot.
We’re outside, so no air conditioning.
And of course, we’ve been blessed with a heat wave that’s terrorizing the Northeast during the middle of July.
I’ve already uncapped three bottles of Aquafina and doused myself in ice-cold water.
It barely helps the inferno consuming my body.
Between songs, Tom sprints stage right to stand in front of a box fan for a full ten seconds.
He’s taking care of himself. It lessens my worry to manageable levels, at least. He knows if he passes out onstage, he’s not good to anyone. He will actually freak out a ton of people.
When we finish the final encore song, I’m expecting to feel relief. But as we both stand at the edge of the stage and I toss my drumsticks in the crowd—feelings are mixed. Complicated.
Tom gives me an electric smile, and it wavers at the corners of his lips.
It’s our last Saturday on tour.
We only have four more shows after this.
And yeah—we’re going to Europe following our break in August. But it won’t be with Nothing Personal. It won’t be this. My first tour with Tom. Our first adventure together. It’s almost over, and that foreshadowed loss is already hitting hard.
I’m hanging on to every single second. Like how the roses land at our feet, and I make sure to grab a couple off the stage, wave them in the air in thanks. Do not want to forget this.
Tom removes his IEMs and hands Hannah his guitar backstage. “Great news,” he tells me. “We just played in Hell. Mark it off the list.”
I shake my head. “There is no list. And if there was, that is definitely not on it.”
He turns to Hannah. “Mark it off the list.”
She smiles. “I just talked to my family back in Odessa, and it’s a hundred and ten. This is really nothing.” She leaves with Tom’s guitar, and we make our way to the white event tent behind the stage—our green room for the show.
Fans circulate cool air through it, and it’s crowded as hell. Nothing Personal’s tour bus busted their A/C this morning, so they’ve been mainly hanging here.
We reach the back corner—pizza boxes stacked on tables. Most are empty except for two pies with sausage. “Where’s Birdie?” I ask Scally, since it’s just him, Neil, and Steffi on the couch.
“Probably trying to fix the bus himself,” Scally says. He has a soaked bandana on his forehead, cooling off.
“Lost cause,” Steffi adds. “They’re bringing in a new tour bus. Should be here in an hour.”
Tom licks his thumb after piling three sausage slices on a paper plate. “Why don’t you guys stay in a hotel tonight?”
“All booked. For thirty miles.” Neil wraps an arm around Steffi. “Faster to bring in a new bus.”
More crew slide in to get pizza, demolishing one of the boxes. “Has Birdie eaten?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so,” Steffi says.
Before it all disappears, I put a few more slices on my plate. Then I touch Tom’s shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later? I’m going to take some food to Bird.”
“Sounds good, dude.” His eyes flit to the sweat dripping down my temple. “Just don’t melt on your way there.”
“I’m already melting, nepo baby.” I head into the scorching heat. The sun is down, and it still feels stifling. Thick, muggy air. How the fuck is there not a breeze? We’re near the ocean.
It plagues me all the way to Nothing Personal’s bus, and by the time I open the door, I have a late-onset epiphany.
Birdie might have used the whole “fixing the bus” as an excuse to get laid.
Cockblocking my brother—not on my to-do list. I climb a couple steps, taking it slowly and quietly. I plan to just leave the pizza on the empty driver’s seat and text him about it. But I’m halfway up when I realize how quiet it is.
Not a laugh.
Not a grunt or a moan.
Hell, not even a footstep.
Something doesn’t feel right. Pressure compresses my shoulders. My muscles lock, and my pulse stutters as I keep climbing the stairs. I have a full view of the long corridor to the back lounge. Not a single person is here.
And it’s obvious why.
The heat suffocates. I’m having trouble taking in deep breaths. I remain quiet because in the back of my mind I’m thinking maybe he’s slowly fucking somebody in his bunk in some sensual, silent kink. Who the fuck knows?
I walk farther. Leave the pizza in the fridge, I tell myself.
My muscles don’t comply. I pass the kitchenette and give up on not cockblocking my brother.
I’m too paranoid and worried now. I hurriedly check the back lounge.
Nothing. I confirm his bunk is empty after yanking aside the curtain.
There’s just the bathroom left—and it’s so quiet that I’m almost positive he’s vacated this sauna trap for actual breathable air.
He must have, but I check anyway. I turn the knob and pull the door open quickly.
Then I see him. My heart collapses through the bottom of my chest. My hand falls to my side, the pizza sliding onto the floor.
Birdie has a foot planted on the toilet lid, his boxer-briefs rolled up to his groin. His Zippo lighter out, a flame licks the inside of his bare thigh. His eyes shoot to me in panic. “Get the fuck out,” he chokes, shoving a hand at me.
It dawns on me he’s not even attempting to close the goddamn lighter.
“Birdie. Stop. Fucking stop.” I push my way farther into the bathroom and start wrestling him for the lighter.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” He’s screaming. We’re elbowing. Shoving. Emotional agony infiltrates the sharp angles of his face. “Phoenix!”
“No, Bird…” We pull each other to the ground, halfway out of the tiny bathroom. The lighter slips through my fingers and skitters across the floor. But it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re all soft fury and jagged pain. Our fight moves to the hall, and we wrestle, choke, pin, and slam.
He’s kicking me in the kidney, and I finally force him into a headlock. When I pull his shirt over his head, he just collapses forward against me. A sob rumbles through his body, and I wrap my arms around my little brother. Tears scald my eyes.
He clutches tight to my back like he’s holding on, and then after a second, he shoves a hand at my chest, pushing me away.
He tugs down his shirt, his mop of hair grown out to be unruly now, and he ignores the messed strands to smear two hands down his face.
“Great talk,” he says sharply. “You can go now.”
“We didn’t talk, asshole,” I snap.
He works his jaw, trying not to cry. His shoulders lift into a shrug, his nose flares, but he doesn’t break eye contact from me.
“You don’t think I hear you in my head?” His voice cracks.
“My big brother, pulling me into his arms, begging me to stop hurting myself. Man, I hear you. I see you. You’re seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Same story, different day.”
My chest hurts with the pressure compounding. My muscles stiff. My heart shattering. “Birdie,” I choke. “Let’s try to change the story.”
He laughs as his face cracks. “Okay.” It’s a weak, helpless, defeated okay. He waves a hand at me as tears slip out the corners of his eyes. “And are you changing your story? Or are you still sleeping the same amount as a newborn baby?”
I sniff hard, trying to stop the emotion from barreling into me. “I get it. I’m a hypocrite—”
“A big one.”
I glare at him. “Don’t fucking turn this on me. You’re burning yourself.”
My gaze falls to his inner thighs. He pulls down his boxer-briefs, realizing they’re still rolled up. Scars mar his skin. Some pale, others brown, and the new one is a nice deep red. I’d kill the person who hurt him, and it terrorizes me that I can’t. That I could never.
Birdie can’t stop crying now. He keeps running his hands over and over his face. His skin turns redder. His eyes more swollen.
I want to bring him into my arms, but I know he’ll shove me away.
It’s been so long since he’s done this. The last time was years ago after the collapse of Sophomore Summer, when our dreams were shattered by my violent act. He’d hated that I refused to be in a band again, but I promised I’d be by his side as crew. I promised I’d always be with him.
Our dreams have been the same since we were teenagers in a garage, letting rock sew up the torn pieces of our souls.
In my head, if we ever got big, we’d do it together.
Our parents would have no choice but to be happy for both of us.
But then I quit Nothing Personal’s crew.
I joined The Carraways. And the fact that they gave me approval and withheld it from Birdie in the very same fucking breath—I know it’s messed him up. Bad.
How do I fix this?
I need to fix this.
“Just fucking talk to me, man,” I beg. “If the Klonopin isn’t working anymore—”
“I had to stop taking it.”
My heart quits beating. “You what?”
He wipes his runny nose with his shirt. “I was doubling my dosage, Phoenix. What the fuck do you want me to do? It’s a benzo. I’m not getting addicted to that shit.”
“So get on a different med.”
“No,” he growls angrily. “You know how long it took me to find something that didn’t wreck me with side effects. I’m not going through that torture again. I’m taking a break from the Klonopin so I don’t get hooked, and then I’ll get back on it.”
“How long will that be?” I ask.
He shrugs.
Great. Sounds like a failproof plan. And I’m leaving him. He’s leaving me. We’re going on separate tours for months. How can I trust he even goes back on his meds?
He looks to his left and sees the sausage pizza splatted on the floor. His eyes hit mine in another surge of emotion. “You brought me pizza?”
“I wasn’t going to let you starve.”
He cries again, pressing his fingers to his eyes. “I hate being a fucking burden—”
“You’re not, Birdie—”
“Just go be with your little boyfriend. Get out of this hot box, man.” He reaches over and starts scooping the pizza back on the plate. He rises to his feet, and I follow him.
“I’m not leaving you.”