61. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
SEPTEMBER
Ising a slow, soft rendition of Petula Clark’s “La nuit n’en finit plus” on my bed. Another night without him, I feel emotionally suspended as love travels and I remain. Nothing captures the desire and yearning burrowing in me as well as this song.
I strum my guitar and look up at my phone, recording this for Phoenix.
My cell is propped against a bunch of Harriet’s science textbooks I borrowed from Ben’s side of our room. When I reach the last verse, my voice breaks a little on the French, but I keep singing to him.
Finishing, I stop the recording, and I text the video to my boyfriend. Then my chest tightens at the several emails stacked in our inbox from our publicist, manager, and music label.
I just glance at the subject lines.
PRESS! Rolling Stone long-form interview request [prioritize please]
Spotify Session: “Killer Ultraviolet” (Stripped) request for November
Forest Hills Stadium Show in Queens, NYC – HIGH DEMAND!
PRESS! GQ Photoshoot request
It goes on and on.
Even if Rolling Stone was willing to just interview me solo, I’d hate it. The Carraways isn’t just about me. It’s us.
It’s been us.
So I confidently reply to Sheela and Jeremy in email, reminding them that we’re not doing any press or events until next year.
Jeremy is quick to call me. Even at 10 p.m.
“Sheela will work her magic. Some of these outlets could agree to wait,” he says. “But the Forest Hills show can’t. Riot wants to market it as a December holiday pop-up concert.” Off my silence, he adds, “This would be your first stadium show. Forest Hills, Tom.”
Salt, meet my wound.
My manager knows I’ve dreamed of Forest Hills since I was a teenager. The outdoor stadium in Queens is where I first saw Sepsis Ink—the band that made Jeremy’s career skyrocket. Maybe the venue has meaning to him too.
But I’ve never wanted to sacrifice my brothers for my dream. Birdie might not be my brother, but he is the little brother of the person I love. So it’s not much of a decision.
“We can’t this year, Jere,” I say.
The long, long pause stretches a deeper ache into this night. “Okay,” he sighs. “Okay…okay.”
I fall asleep to Petula Clark singing “La nuit n’en finit plus” in my ears, and I wake to Phoenix’s response to the video I sent him.
“You should post it,” he says in audio message.
“It feels selfish to keep the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard you sing to myself.
” His voice sounds choked. “So…post it, nepo baby. Talk later. J’aime ta voix et ce putain de stupide sourire que je sais que tu es en train de faire.
” I love your voice and the stupid fucking smile I know you’re making.
I am grinning now.
Without much thought, I caption the video: for my drummer. And I post it.
Twenty-four hours later, I attempt to smother the flames I just fanned. “The Carraways are not broken up,” I say firmly, recording myself on my phone. I save the short clip, and I post it on our socials to reestablish we’re just on a hiatus.
People are dissecting every line of the Petula Clark song I sang, and they’ve deduced my drummer ditched the band. Which is not the truth. Not the truth at fucking all. Even if I’ve had many drummers exit the band before.
Comments immediately flood in. One makes me choke out an aggravated noise:
The Carraways drummer problems
“Ha-ha,” I say under my breath.
Most comments ask if Wolfgang is still in the band and where he went. Since he left on tour with Nothing Personal, we’ve rarely been seen together. Paparazzi hound me outside my apartment, asking if we split—as if the world already knew we were together.
We never fucking confirmed anything. We’ve never even been caught doing more than flirting!
I fall back against my bed and swipe through old videos.
I land on one where I’m lying on the sandy ground in Texas.
Cacti and a bright blue sky behind me. Phoenix comes into the shot, hovering over me, and he kisses me.
My lungs swell, and I feel my smile mimic the one in the video.
We didn’t film this for publicity or social media content.
Just for ourselves.
Right now, I want to post it so badly. I almost hate myself for throwing my phone aside and resisting.
“Fuck September,” I groan out loud, then I pick up my guitar.