67. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Multicolored Christmas lights are strung haphazardly on the walls, sagging over a Sapporo poster beside Tom’s left shoulder. We share a high-top table tucked away in the back of my favorite restaurant. Eating ramen during a very cold winter night is my type of holiday staple.
In New York, everyone seems happier this time of year.
The iconic Rockefeller tree is erected, festive music flows through Central Park, and laughter rises from ice skaters. It’s been so long since I haven’t felt like the only miserable Scrooge.
This week with Tom has left me in a state of bliss.
And I’ve been dreading its end. Nothing Personal flies to Liverpool in two days. I have a ticket with my name on it. Tom knows I won’t be back until next year.
No one bothers us in the restaurant.
Shades over the windows block out the several cameramen who’ve followed us here, snapping photos and shouting questions. They keep asking if Tom and I are together and the status of The Carraways.
We never reply.
I forget they exist. The same way I forget Tom’s bodyguard is at another table.
I just keep looking at my boyfriend.
“You hear that?” Tom asks. The kitchen is sizzling, and other oblivious couples chat at high-top tables. But he’s referring to his pair of AirPods we share, music coming out of them.
“I hear you slurping a noodle,” I say.
Tom huffs. “I don’t slurp.” He eats a radish very politely.
He’s not looking up, so he can’t see my smile.
His fingertips clasp mine under the table, hidden near the wall, and I know I’m so in love with him because I use chopsticks with my left, nondominant hand just to keep touching Tom.
I struggle to pick up a noodle.
Tom doesn’t even notice.
He bobs his head to the beat playing in our ears, and I watch him hum and tilt his head side to side while the guitar riff picks up. His guitar riff.
We’re listening to our demo for a new single.
I like the pace we’re working on the second album. It’s slower. Letting us breathe. We’ve already extended the deadline with the label. Tom was the one who said we needed more time, and we shouldn’t risk our health just to finish it.
“That,” he points out fast again. “You hear that?”
“Yeah, your pitch should be higher.”
“Agreeeeeed.” He sucks in a breath, then bangs his head with me to the chorus that sounds like gasping breath while running. It scratches an itch.
Yeah, that’s fucking good. We’re both grinning at each other. My lungs just completely fill with light. I feel buoyant.
Weightless.
I know my student loans were a load I’d been carrying, and I finally have financial stability.
I’m debt-free.
Unbelievable that I paid off all my loans before even seeing royalties. That massive check will come next year.
It was our merch sales that ultimately unburdened me, and it’s part of why I’m lighter and happier.
The bigger part is him.
As the music fades in my ear, his lips begin to fall heavy. He swishes his miso broth with his chopsticks and sighs, “Two days left.”
I glare over at him. “I take it back.”
“Take what back?”
“All the sweet fucking things I said about you in my head.”
Tom smirks. “I’d like to hear those things.”
“I’m sure you would, nepo baby.” I hook my ankle around the leg of his stool, dragging him even closer to me. His knees knock into mine, and I lace our fingers under the table.
His smile reaches his eyes. “I know—I said I’d stop bringing it up as a depressing countdown. But I meant it in a glass half-full way. Okay, we have two days. Forty-eight hours. A lot can happen in that amount of time, dude. I could be crowned king.”
“Of your own universe, yeah.”
“No, of the world.”
“Wow, you’re really shoving that goalpost to Mars.”
“I’ll probably be the first man who steps on Mars too.”
“I’ll cheer for you from Earth.”
“No, dude.” He snaps his chopsticks at me. “You have to come with me. It’s part of the fucking rules of our band. My drummer never leaves my side.” He sees what he did there. “Except in forty-eight hours. But it’s fine—I’m happy. I’m the king of the only world that matters.”
“The one in your head,” I finish.
“The one in yours.” He arches his brows for me to challenge him. Oh my God, I hate how much I love that cocky smile.
I groan out, “You’re driving me fucking nuts.” I squeeze his hand to remind him I like it. “I need to tell you something, so come back to New York. This restaurant. Right here.”
“Okay, yeah, present. Locked in.” He abandons his chopsticks in his ramen, giving me his full attention like he’s preparing himself for bad news.
I feel his hand tightening in mine, and I ask, “You said Cobalts never die?”
His eyes spark with uncertainty. “Are you going to try to kill me because I need to remind you that I rock your world like every minute of every day. With and without clothes on. I am multi-talented.”
I let out a laugh. “You’re not seriously already bartering with me?”
“Is it working? Have I defeated the bad news you’re about to spring on me?
Please say yes.” His smile is gone, heavier with a frown.
“I mean, I’ll be okay, dude. I’ll be fine if you can’t come back till March, but let’s make it February.
Or January. Or you know, maybe New Year’s. Your birthday has a nice ring to it.”
I smile a little more. “Cobalts never die. So you better have a pulse by the end of this.”
His face drops. “You’re never coming back?”
“I’m never leaving.”
Tom intakes a sharp breath. “Wh—what. Repeat that.”
“I’m staying in New York, Tom. I’m not going to Liverpool.”
He lets go of my hand to touch the top of his head. His elbow rustles the strung lights on the wall. “Holy sh—wait, no—you can’t. Your brother.”
I love him for caring about Birdie. Even in this moment when he wants to be selfish and celebrate.
“I talked to him yesterday,” I explain. “And I’ve thought a lot about this. Bird is taking his meds again. He doesn’t want me to come back on tour. He knows I want to be with you.”
“Will he be okay?” Tom asks.
“I believe he will, yeah. But I can’t know definitively.
Just like you can’t know if Ben will be okay next week, next month, next year.
Neither of us can control what happens with our brothers, man.
But I do know we can’t sacrifice our dreams for them.
They wouldn’t want us to. That…that might actually kill my brother.
I think if I give up any more for him, it will be too much. ”
Tom nods repeatedly. “That makes perfect sense to me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He begins to grin, the brightest, biggest grin. “I approve.”
“Hmm, was I asking for your permission?”
“I mean, you should’ve, dude. Going around, making huge decisions like that without the input of your favorite person.” His jaw suddenly drops in a thought. “Holy shit, Forest Hills.”
“Forest Hills Stadium?” I frown. “We cancelled the show, Tom.”
“No, no, it’s still December. That’s when Riot wanted us to perform. You’re available now. I’ll find a way to make it happen.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.
He reaches back under the table. His hand seeks out mine bouncing on my knee. He smiles as he feels for my fingers and threads them again.
“So not two days left,” he says.
“No. Much longer.”
“Much longer,” he repeats with a nod.
I laugh at his expression. It’s a lot smug, a lot loving, a lot happy. It reverberates so raucously inside me. I hope to listen forever.
As age tries to take his voice and my hands. As we make music in the grave.