68. Tom Cobalt
TOM COBALT
“You ready?” Phoenix asks me backstage, the thunderous noise unlike anything we’ve ever heard. They’re chanting for The Carraways, and the entire floor rattles beneath our feet.
There is no one else I want to experience this with.
There is no one else I could.
We crawled and clawed and rose together. I want to keep rising with him. I want our feet to never touch the ground. Unless we need to humble ourselves, then I will repeat this crawl off the dirt with him again and again. I have no doubt we’ll always kiss the sky. It’s what we’re destined to do.
“I’m ready,” I say as the cold breeze from the outdoor venue pricks my bare skin. I’m already warm from adrenaline. Sun begins to set, and as the trusses vibrate backstage, my pulse goes on an ascent.
I hook our pinkies. “Your flesh.”
“Your bone.” He stares deeply in my eyes. “Something good has already grown.”
I’m not sure what overwhelms me more. That or the moment Phoenix walks out onstage first. The volume of elation brings tears to my eyes.
He deserves all the fanfare. All the praise. Every ounce of love from the crowd, I want to push and shove and thrust at him.
I get the signal, and I join my drummer onstage. The audience erupts the second I appear, jumping with me as I belt out the intro to “Nuclear Winter” while Phoenix thrashes the drums.
We’re in Queens. Playing at the venue I’ve dreamed of as a kid. We sold out Forest Hills Stadium within twenty-four hours of the tickets going live. I was fully prepared to pluck out the sharpest persuasion skills from my arsenal to make this venue and date happen.
All I had to do was call our manager.
Jeremy never cancelled the show. He said he had a feeling Phoenix would come back. He told Riot to delay the announcement until he heard the go-ahead from us. When he did, the venue had already blocked out the late-December date for The Carraways, and we were ready.
Well, Phoenix claimed he was rusty, but that’s not true. His passion can’t rust. As evidence of this moment in time, this beautiful, burning New York City night.
Fourteen thousand people sing back to us. The music we make ignites the stage, the crowd, us—every chorus and drumbeat a spark and a flame that I dance inside.
Phoenix and I leave the stage empty before the encore. We’re waiting in the wings, dripping sweat, and catching our breath—still amped as we hear the anticipation intensifying among the crowd. We always feed off their energy, and my gratitude for their existence swells alongside something else.
Him.
Phoenix’s hand hovers near me, his fingers brushing so subtly against the tips of mine, until his fingers rake upward along my opened palm. Then slide down against it.
He would hold my hand if he could.
He would do more if I wanted him to.
He tries so hard not to fold me into his chest, and it’s honestly a true miracle he hasn’t made out with me publicly backstage yet.
I am that irresistible.
Really, though, he’s patient. More than I’ve given him credit for.
I close my hand over his, holding his hand. His brown-blue eyes snap down to me in confusion.
I let go.
His chest rises and falls in a deep breath. Then he leans into my ear. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m just grinning, Phoenix.”
“No.” He sweeps my lips. “You’re giddy.” He stares me down. “You’re about to fucking crowd-surf, aren’t you?”
“You want a warning?!” I shout over the sudden shrieking, the audience recognizing we’ll be out soon.
“No.” He twirls his sticks. “Do your thing, nepo baby. I’ll be watching.”
I let him have the last word.
Fitting my IEMs back in my ears and strapping my guitar to my chest, I’m ready for this part, the best part, and I greet the fevered crowd for the encore. Red lights flash into pure purple.
The crowd detonates into an uproar—bellowing with life while we perform “Killer Ultraviolet” with everything in us.
All the heart, the blood, the emotion-stricken hours and minutes and seconds we spent led to here.
To right now.
We don’t end there this time. Phoenix has to gather his breath before the final song, so while he swigs water, I speak to everyone.
They fall hushed when I say, “We thought about how we wanted to say goodbye to all of you, but then we realized, there are no goodbyes when memories like tonight will live on forever. So when you walk out of here, keep on remembering how you felt in this second, this moment, with the people around you. Don’t let that feeling go.
” I peer back at Phoenix, my chest swelling. I know I never will.
He looks me over, then gives me a nod.
I turn back to the audience. “This is our last song tonight. Thank you all for being here. We’re The Carraways.”
We close out the show to our cover of “Under Pressure”—the only song where Phoenix sings too.
They recognize the classic Queen and David Bowie hit the second the melody strikes. Everyone goes wild. I don’t even have to guide the crowd to clap. They already add to the beat. Hands in the chilled air.
We all create a fire in the cold.
I use up the whole stage, guitar set away, and my body is free as I belt out every verse from my core. Like always with “Under Pressure,” I find myself singing to Phoenix with a grin so wide my face aches.
He plays drums. His unguarded, soulful eyes are on me as he sings, his tenor haunting and honeyed. Pleasing to the ear.
To my ears.
This song—this song resounds inside my body.
I hit the high note, and Phoenix smiles as bright as the glittering lights speckling the crowd.
He smashes his sticks voraciously into the drums, and I sing lyrics of “love” to him.
His long verse, where he sings it back, has uncoiled me.
Every word leaving his lips tugs at my heartstrings.
I’m floating by the time we finish, and he’s at my side. Bathed in purple light, we face the stadium together while black and silver roses soar at us from every direction. The dark night sparkles in thousands of tiny lights.
I have almost everything I’ve ever wanted.
Looking to Phoenix, I soak in his awe.
I laugh as so much joy overcomes me. He shares in the laughter, his eyes caught on mine, and I see our breath in the frigid air.
Yet I’m on fire. Combusting.
Time ceases to exist when I rise up and kiss Phoenix St. Pierre. The fanatic eruption stumbles us together, but he curves his arm around me, bringing me even closer. I grip his back, and I feel his smile against mine. I feel his hands as they lift and frame my face.
He deepens the kiss to the most legendary music we could ever make.
This night will last forever.