Page 119 of Silver Sweet

I study his face. “You don’t hope for that?”

His gray eyes puncture me. “In what world would I wish my brother to fail?”

28

TOM COBALT

He’s not coming. He’s standing me up. It’s the only explanation I have for the absolute radio silence after Phoenix sent thebe there soontext an hour ago.

“Sixty minutes is not soon.” I pace the kitchen. Freshly showered. I even had enough time to shave my face, spritz on cologne, change out of four different shirts, only to settle on a black Warped Tour tee over a white long-sleeved shirt. I even hurried to put on a belt like Phoenix was going to catch me with my pants down.

Little did I know, I would be burning footprints into the kitchen floor and eyeing the door every half-second. I could’ve moisturized. I could’ve soaked in a fucking bath. I could’ve penned the world’s greatest novel. I could’ve?—

Eliot catches my shoulders to halt me mid-stride. “Maybe an hour is soon for him,” he consoles. “Time is relative, brother.”

“Then explain all the texts he hasn’t responded to?” I hoist my phone in my brother’s face.

TOM CARRAWAY

You still coming over?

We need to work on this song.

I’m seriously fine. 100%.

Are you pissed at me for last night?

Ghosting me as payback is real mature, dude.

Eliot skims the screen and raises his brows. “Five separate texts?”

“Over the course of an hour.” I read each one out loud to him.

He tips his head, not at all surprised at the defensive end note. “You said he rides a motorcycle?”

“Yeah,” I nod.

“Maybe he can’t respond to you.”

“He has a mic built into the helmet. He literally has sent messages using speech-to-text on that bike. It’s never stopped him before.” My stomach churns, and it’s not from all the alcohol last night.

There’s a good chance Phoenix is angry that I called RJ. Plus, whatever else I said or did in the car ride that could’ve turned him off. I blew up a perfectly fine night—and I don’t know how Phoenix deals with personal conflict.

Revenge. Retribution. Putting me in my place by making me wait around for him all day. It’s not something I thought he’d do to me. At least, I hoped he wouldn’t. But he must know it wouldn’t destroy the album. I’d put up with just about anything—even being ghosted by him—if it means he stays in the band.

I push some damp pieces of hair out of my face. I rose from the dead to drag my aching limbs to the shower. Muscles I didn’teven know I have still feel tenderized. If someone told me I did a full Olympic-style gymnastics routine last night, I would believe them. I probably took home gold for sheer effort.

I’m a winner. A competitor. So yeah, I’m not going to just collapse into a heap from being stood up.

Eliot squeezes my shoulder. “Tom.Tom.”

I’m chewing my thumbnail when I’m smacked in the back of the head with what feels like a book. I almost drop my phone. Eliot wouldn’t slap me with anything but a high-five, so I’m unsurprised to see Charlie enter the kitchen with a worn paperback ofThe Great Gatsby.

“Hitting me over the head with my namesake?” My middle name comes from Nick Carraway, the novel’s narrator. “Real funny!”

Eliot watches our older brother press buttons on the espresso machine. “Don’t be shy, Charlie. Admit you’re trying to usurp me as the most humorous of the family.”

“Why would I compete for title ofjesterwhen you so naturally fit the fool?” Charlie responds, sliding a cappuccino cup beneath the spigot.