Page 162 of Silver Sweet

PHOENIX ST. PIERRE

“It’s rare to see a rock band with only two members,” a podcaster tells us in her eclectic studio apartment in Greenwich. Tom and I are squashed on a mustard sofa that’s shaped like a giant flower. Microphones in each of our hands, we face Tiff Montclair.

She’s a friend of a friend of Tom’s.

It’s another stop on our week-long mini press junket leading up to the album’s April 21 release. Most have been short video chat interviews with influencers. This is the first in-person thing, which has my leg jostling. On camera.

Her phone is on a tripod filming us.

“So as a rock duo,” Tiff says, “how would you describe your relationship exactly?”

Intense. Edging. Like I’m living on a perpetual cliff, but instead of looking down, my eyes are in the sky and I’m looking for him. Oh and I fucked him in his shower this morning. But we’re just bandmates who hookup, apparently.

On instinct, I tilt my head to Tom. Most podcasters seek him out anyway and ignore my presence. He’s a Cobalt, the realdraw. But also, he’s not the one who looks like he was dragged into the chair and told tosit downandbehave.

“Total honesty?” Tom says, angling conspiratorially toward Tiff. “It was hate at first sight. And since you’re asking, I still can’t stand him.” He’s looking right at me with that stupid smirk.

Cute.The corner of my mouth tics up. “Mutual feeling,” I say into the mic while I sweep the black muscle tee he’s wearing. Collar ripped. The wordZEROis printed on the forehead of a skull. “Zero” is a song we wrote before we slept together, and it’s all about trying to let go of immense pressure.

About giving zero fucks.

It looks good on him.

I’m just dressed in my usual shit. Backward baseball cap, a gray long-sleeved Henley. I don’t think I exude “star” energy like Tom, not enough to exist in a two-person band where there’s nowhere to hide, but I’m hot. So there’s that going for me.

Tiff beams at Tom. “You two wrote fourteen songs together, so the partnership must be working.”

“Yeah, how did we do that?” Tom grins over at me.

“Miracles do happen.” I strugglenotto call him a nepo baby during these fucking things, but I am watching my mouth.

Tom nods. “Yes, they do. Frequently when I’m around, some would say.”

I cough out a laugh, then tell Tiff, “See what I’m dealing with?”

Her smile is a megawatt lightbulb. “A miracle maker.” She gestures to Tom.

He holds out a hand of reason to me. “It’s been stated. On the record. In front of the universe.”

“To all of Tiff’s listeners,” I correct.

Tiff grins. “Like my friends and family in New York. Thank you for tuning in, fam!”

“The best people in New York,” Tom adds. “Greatest city in the country.” Tom mouths to me,behind Philly.I’m pretty sure her camera caught that.

I think it’d be impossible for Tom to be anyone but himself, even at the risk of coming across like a pompous, rich dick. I love that about him, and he’s the reason I’m enjoying these interviews more than I ever imagined I would.

Still, my leg won’t stop jostling under me. I wish we could perform “Nuclear Winter,” but we’re not scheduled for any performances for press. Riot said they had one for us, but later, we learned it fell through.

Tiff asks about the album, and Tom sits forward in excitement. He loves talking in depth aboutSilver Sweet, but more so on a universal level. He’ll bring up fears, insecurities, pressure, and passion, but not what they personally represent to us.

Throughout the week, the line of questioning veers off course little by little with each new media outlet.

Especially the silly interview on Madison Ave where we pretend to run into a twenty-year-old girl. Susie Mac has one million followers watching her “candid” street interviews, and Tom is apparently a big fan.

I know nothing about her, but he warns me she always makes her guests eat a spicy candy at the end.

“Like a gimmick?” I asked him.