Page 18 of Silver Sweet

“You rush and play ahead of the beat.” He smiles and sips his water. He’s such a shit. He’s also a motherfucking musical prodigy, so I can’t exactly argue with him forever.

“It wasn’t lack of sleep,” I tell him. “I honestly just forgot I promised Stewie I’d fill in for him tonight. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

Birdie nods. “So you turned off your phone?”

“Put it in airplane mode.”

His brows hike. “Now I’m out of guesses on what’s going on.”

A stagehand stomps onto the stage. “Dancers, time to go! We’re cutting lights in five!” His eyes fall to the pit. “Same for orchestra!”

Birdie grabs his backpack, and I go for the mallet bag, slinging the strap over my shoulder. He looks me over. “You take the train?”

“Suzuki.” I’ve had my bike since I was sixteen.

“Not getting on that thing. Fucking donor cycle.”

“Didn’t think you would.” I know his feelings on motorcycles.

Last time Birdie rode on the back of my Suzuki, he was fourteen and broke out in a cold sweat by the time I took him to school. Nothing scared him more than the idea of breaking an arm and being unable to play cello for weeks on end.

Nothing scared me more than hearing“I told you it was dangerous. You should’ve never gotten that bike, Phoenix. Look what you did to your brother”from our sensible parents.

We exit the Whitney Theater and end up walking a couple blocks to a nearby park. An ice-skating rink filled with the last guests of the night. Lights twinkle in trees, and I try to hang on to the magic of the holidays before it’s all stripped down soon.

We snag a couple hot dogs from Sabrett’s and land at a bench overlooking the rink.

“Cheers.” Birdie licks mustard off his thumb and holds out his dog. I tap mine with his before we both take bites.

I glance over at him for a beat.

We barely look alike. I took more after our father’s side. The French. He took after our mother’s. The Irish.

Birdie’s hair is a warm brown color, much lighter than my nearly black, and it’s buzzed against his scalp. He has steel-gray eyes, a black 6mm gauge in his ear, and a red birthmark shaped like a slow breaking cloud on his neck.

I’m mid-chew when I say, “I told Jere I wanted to play in a band again.”

I’m technically not a member of Nothing Personal, but I’ve been with the band just as long as Birdie. When my brother signed on as their drummer three years ago, I joined the stage crew. I’ve been on tour with them. I test and set up their equipment before each performance. I’ve been to most studio sessions.

And I’ve written eighty percent of their songs.

A hundred percent of their hits.

Birdie swallows slowly. “For real?”

“For real.”

He frowns. “The drums?”

“What the fuck else am I going to play?”

“You’re right, you suck at guitar. And your bass playing sounds like a cow slowly dying in its sleep.”

I laugh. “Fuck you.”

“I’m not wrong.” He smiles over at me.

I almost smile back.Almost.My stomach cramps at the uncertainty of how the rest of this news will go. “Yeah, you’re not wrong,” I say lightly.