Page 22 of Silver Sweet

I can’t pry his voice out of my brain. Not any more than I can his face. Those pulsing blue eyes strangled me, challenged me, rattled me. For Tom, a guy I could probably easily throw, I feltpummeled.Then revved like a V12 engine.

“Your schedule,” I tell him, tossing the phone on the bed while I smack a pack of cigarettes on my palm. “What the hell is going on with it?”

“Are you illiterate?” Tom asks without a hint of sarcasm, dryness, or humor. He’s completely serious, I think.

I glance over at the classic dystopian novels stacked on my bedside table.1984andBrave New World.On top isStation Elevenby Emily St. John Mandel, my current library checkout.

“No,” I force.

“It’s okay if you are. Judgment free zone.”

“This is not a judgment free zone.” I slip a cigarette behind my ear, too amped from him to even smoke. “I am fully judging you. And I can fucking read, man. But why does your schedule have all these black boxes?”

“Those are my blackout days. I’m busy.”

“Busy?” I stare at the phone on my sheets. “With what? Golf?”

Tom bursts out laughing. “Yeah, no. I am banned from three different members-only golf clubs for flipping the carts.”

All right, that is unexpected. “Pickleball then?”

“Also banned for snapping the nets. And before you ask, I don’t know how to sail. Never been skeet shooting. Can’t ski forshit. But I do know how to snowboard, and my family owns a yacht.”

“Just a yacht,” I say dryly.

“It’s a big yacht. I also have a black card and can take you out for a five-course Michelin-star dinner, but I’m getting the sense that you won’t be impressed by either.”

I feel myself in a daze watching the phone, like Tom will appear out of thin air. I stop myself from asking whether he’s used to buying guys dinner.

Not important.

He’s just a big question mark, and I need some answersnow. His schedule is not flying with me.

“Then what is it?” I ask.

“Hold on a sec.”

My patience is razor-thin, and as I hear him rustle around, I almost ask to go on video chat.

Don’t press.

It’s fine.

He’s probably getting dressed, not fucking off in the background with a one-night stand or a bottle of Jack. I thumb my temple in slow circles. My stomach contracts.

He’s busy.

I’ve never hung out with anyone as wealthy as Tom. The Cobalts are like gilded-gates, Hyannis Port rich. I have no clue if his parents have rubbed elbows at the Kennedy’s summer compound in Mass. All I’m picturing is this high-society family roping him into snooty charity galas and elitist banquets of the ilk.

“Back,” Tom says. “Sorry, my computer was about to die.”

I can’t even relax knowing he wasn’t partying late last night. I pick up the phone and hold the speaker near my mouth. “Look, I’m not joining your band if you’re not committed to it.”

I bet this is why all the other members dropped out. Because he’s not putting in the effort.

“I amone hundred and fifty percentcommitted to The Carraways. It’s insulting you would think otherwise.”

“I’m so sorry I insulted you,” I say snidely.