Page 246 of Silver Sweet

Our music.

“Wolfgang St. Pierre, everyone,” he says as I settle behind the drums and twirl my sticks. “Should we do that one again, Wolfgang?”

“OH MY GOD! OHHHH MY GOOOOOD!” I hear before I fit my IEM back in.

I answer with a countdown.

Tom says to the crowd, “Looks like we’re never stopping. Stay with us. All fucking night!” They go wild as he screams into “Your Epidemic” and I thrash against the toms and snare, my foot pounding the kick pedal.

Cincinnati is the last show where the crowd grips Tom’s ankles. We have the audience hold a gym board that he stands on instead. Scally’s idea—which Tom runs with immediately and calls, “Genius.”

“Wow, that rivalry with Nothing Personal really sputtered out,” I tease him. “Almost like it never even existed to be begin with.”

He flips me off.

As we carve our way through the Southeast, these days on tour with my boyfriend, my brother, and my friends become fuel for my soul. The green room before each concert is flooded with bright laughter, silly videos, and sound.

So much sound.

None of us can seem to stop making music, even when we’re not onstage. Birdie has his cello out, and Tom and Scally sing “Thunderstruck” to the melody behind my brother’s bow.

I’ve hated seeing the cello, but in this capacity, I love it.

He brought the instrument on tour to play the cello parts in “Killer Ultraviolet.” My brother comes out for the encore song in every city.

By Miami, Tom and I are feeling the effects of being on the road for so long amid flights back to New York—plus giving a hundred and ten percent at every concert. It’s our fiftieth show, and Tom is doing his best not to get sick.

He’s practically attached to his vocal steamer.

“You have to quit singing ‘Hellbent,’” I say, icing my shoulder. “It’s not an option anymore.”

His reddened eyes meet mine. He’s already stressed about the second album. The one we’re barely working on because during our off days, we’re back in New York—and not always there to hang out with his brothers.

Which is bothering him.

Severely.

He was okay with missing his family’s summer yacht vacation in the Med (yes, ayacht)—but not the little things with Ben. Like just showing up at the End of the World while Ben bartends. Just watching some new nature documentary withhim. Just being there in the morning to sayheyand slip dried-fruit treats to Ben’s bird.

But Riot has us massively booked with huge media outlets. We’re scheduled to perform on a late-night show next week.

Half of our album is trending. We have five—fivesongs on theBillboard Hot 100.“Nuclear Winter” is sitting at number six.

It is powerful upward momentum. We fucking took off like a rocket ship, and Tom is trying to block out the voice that says we’re going to plummet if we don’t keep pushing at a voracious speed.

He’s trying.

I know he is. I see it even now, when we’re in the green room in Miami. Nothing Personal is onstage, and he’s just nursing his throat.

He’s not trying to write a song for our next album. He’s not fixated on our socials or opening his emails. Though, I’ve been responding to them for us.

Tom frowns. “How do we even take ‘Hellbent’ out of the set, Phoenix? We don’t have anything to replace it with.”

“Sure we do.” My lips rise. “You had an EP before I came along, nepo baby. How do you think I recognized you the day we met?”

I had no idea what some of his brothers looked like, but I knew of Tom. I listened to his music.

“Let’s play ‘Get Lost,’ off your EP,” I suggest.