Page 250 of Silver Sweet

We all thank Jere, and for the most part, Scally and Steffi’s excitement overshadow the sea of uncertainty in the green room. I can’t tell who’s more stressed out: my brother or my boyfriend.

Birdie has one foot in the orchestra. He can’t please our parents while he’s an ocean away.Good.Maybe they’ll finally accept he’s choosing his dream and not theirs.

Thirty minutes before The Carraways are called onstage, I talk with Tom and realize his stress is about the second album. The question is:How do we finish this on a rigorous four-month world tour when we’re struggling now?

“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him.

“I know we will.” He hooks his pinky with mine.

We do our pre-show ritual, and I hold him a little longer until his body relaxes.

Then I whisper in his ear, “Nine-point-two.”

I hear his emotion and see his smile spread as he says, “One of the best.”

Like most nights, being onstage centers us. Everything makes sense when we play our music together. Nothing feels off. We’reon.In sync.

So when Tom scales the lighting truss during “Level Headed” and leaps to the stage—I do not see it coming. I just hear the sickeningcrackagainst his microphone and the gasp from the crowd.

He’s crumpled on the stage when he should be on his feet.

I push out from the drum kit so fast that my stool crashes, and I run—I run over to Tom while he lies there.

Is he moving? Please fucking move.

“Tom!” I yell, my pulse in my ears.

Tom.

He starts to pick himself up with one hand. He gets to his knees.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I crouch down to him. “Tom. Wait.”

He’s trying desperately to contain the pain on his face. It flares in his eyes and between his gritted teeth. Our crew has cut the sound from his mic.

“I’m okay. I can keep going,” Tom tries to assure. “We’re not stopping, Phoenix. They paid a lot of money to be here?—”

“Slow down. Breathe.” Our backs are to the morbidly quiet crowd. Tom is cradling his forearm against his chest. He looks like he’s about to puke. I stroke the back of his head, then motion for Hannah and Stan.

They rush out to block us from the audience.

“Let’s figure this out backstage,” I tell him, wrapping my arm around his waist to lift him up.

The crowd claps and cheers for Tom. It hurts him more when he has to hobble away. He wants to just pick up the mic and act like nothing fucking happened.

His wrist is really, really fucked up. The bone is bent out of shape. Thankfully there isn’t blood or a puncture.

Tom vomits in a trash bin backstage. I rub his back and see Birdie sprinting toward us.

“The light didn’t turn on,” my brother says in a heavy pant.

“What?” I frown.

“Spotlight never lit up where he usually lands. It was pitch black.” His concern sweeps Tom, then me. “Show over?”

“No,” Tom spits in the trashcan. “Just get me a T-shirt or something to make a sling.”

“Is he for real?” Birdie asks me.