Page 251 of Silver Sweet

I smear a hand down my face. “Tom. You broke a bo?—”

“I know, dude. But I’ll go to the hospitalafterwe finish our set.”

Birdie looks impressed. “Rock and roll.”

“Not helping,” I snap.

“Fine, I’ll get him a shirt.” He’s quick to nab a Carraways long-sleeved merch tee.

I rig up a makeshift sling for Tom. His bone is not in the right spot.

He’s squeezing his eyes shut. “I can feel you glaring at me, and it’s not nice,” Tom says with a wince. “I’m in pain, dude. You should be kinder.”

I try not to smile. “Let’s just get through this set. Then you can whine about it later, nepo baby.”

“We’re so good at compromising,” Tom muses like these ego-boosts are a morphine drip. Whatever makes him feel better, I’ll take it.

One problem. Several songs are still left in the set where Tom is meant to play guitar. Now, he can’t. But Birdie can. My brother has heard the full album enough that he nails every intricate riff when he goes onstage with us.

We finish the set without skipping a single song, and later, after a trip to the emergency room and an X-ray—Tom learns he has a distal radius fracture.His wrist. No surgery, but he’ll need to be in a splint for six weeks. After a short back-and-forth with our label, we’ve agreed to cancel four shows.

Just four.

Tom would opt forone. Not just for our fans, but because he feels like he’s hurting Scally and Steffi. Nothing Personal is being told to pull out too.

During the car ride to the jet, I hear my brother speaking French to our Papi, telling him that he’ll be in the city for the next week.

And then, like clockwork, Birdie agrees to play cello for the New York Ballet Company’s summer benefit performance.

Tomorrow.

Feelings are conflicted, but I want to see him play. Birdie’s been under too much stress for me to be anything but a supportive big brother right now. I might hate it—but this is his choice.

In the backseat beside me, Tom wears a blissed-out gaze, doped up on painkillers. He babies his splinted wrist. “Want to go to the ballet?” I ask him.

His smile saysyes. He rests his temple on my shoulder. “I miss my brother.”

It’s one of the few times I’ve heard him mention Beckett.

57

TOM COBALT

“He’s really good,” I whisper to Phoenix in our velvet-lined box seats at the Whitney Theater. Classical melodies surge from the orchestra pit in powerful crescendos. I’ve seen Birdie play the cello countless times now, but never in this formal setting.

He seems socontained, unlike when he’s playing rock on the cello. His head never thrashes too much in the pit. He’s so hyperfocused, not even glancing at the sheet of music on the stand.

“Your brother,” I clarify off Phoenix’s silence.

His eyes are glued to the stage. “Yours too.” He’s watching Beckett perform a technically demanding variation I’ve also seen countless times.Swan LakeAct III pas de deux. His technique is always flawless. To the point where every leap looks sky-high and weightless. It causes the crowd to intake a breath. “Damn,” Phoenix murmurs.

I bow into his arm again to whisper, “Talent spreads wide in the St. Pierre and Cobalt lineage.”

Phoenix takes a moment to respond. “That looks like more than just talent.”

“Dedication and commitment,” I agree.

Phoenix tilts his head a little so I can whisper better in his ear. I love that he’s not pissed I’m talking during the ballet. Proof I’m acing life: I chose a boyfriend who values my thoughts enough to want to hear them.