Page 283 of Silver Sweet

“Yeah.” He begins to grin, the brightest, biggest grin. “I approve.”

“Hmm, was I asking for your permission?”

“I mean, you should’ve, dude. Going around, making huge decisions like that without the input of your favorite person.” His jaw suddenly drops in a thought. “Holy shit,Forest Hills.”

“Forest Hills Stadium?” I frown. “We cancelled the show, Tom.”

“No, no, it’s still December. That’s when Riot wanted us to perform. You’re available now. I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.

He reaches back under the table. His hand seeks out mine bouncing on my knee. He smiles as he feels for my fingers and threads them again.

“So not two days left,” he says.

“No. Much longer.”

“Much longer,” he repeats with a nod.

I laugh at his expression. It’s a lot smug, a lot loving, a lot happy. It reverberates so raucously inside me. I hope to listen forever.

As age tries to take his voice and my hands. As we make music in the grave.

68

TOM COBALT

“You ready?” Phoenix asks me backstage, the thunderous noise unlike anything we’ve ever heard. They’re chanting for The Carraways, and the entire floor rattles beneath our feet.

There is no one else I want to experience this with.

There is no one else I could.

We crawled and clawed and rose together. I want to keep rising with him. I want our feet to never touch the ground. Unless we need to humble ourselves, then I will repeat this crawl off the dirt with him again and again. I have no doubt we’ll always kiss the sky. It’s what we’re destined to do.

“I’m ready,” I say as the cold breeze from the outdoor venue pricks my bare skin. I’m already warm from adrenaline. Sun begins to set, and as the trusses vibrate backstage, my pulse goes on an ascent.

I hook our pinkies. “Your flesh.”

“Your bone.” He stares deeply in my eyes. “Something good has already grown.”

I’m not sure what overwhelms me more. That or the moment Phoenix walks out onstage first. The volume of elation brings tears to my eyes.

He deserves all the fanfare. All the praise. Every ounce of love from the crowd, I want to push and shove and thrust at him.

I get the signal, and I join my drummer onstage. The audience erupts the second I appear, jumping with me as I belt out the intro to “Nuclear Winter” while Phoenix thrashes the drums.

We’re in Queens. Playing at the venue I’ve dreamed of as a kid. We sold out Forest Hills Stadium within twenty-four hours of the tickets going live. I was fully prepared to pluck out the sharpest persuasion skills from my arsenal to make this venue and date happen.

All I had to do was call our manager.

Jeremy never cancelled the show. He said he had a feeling Phoenix would come back. He told Riot to delay the announcement until he heard the go-ahead from us. When he did, the venue had already blocked out the late-December date for The Carraways, and we were ready.

Well, Phoenix claimed he was rusty, but that’s not true. His passion can’t rust. As evidence of this moment in time, this beautiful, burning New York City night.

Fourteen thousand people sing back to us. The music we make ignites the stage, the crowd, us—every chorus and drumbeat a spark and a flame that I dance inside.

Phoenix and I leave the stage empty before the encore. We’re waiting in the wings, dripping sweat, and catching our breath—still amped as we hear the anticipation intensifying among the crowd. We always feed off their energy, and my gratitude for their existence swells alongside something else.