Page 30 of Silver Sweet
He picks up his fork. “If you haverealboundaries, Tom, say them now.”
“None that should concern you.” I finish slicing up my waffle. “I tend to push boundaries, not create them.”
“Ditto.” That casual admittance has my curiosity on fire, but before I can press him, he asks, “How dead set are you on the name?”
“The name?” It takes me a full revolution around the sun to realize he’s talking about mybandname. “Wait…TheCarraways? That name? The name of my fucking band?”
“Ourband.” Phoenix swallows a bite of egg.
I drop my silverware on the table. Hunger evicted from my body. “I’ve had that name since I was fourteen.”
He washes down his food with iced coffee. “Technically, you’ve had it since birth. It’syourname. Your middle name.”
I nod repeatedly. “Thank you for demonstrating the importance. And you want to change it because?”
“Because we’re a two-person rock band, and I’ll forever be known byyourmiddle name.”
“You’re welcome.”
He drops his silverware now. “Tom.”
“Phoenix,” I snap. “Non-negotiable.”
He laughs. “You were about to lick my boots.”
“Over an NDA. A document. A piece of fucking paper. Not my legacy.”
“Jesus Christ.” He picks his fork back up, but it hovers over his plate. “If you want the name that badly, then give me something.”
“What do you mean?” I frown. “Is this like Medieval Europe? You want the rights to my firstborn?”
“Man, you are so dramatic.”
“I’mdramatic?” I point at my chest. “You just made a whole display of flying to fucking Australia to give me space.”
He rubs his pouty pink lips back and forth. Is he trying to restrain a grimace or a smile? “Fine.”
“Fine,” I nod, but I feel out of breath like I’m being chased. “And just a reminder, I’m a Cobalt. I come from drama. You haven’t even met my brother.”
“Don’t you have like ten of those?”
“Four. And I meant Eliot.” I wait for him to ask me more. Most people would be dying for details. I don’t even know why I’m itching to share them, and it comes as a complete pie-to-my-ego when Phoenix dodges over the topic.
“There’s only two of us in this band,” he says. “We don’t have a mediator. We can’t call Jere every time we have a fight. This has to be a collaboration or it’s not going to work.”
I agree with that. “So you want quid pro quo,” I say. “You get something. I get something.”
“Exactly. We compromise.”
“Seems fair.”
“Great, so we’re adding synths and tracks to our live setup.”
It’s not a question. It’s not even anask. Blood rushes out of my body. “Hell no.”
He growls. “Tom, we just went over this?—”
“The Carraways is an emo punk-rock band. We don’t play synth.”
