Page 31 of Silver Sweet

“We’re only two people. We don’t have the manpower to do this without synth pads and backing tracks.”

I think about one of the most successful two-person bands of all-time. “The White Stripes used to play live without backing tracks.”

“I don’t want to be The White Stripes. Our sound could be more complex live if we don’t limit ourselves. Look, I’m not saying we have to use tracks for the bass. You can still use a pedal to drop the octave on your guitar. It can mimic a bass when we need it, but there’smorewe could do.”

I grind my jaw, feeling emotion sputtering through me. I’m trying not to cry because fucking hell, I cannot shed araresad tear in front of Phoenix St. Pierre. He’s too hot, and he’s called me a “nepo baby” too many times for me to fuel that insult.

It must be obvious though that this is hitting me hard because Phoenix isn’t slinging any snide comments my way.

I find my voice to respond. “What if we could try to figure out a way to do it without the synth?”

“Even if we could, it’s my demand in exchange for the band name. I want synth pads.”

I wince. “You like pop music?”

“Some pop music. Yeah, I do. And you can be all purist about your punk rock, but obviously something isn’t working. Your EP is good, but it didn’t chart.”

My muscles are tight. My stomach uneasy. I stare at the waffle, feeling like someone took a spatula and splatted me face-down on hard cement. “This has been my band for seven years,” I tell him. “It’s been your band for one day. Change is going to feel different for me.”

“I know it’ll be harder for you,” Phoenix acknowledges at least. “But this is a process. And there are going to be just as many concessions I make. The name of the band is not a small thing, Tom. I’m literally adopting your middle name into my life.”

“Yeah, I know…just…let me mourn.” I take a bite of waffle, and it goes down thick.

He kneads at the edges of his eyes. “What’s significant about Wednesdays?”

Another gut punch, but this one is filled more with confusion than despair. “Dude. You don’t know about Wednesdays?”

He glares. “Other than it’s the most hated day of the week.”

“That’s so not true.”

“It’s literally called hump day because it’s an obstacle.”

I touch my chest. “It’smyfavorite day.”

“It’s the day you jerk off, then.”

Holy shit. He says that without even blinking. He’sserious. “You think I marked the days I masturbate on the calendar? Seriously?”

He’s so over this conversation. His eyes pinpointed in a scowl. “I don’t know, Tom. You tell me.”

“Happy to.” I sit more upright. “First, I jerk off more than once a week. Second, maybe you need to brush up on my family’s Wiki page.”

“I’m not doing that,” he snaps.

“Fine,” I snap back. “Your loss. Just trying to avoid these awkward conversations, dude.”

“This isn’t awkward for me.” His voice is deep confidence.

Oh myfuck. Why is he like this? I’ve never been verbally volleyed so hard that I feel like someone just spiked a ball in my face. “Cool,” I say. “I guess we’ll be having more of these then.”

“Just explain it, man.”

I sigh out. “It’s called Wednesday Night Dinner. No, you aren’t invited. You’ll most likely never be invited. It’s something I’ve done since I was little, and they’re secret and exclusive.”

“So it’s a dinner party?”

I grimace. “It’s more than a dinner party—but I can’t explain it. Okay, it’s secret.” Wow, how did I just sound like I was sevenyears old telling a playmate he can’t come to my secret hideout. I’m roasting.