Page 6 of Silver Sweet

“Learn to be alone,” he says.

I feel my features contort. That can’t possibly be the solution here. Out of me and my brothers, Charlie would likely flourishin total isolation, but not forever. He’d wish for Beckett, his fraternal twin, to cut through the loneliness. Just like I’d wish for Eliot.

That’s the thing about growing up so close to one brother. Your whole world feels tethered to them in a weird way. Like alongside the existence of air and water is him. Without him, life can’t go on.

“Want to teach me your hermit ways?” I ask Charlie.

Just like that, Charlie disappears to his own bedroom.

Leaving me alone.

“Funny!” I shout after him, then mutter, “Someone should give him his own late-night show.” I pound on the keyboard, my stomach in knots. “I’d watch it.”

I exit out of Craigslist.

Despite the nagging sensation of wanting to respond to the ad, I don’t break my word. Setting my laptop aside, I doom scroll on my phone since my guitar is back in my room unfortunately witnessing my brother getting laid.

“No,” I groan out as I land on a 30-second viral video the algorithm keeps showing me. At this point, the owner of this app must have it out for me. I should swipe away, but instead, I’m stuck watching a shirtless drummer.

I grind my molars while I try to ignore the beads of sweat rolling down his masculine jawline, buff arms, and washboard abs. A red birthmark colors the side of his neck. I kind of like that about him. This imperfection. His white skin is a shade pinker as he puts his whole body into playing drums, exerting maximum effort.

His brown hair is buzzed, and I imagine clutching the back of his skull for one second.

Onesecond.

I am so fucking gay, andfuck, the one guy who does not deserve to be held by my hands or by my eyes is Phoenix St. Pierre.

I force myself to stop checking him out, but my cock strains against my jeans. I palm myself just to kill the brief hard-on.

The video replays. I watch again as this drummer bangs away like his life depends on creating angst-ridden, heart-thrashing rock music.

Acid sears the back of my throat this time.

I hate that I love everything about this song.

I hate that Nothing Personal shares the same music label as The Carraways.

I hate that they’re on the trajectory to be one of the hottest rock bands in the past decade while my band is fading further into the background.

“Quit,” I tell myself. “Just. Fucking. Quit.Tom.”

I look at the band, and I feel my failure. Shouldn’t I be where they are by now? Shouldn’t that have been as easy for me as it was for them?

Why is this so fucking hard?

Am I really talentless?

No.

Nothing Personal isn’t going to kill my confidence. They don’t have that power over me. Fuck them. Fuck Phoenix. Fuck whatever lucky penny they found, and may that lucky penny never find anyone else unless it finds me.

I click out of the video, and as Eliot returns with a giggling, overly handsy Gemma, all I can think about is RJ.

I’m left alone again.

I smear a hand down my face. “Don’t do it,” I tell myself. “Don’t do it.” I’m cringing as I slide through my contacts and land onRJ.

I don’t even know his full name. I could ask our bodyguards. Security definitely ID’d him. I should ask RJ myself, but the times I tried, he just kissed me instead.