Page 65 of Silver Sweet

It’d be a lie to say reality didn’t hurt.

It hurts every time.

I wonder if I just like the pain. Because she’s showing me the path where it doesn’t exist. The orchestra. The reason I even have student debt was for a degree I’m not using to its full potential.

What a waste.

Me.

My eyes sear. “I’ve got to go,” I say, trying not to sound choked. Or she’ll just worry more.

“Okay, don’t forget the auditions on Friday…”

I tune her out. Guilt twists my gut. “Yeah, yeah,” I tell her. “Mom, I need to go.”

“Okay, okay,” she says fast. “I love you. Have a great day. Tell Birdie I said hi.”

“K, love you too.” I hang up and try not to replay her advice, which just pulses my temple and bears weight on my chest.

I take a couple steps toward the door and water pools around my toes.

Ohfuck.

More water seeps underneath the doorframe, and when I push into the hall, my feet splash against half an inch of liquid.

Yeah…we have a leak.

Our apartment is one long hallway that has seven interior doors. The first three lead to shared spaces (bathroom, kitchen, and living room) while the last four go to bedrooms.

A vintage movie poster of the 1979 filmAlienhangs on my brother’s door. I rap my fist against the wood. “Birdie!”

No answer. I twist the knob, but it’s locked.

Fuck.

I move to the next door and knock. “Neil! Steffi!”Nothing. I don’t try to open this one because Neil sleeps in the nude, and I have already met my limit on seeing Neil and Steffi tangled together in bed. Thanks go to the tight quarters on the tour bus for that statistic.

My feet splash as I continue down the hall, skipping my room, and I end up at the last door.

I pound a fist on the wood. “Scally!”No answer. I’m not at all jealous that my roommates sleep like fucking logs. “Scal!” I yell into a frustrated breath.

Just as I’m about to try the knob, the door swings open abruptly.

Vale Scalamonti. He emerges from his bedroom with a mop of disheveled brown hair and a wrinkled Alice Cooper tee. Bracelets run up the olive skin of his wrists along with two sleeves of tattoos.

There are only two things Scally gives a shit about. One, Nothing Personal. The band he created with Steffani Mendoza in their dorm at NYU. Two, having a good fucking time.

Considering it looks like he passed out in his clothes, I’m guessing he went hard on number two last night. I’ve partied with him enough to know it consists of a 3 a.m. binge ofcigarettes, alt-rock so loud it shakes the walls, and cheap booze. He bites on the chain at his neck—a tell that he’s still drunk.

He grabs the doorway to steady himself. “What the fuck, Phoenix?” he groans and squints through the harsh light in the hall. His eyes fall to the ground. “Is that?—?”

“Water. We’ve got a fucking leak,” I say. “I need you to call Vincent.” Our landlord blocked my number a year ago when I cussed him out for not taking care of termites.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“Vincent is spending the month in Bali. Remember? It’s one of those bougie holistic retreats where they confiscate your phone.”