Page 67 of Silver Sweet

He is immaculate.

Spectacular.

A gift to music.

All things his music teachers told him growing up. It was true.

It still is.

I rub a hand against my mouth and wait in agitation for him to finish—but it doesn’t take long.

He breaks a string on the cello.

“Fuck,” he curses as I hear thesnap.

I step farther into the room, and he shifts on his stool when he sees me. His plaid flannel is tied around his waist. His black buckled leather jacket covers the music stand. He was playing Shostakovich by heart. Sleeves of his white button-down are rolled to his elbows.

“Well, you’re here now. Make yourself useful and help me restring this thing.” He digs into his backpack.

“How about I go get a pair of sheers?” I ask him, my voice taut. “Because you told me you’d rather cut off both your testicles than have to play Shostakovich again.”

His jaw tics. He doesn’t look at me. “I was drunk.”

“You were honest.”

Birdie’s grip tightens on the neck of the cello. “If you’re only here to cut off my balls, you can go.” He points the bow at the door. “Exit stage left, man.”

I take a deep breath and roll out the strain in my muscles. I came in too hot. I blameShostakovich.That piece makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.

I walk over and grab his backpack from him, so he can work on loosening the pegs to remove the broken string. “How long have you been here?” I ask.

“A couple hours. Not long enough.” He focuses on the cello. “Before you ask, this is for a gala next week.”

“The Manhattan Symphony?” I ask.

He nods.

My brother is not a full-time member of the orchestra, but our parents love to parade him out to galas and events. He’s also on just as many sub lists as me, but not to pay his bills. He made it out of Berklee with no loans, and Nothing Personal earned out their two-hundred-grand advance during their last tour, which Riot Records thankfully paid for (does not always happen). Their second album,Draconian, sold enough that they’re now making royalites. He doesn’t need a side hustle.

My brother reached a place we would’ve killed for—he’s in a successful rock band that’s gaining momentum to become somethingbig.

I know without asking that this gala wasn’t his idea.

“Tell themno,” I say. “They can’t keep trotting you around like a show pony, Bird. You have to end this.”

His jaw tenses again. He’s not blinking as he works on the string. “Maybe I want to do this.”

“Maybe you want to jump off a cliff too,” I snap at him.

“Sounds fun.” His hands deftly remove the broken string from his cello. “Schedule cliff diving next week?”

“Birdie—”

“It’s our last name, Phoenix,” he cuts in. “St. Pierre.Papi will keel over before weend his legacy.” He extends a hand, palm-up. But I catch sight of his fede ring first. Our grandfather gavehimthe ring. Because he’s the St. Pierre with promise. The gifted one they all believed would honor our last name in the orchestra world.

No one ever put that amount of pressure on me. At times I think my unwillingness to listen to our parents made them cling harder to Birdie. He’s the son they can control when they’ve lost faith in controlling me.

They don’t want two fuckups for sons struggling to pay rent every month. I get it.