Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 220
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 861(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
He flips me off behind my parents’ backs.
I laugh and turn back to my mom’s smile, which hasn’t dimmed. Then she’s telling me, “I haven’t seen you this happy in so long.”
I don’t think I have been. “I feel like I’m finally moving past the Chase stuff. This album I wrote with Tom has helped. Performing it every night.”
My dad nods with a crinkled expression, like he’s trying—really trying—to comprehend how angsty, raging music can heal and not hurt.
Rock music isn’t the reason we’re in pain. It’s the reason we haven’t let our pain consume us.
“That’s good,” he says. “That’s really good.”
It’s been dawning on me minute by minute. “Tom told you we’re together, didn’t he?”
My dad has a coy smile, then he looks down at my mom.
She procures a folded piece of paper out of her purse. “He wrote us a letter.” She tucks the white paper to her chest like it’s precious. “You’re very lucky you’ve found each other.”
My dad gives a much more robust nod.
Tom wrote them a letter? It’s barely processing.
“When’s the World Tour start?” my dad asks, and as I begin talking about The Carraways, I realize they’re not asking about money and my debt. They’re openly supporting my band in a way they’ve yet to do.
I feel like I’m dreaming. Reality returns when I ask, “Were you able to watch Nothing Personal? Birdie played great tonight.”
My little brother glances expectantly at them, waiting with bated breath.
“Bird, you were terrific,” Mom says, nodding too fast. “Really great. Philippe?”
Dad sucks in a breath through his nose. “Of course, you’re always excellent, but drums are Phoenix’s discipline. It’s nicer seeing you on cello.”
“He played cello too,” I say.
“For one song,” Dad rebuts. “And not even in his band. It was your band. It would be nice to see Birdie put all his potential and talent into something…more.”
Birdie stares unblinkingly at a stain in the carpet.
“Dad,” I force out.
“It’s not a criticism—”
“—the fuck it isn’t.”
“Language, Phoenix,” Mom chastises, glancing around the green room like we’re at the theater and going to be kicked out.
“It’s been a great night,” Dad tells us. “Let’s not end on a soured note.” The only reason I let it go is because Birdie shakes his head at me like, Not worth the trouble. I thank them for coming and hug my mom goodbye, then my dad. And he says, “Go with your boyfriend to the hospital.”
I assure him I will, then they’re gone.
Birdie and I are staring off, side by side. He’s the first to say what I’m thinking. “Must’ve been some letter.” He chugs his soda. “Think he can write me one?”
59
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
I’m drenched in sweat. The outdoor waterfront venue in Portland, Maine, has one of the most spectacular views of the entire tour—but fuck, it’s hot.
We’re outside, so no air conditioning.
And of course, we’ve been blessed with a heat wave that’s terrorizing the Northeast during the middle of July. I’ve already uncapped three bottles of Aquafina and doused myself in ice-cold water. It barely helps the inferno consuming my body. Between songs, Tom sprints stage right to stand in front of a box fan for a full ten seconds.
He’s taking care of himself. It lessens my worry to manageable levels, at least. He knows if he passes out onstage, he’s not good to anyone. He will actually freak out a ton of people.
When we finish the final encore song, I’m expecting to feel relief. But as we both stand at the edge of the stage and I toss my drumsticks in the crowd—feelings are mixed. Complicated.
Tom gives me an electric smile, and it wavers at the corners of his lips.
It’s our last Saturday on tour.
We only have four more shows after this.
And yeah—we’re going to Europe following our break in August. But it won’t be with Nothing Personal. It won’t be this. My first tour with Tom. Our first adventure together. It’s almost over, and that foreshadowed loss is already hitting hard.
I’m hanging on to every single second. Like how the roses land at our feet, and I make sure to grab a couple off the stage, wave them in the air in thanks. Do not want to forget this.
Tom removes his IEMs and hands Hannah his guitar backstage. “Great news,” he tells me. “We just played in Hell. Mark it off the list.”
I shake my head. “There is no list. And if there was, that is definitely not on it.”
He turns to Hannah. “Mark it off the list.”
She smiles. “I just talked to my family back in Odessa, and it’s a hundred and ten. This is really nothing.” She leaves with Tom’s guitar, and we make our way to the white event tent behind the stage—our green room for the show.
Fans circulate cool air through it, and it’s crowded as hell. Nothing Personal’s tour bus busted their A/C this morning, so they’ve been mainly hanging here.