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)
I added fast, “But I’m not trying to make it easy for you to leave either. Please don’t do that.”
“I don’t want to,” he whispered. “I’m not going to.” It sounded like a mantra, like something he often repeated in his head.
I’d never considered one of the songs Phoenix and I wrote together could deeply resonate with my little brother. After that night, “Territorial” became my favorite we’d recorded so far.
So, I might not be the worst brother in the world. I’ve clearly made enough strides for Ben to want to spend two hours watching a volcano disaster flick with me, but I naturally want to be the best. Being the best brother means being here for more than a handful of moments. It means keeping this great streak alive.
All it takes is one bad grade to tank your GPA. It’s the same thing.
I feel like I’m about to receive a C+. The plus is being generous on my part. I pick up my guitar case and slip my wallet in my front pocket. “I can cash in the raincheck tomorrow.” Please ask me again. Please let this not be a one-time thing.
“No worries,” Ben says, tying a trash bag. My face must be telling him something. “Really, Tom, it’s okay. You have way more important shit to do.”
“You are the most important thing to me, dude.” I say it, yet my actions are not demonstrating this today, and it’s a blade in my gut.
Ben drags a hand against his neck. Mister Feathers squawks out, “My home! My home!” That bird has serious co-dependency issues, and he’s been with Ben for like a month or two. That’s how easy it is to fall in love with my brother.
I wish I had that power.
He strokes the bird with two fingers before telling me, “I don’t want to be more important to you than your music.”
That hurts.
I set my guitar case on the ground. I open my mouth, shut it, my emotions too scrambled to speak. I never want my ambitions to supersede my brothers, but music has become synonymous with Phoenix, with another person who has bled into the lyrics, into every beat with me.
I’ve never considered, not for a moment, choosing a dream over a brother. Even contemplating it now feels like a betrayal so guttural, I lose oxygen in my lungs.
Is there a way to have it all? There has to be a way.
Because I’m terrified the cost of success is my little brother.
Ben says so quietly, “I don’t want to be the reason you don’t complete your album. I can’t be the reason, Tom. It will destroy me. Do you get that?”
I nod a few times, trying to process this. “Yeah, yeah. But it wouldn’t be your fault—”
“I’ll feel like it is. So when stuff like this arises—you needing to rehearse a song with your drummer—you need to go and not feel like you have to be here with me. Please.”
“Okay,” I relent, but I don’t want to leave him alone. “Hey, I bet Charlie’s around—”
“There is absolutely no way Charlie would watch Dante’s Peak with me,” Ben cuts in.
“What if you let him pick the movie?”
“It’s not the movie that’s the issue,” Ben says. “It’s me. I think he would rather break his other leg than be alone with me for two hours.” He blinks, then covers his face. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—I don’t want him to break his leg. He already broke the first one because of me.”
“Because of a car crash,” I emphasize. “You make it seem like you stepped on his tibia and weren’t just behind the wheel.”
Hands on his waist, he takes a constricted breath. “It feels like I did do that.” He stares hauntedly at a spot in the floorboards. “I know it’s dumb, but now I feel like I spoke another injury into existence and it might happen. You know?”
I’m trying to understand. “Let that shit go, dude. Breathe.”
“I’m trying.” He exhales a deep, steady breath. Is he okay?
I honestly think…no, he’s not. “You should call Beckett.” He can relate to Ben in the way only someone with OCD can.
“He’s at ballet.”
“Then Mom.”
“I’m not worrying Mom or Dad.”
“Your therapist.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He tries to focus on Mister Feathers. “I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.” His chest is taut. “Just go, Tom.” The unsaid thing hangs in the air: I don’t want you to be late because of me.
My feet feel like cement blocks as I move into the living room. I end up texting Harriet, asking if she can come spend the night.
I can’t tell if it’s more for my peace of mind, so I don’t worry about Ben, or if I’m doing something that will truly benefit him. Whatever the case, selfish or not, I wait for her to arrive.
Turns out, Charlie is in Central Park with Beckett, who’s on a break. I urge him to call Ben while he’s not dancing, so hopefully they’re on the phone now. But I’m not leaving Ben home alone, so I loiter in the kitchen.