Page 59 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)
BEN COBALT
I text Harriet.
Ben Cobalt
Out of my budget
She’s quick to reply.
Harriet Fisher
What is your budget?
I don’t need to pop open my bank account to know what I can afford. I skate a hand through my hair, while I sit on the toilet lid.
Ben Cobalt
like a hundred bucks.
Harriet Fisher
Bad news, you’d probably have to toss in nudes to make that work.
I laugh and smear a hand down my chin in surprise.
Seriously, I haven’t laughed in days. Living with my brothers since Charlie and Beckett’s birthday feels a lot like sleeping on a bed of nails.
Stress compounds every night, and I’m just trying to find a reasonable solution.
One that doesn’t include cashing in a favor with a random friend.
I’d rather not stay for free with someone I vaguely know and use my last name as a bargaining chip. It could add more problems.
Harriet would be my first choice. But she’s already asked her roommate if I could crash on their couch, even for just a few days, and Harriet said it was “the most awkward interaction yet.”
Apparently, Eden reminded her, “You sleep on the couch.” To which Harriet had to say, “Yeah, he’d be sleeping with me, but not with me, with me. We won’t fool around or anything…we’re just friends.”
Eden got uncomfortable and said, “I don’t want to walk in on anything.” It’s understandable. If I spend the night with Harriet again, I honestly can’t guarantee I won’t touch her. I already succumbed to the temptation with my brothers feet away in their bedrooms.
Harriet was bummed her place is out of contention. But I love this —apartment hunting with her. It’s been the best part of this whole issue, and honestly, I’m hoping it doesn’t end too fast.
I text her back.
Ben Cobalt
I hear blow jobs are effective bargaining chips.
Harriet Fisher
AHFA. Against Harriet Fisher’s Advice.
My lips twitch into a bigger smile as I type out a reply.
Ben Cobalt
Is Harold still available?
She offered her car to me yesterday—but I declined because I’m six fucking five and it’s a sedan .
Harriet Fisher
Rescinded. I cannot be the cause for early onset back issues.
I laugh even harder. Fuck.
Harriet Fisher
Greek Row might be your best bet…unfortunately.
Yeah, the frat. It was one of our first ideas that we brainstormed together, but I threw it out because I’m not sure I want to be surrounded by Greek life. It comes with a lot more than just a bed to sleep on.
I check the time on my phone. Shit, I have to go.
I text Harriet quickly.
Ben Cobalt
You might be right. Talk after dinner.
She likes the text, and I slip the phone in my pocket before heading toward the dining room. I take my place at my usual seat.
Five Wednesdays have passed since I buried Theodore.
Five Wednesdays where every single one of my siblings showed up to dinner.
Even Beckett, whose presence at these things is more like a warm spell during the winter.
Infrequent but appreciated. I always thought I’d be more likely to see a California Condor than Beckett at five dinners in a row.
And here we are, at number six .
He’s seated in the chair across from mine. There’s no real assigned seating on Wednesday nights except for the heads of the table reserved for our parents. Their chairs are currently empty, and dinner doesn’t officially start until they arrive.
With all my siblings here again tonight, carrying on their perfect attendance streak, tension has amassed. I can’t shake it. Not when they exchange side glances and cagey looks between each other.
Ever since I assaulted Tate, their concern for me has been in my face. Apparent. Visible. But tonight, I sense a weird shift.
There is a hold-your-breath strain in the air. Like each sibling is balanced on a sharp edge of worry.
Did they discover I’m broke? Or that I’m currently searching for housing? I have no clue, but they’ve learned something.
Maybe, just maybe , this has absolutely nothing to do with me.
Except, I’m being left out of the shared glimpses, which is usually a telltale sign that I’m the topic of fixation.
I won’t be surprised if they throw self-help pamphlets at my face tonight.
The pages would probably be generically inspirational.
Since it’s not like anyone knows I’m on a countdown to say goodbye to New York. Right?
Fuck, please tell me they haven’t figured out the plan.
Anxious heat gathers under my white collegiate tee, and I almost check my phone to reread texts from Harriet. Instead, I chug some water from a crystal goblet.
I try my best to not be swept back to last week when I saw Beckett in the kitchen. To not remember him scrubbing at his red, raw skin. The visual sinks a rock straight down to my gut. It screams at me to buy a plane ticket tomorrow, but we’re only in the last week of September.
And Harriet—I can’t wrap my head around leaving her abruptly when she’s faced so much abandonment in her life. Hell, I can’t really concentrate on leaving her at all. It wedges a fucking pain in my ribs, and I’d rather just focus on the good.
Good news: the frat is a viable option, and I could potentially move out of my brothers’ apartment really soon.
I’m just weighing when I should drop this information.
Telling everyone at a Wednesday Night Dinner is the equivalent of setting off a firework inside the house. Not sure I’m ready for those flames.
I glance at Beckett again.
He came straight from rehearsal today, so he didn’t have time to change out of his black tights and a casual white T-shirt. He shovels some green beans onto his plate.
The long dining table is so full that I can barely spot the oak wood underneath.
Ornate dishware, goblets, candlesticks, and vintage décor are arranged around platters of cranberries, potatoes, green beans, and a roasted goose.
The tablescape is as artistic as a painting, and along with the meal, it never changes.
Thankfully, the goose resides at the other end.
Out of my eyesight. I remember being pretty young—five or six—and not being able to peel my eyes off the meat for the entire dinner.
My stomach twisted in vicious knots, and I just kept restraining hot tears.
It hit me like a sledgehammer that what I’d been eating was a bird.
Like the ones I grew up joyfully watching on the lake at our family’s vacation house.
After the meal, my dad took me to the library and asked me what was wrong. I told him I didn’t want to eat birds anymore. He listened as I cried and asked him about the origins of the burgers we had the day before.
It was that night we agreed that I could become a vegetarian—but it only took me two more weeks to learn about animal byproducts after I pestered my older brothers and sister about vegetarianism.
Charlie got fed up and asked me, “If you’re so concerned about the animals, why are you still drinking milk? ”
I stopped consuming dairy that day, and then my dad explained veganism.
I remember telling him, “I want that.” As if changing my whole lifestyle was as simple as picking out a pair of clothes.
I was too young to realize it’d change what restaurants they went to.
What they’d have stocked in their fridge.
How I’d have to have my own section of the pantry so that I knew what I could safely eat as a kid.
I appreciated the extra step they always took, even if it made me feel guilty at times.
My first Wednesday after becoming vegan, my mom made sure I’d have a seitan roast on my side of the table.
I never asked for it. Didn’t want to make it a big deal.
I really would have been fine just eating some green beans and potatoes.
But when I saw she had the chef prepare one, it meant a lot to me.
Chef Michael will usually stuff the seitan with different ingredients every week like mushrooms, walnuts, or spinach.
So while everyone has the same meal—I’ve enjoyed the variation of mine.
Standing, I carve a slice. “Anyone want the seitan?” I offer like I do every Wednesday. Not all of them hate it.
“What’s in it tonight?” Tom asks while sitting on the frame of his chair. He’s mastered the art of balancing on the thing. Only after breaking a dozen of them when we were kids. Eliot would typically catch Tom before he could ever crack his head on the floor.
Right now, his zipper-chained combat boots rest on the cushioned seat. He’s dressed in a black gothic waistcoat with a silver cross at the collar, and he tosses a serpent-headed scepter between his hands.
I inspect my piece of seitan. “Shiitake mushrooms and wild rice.”
“Hard pass,” Tom says. “I’ve developed an aversion to mushrooms. Once you get a slimy one, there’s no going back. I’m fucked for all time.”
“Fucked for all time should be a new song title,” Eliot suggests, his shiny black leather shoes kicked up on the table. A pipe sticks out his mouth, and he puffs perfect rings of smoke.
Our mom loathes smoking. Cannot stand even the stench or sight of a cigarette.
Yet, she never could dissuade Charlie and Beckett from the bad habit—the two of them smoke the most of everyone.
No amount of charred lung photos or statistics of long-term effects could sway them, but Beckett won’t light a cigarette in front of her.
And she’s only allowed smoking on Wednesday nights if it’s not during the entire duration of the meal.
Meaning, at some point, Eliot will have to set the pipe aside.
Pipe between his lips, he currently wears a formal tux with tails tonight, far different from his loose-fitted linen shirt Audrey called “pirate chic” he had on last Wednesday.
There is no dress code here.
There never is. Just like in our daily lives, our parents have let us express ourselves however we wish at these dinners. No holds barred.