I promised her no chaos, that I’d be good. Chew on a stick if needed. So when I saw it, I knew I had to. If the price of redemption is a mouthful of bark and dirt, fine. If it makes her laugh, she can call me hergood boyfor all I fucking care.
I might be more into that than I care to admit.
The moment she sees me, she shakes her head, trying not to give me the satisfaction of breaking her, holding back the laugh she knows is fighting to come out.
“Rafe. What—”
I try to mumble through the stick, but she takes it from my mouth, disbelief written into her movements as she frees it. “I knew artistic types were different, but I clearly underestimated how different.” She pokes me in the chest with it onhow, and I feel like I’ve won the firstbattle, her smile, her face, all of it, bought with the price of a free stick and an ant I'm pretty sure I just swallowed.
“But you’resmiling,” I say. “So—”
“Certifiable,” she cuts in, grinning. “Luckily for you, I’m notthatkind of doctor.”
I wave her inside. She steps through, still holding it, twisting it idly like a cigarette. The apartment’s warm, dim, its usual mix of chaos and charm. A half-open guitar case leans against the wall, a stack of vinyl waits by the record player.
I hang her coat and try to convince her on the menu. “Spaghetti. I figured it was neutral territory, no warring Polish or Korean mothers influencing the outcome.”
She laughs, glancing around. “You have plants and they’re alive. I’m impressed already.”
“They’re resilient,” I tell her. “They’ve learned to water themselves when I forget.”
She huffs another laugh, and it’s that sound again, the one that makes the room brighter without even trying. She talks about her day while I stir random pots, drain pasta, attempt to plate something that passes as food. We eat. The pauses don’t feel forced, but there’s still a wall, one I built. I want to tear it down, but the only real way is time, proof.More of this.
After dinner, a few strawberries and several glasses of wine later, the stick’s abandoned on the couch beside her. She’s been waving it like a wand all evening, reluctant to let it go, as if it’s proof I’m still trying to win her forgiveness. I reach for the worn photo album I’d mentioned that night in Miami, old tour memories, smudged Polaroids, ticket stubs, pages taped back together after spills.
“Alright,” I say, settling next to her. “You asked for evidence of theObscene Poet Era.”
She leans in, shoulder brushing mine, the scent of her shampoo and perfume making it hard to think straight for a second. Then her voice pulls me out. “Show me.”
I flip through until I find it, Berlin, years ago. All of us younger, drunker, alive in that reckless way you only are once. There I am, eyes glassy, frosting smeared across my face like green war paint. Ronan’s mid-laugh, Kiri’s holding up a pastry like a trophy. And Rithy’s beside me, hand on my shoulder, head thrown back, mouth open in pure, unguarded joy, but his eyes are on me.
“God,” I groan. “I really look like the villain in a children’s puppet show.”
She laughs so hard she snorts, covering her mouth. “You look like a deranged Kermit.”
“I told you,” I grin. “He was asmercilessthen as he is now, just less bitter.”
Her laughter fades to a smile as she studies the photo more closely. Her finger traces the edge, not me, but Rithy, frozen mid-laugh.
“He looks happy,” she says thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” I answer. “He was.”
“Before the band got big?”
I nod. “Before we learned what ambition costs.”
She hesitates, thumb still near his face. “You know,” she says softly, “the way he looked at you here, maybethat’swhat he hates about me.”
The words land, perfectly aimed. I blink, thrown by how easily she says it, how gently she sees something I’ve pretended not to.
“You always diagnose this fast?” I try for humor and fail.
“Only when the symptoms are obvious,” she says, kindness weaved with caution. “It’s always in the eyes.” Her finger hovers between his line of sight and me, and I swallow hard.
For a moment neither of us moves, rain tapping the window. I glance back at the photo, at the way his hand rests on my shoulder, the warmth in his face, and I feel something like grief.
“He’s been my best friend since we were teenagers,” I say softly. “The band, what we’ve built, it’s sacred to him. I think we blurred a line somewhere along the way. Pushing each other on stage, leaning into all the fan service. We got caught up and didn’t know what to do from there. Guess neither of us knew how to ask if it was real. Maybe it was for a while.I don’t know.” The words leave me drained, full of old worry. For me, for Rithy, the band.
