We sit on the floor, backs against the bed, glasses clinking in the dim light. The absinthe burns warm and nostalgic. Conversation drifts from the setlist, to old tours, then songs we never finished, to places we swore we’d see again, together.
I study him for a moment, the light catching the edge of his jaw. “About time you found someone to commiserate with, don’t you think?”
Rithy snorts. “You know me. It’s about the music, this life. Not a person.”
But I see it, the thing we always pretend isn’t there before he looks away. We pour another round. The warmth turns to blur. I pull out my phone and type a message to Kasia.still awake?
Rithy eyes the screen, tilts his chin toward it dismissively. “Why are you still bothering with her? Trying to sample the whole menu before you die, is that it?”
He plays at teasing but the slurred words are meant to cut. His eyes search my face, I can feel the burn of it along everywhere they pass. The heat behind it.
I look up, a tired smile tugging at my mouth, the alcohol loosening my tongue. “I love her, Rith,” I say, without thinking.
For a heartbeat Rithy looks like he’s been slapped. The expression reflecting in his eyes, hurt, disbelief, somethingdarker. Then he laughs, brittle, the kind that hides more than it admits.
“You?Love?Well, best of luck to her. She’s gonna need it.” He toasts the air in mock congratulations before downing another shot.
I frown. “Seriously? I know I’m not perfect, but I’m notthat bad.”
“Notthat bad?Youalwaysfuck it up. With everyone.” He knocks the shot back like punctuation. “Even the ones you don’tloveback.Especiallythose.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, barely a whisper. “I can’t control what people feel.”
He leans in, eyes glinting. “Maybe stop kissing them on stage for the fucking cheers, then.” We're close now,too close. All the unsaid things stretch thin between us, threatening to unravel. I can feel it coming, the tension that’s been waiting years to surface. We’re both breathing hard. My heart stutters in my chest.
“It’s through the veil,” I manage. “Spur of the moment. Adrenaline.” I attempt a dismissive wave of my wrist, spilling a little absinthe left in my shot glass.
He holds my stare, voice soft, almost a whisper. “Don’t pretend the veil or the adrenaline ever mattered,Rafe.” His eyes flick once to my mouth, then he looks away and grabs another shot. “You don’tkissKiri or Ronan. Funny that.I wonder why.”
I swallow, glance down, stare at my palms, rotate the ring on my finger to keep from shaking. Maybe he’s right and the veil never mattered. Maybe that was just the story I told myself to make it smaller, contained. To keep testing something until one of us broke, except neither of us ever did.
I stand, the air between us snapping as I move. “You’re right,” I say, clearing my throat. “I shouldn’t have started it. I was young, reckless, no idea what I felt or wanted. But that doesn’t excuse it. It’s on me.”
“Ah,therehe is. The martyr. Thetortured artist,right on time.” Rithy tips another glass, swallowing it like a dare. “No shit, it’s on you.”
“I’m gonna head out.”
“Go ahead,” he mutters. “Do what youalwaysdo. Run.”
The words twist in my gut, wound. The door closes behind me with a soft click. I stand there for a long moment, staring at nothing, the bottle burning in my hand. I place it outside his door, like a makeshift offering or penance, guilt taking hold. I’d wanted to make things better, to start the tour with a clean slate or at least a better understanding between us. Somehow, I only made it worse. Maybe he’s right. Maybe that's all I know how to do. Some people leave the heat of their fingerprints,I just leave bruises.
When I finally walk away, the hallway feels colder. My hand sinks into my pocket, the phone pressing against my palm. At least she’s still there, on the other end, the only thing that makes sense.
Chapter 55
Watch Your Tempo
Rafe
The next evening crackles with that pre-show electricity, the kind that feels alive in the walls. Berlin has always been good to us. The venue is part industrial, part cathedral, and the second I walk in, the noise hits, guitars being tuned, crew shouting levels across the stage, Råvind’s laughter echoing off the concrete. It helps, the sound, the movement, the purpose of it all. It burns off the nerves left from last night with Rithy, the conversation I’ve been trying not to replay.
Ronan is already there, of course, at his kit, and byat his kit,I mean atFreja’s. He’s crouched beside her, tightening something on the snare that’s been tightened three times already. She’s pretending not to notice how close he’s sitting. I don’t even try to hide the smirk; I just raise an eyebrow when he glances over. He shrugs likewhat, I’m being helpful.
The crew moves like a small army, black-clad, cables in hand. One of them, a girl with a low ponytail and a ball cap pulled down so far I can barely see her eyes, passes me a coil of cables. She mutters a quick cheers and ducks away to adjust a monitor. When she spins too fast, she runs straight into me.
“Whoa.” I steady her by the elbow before she drops the cables.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she says, accent lilting. Scandinavian, tighter vowels, clipped edges. “I didn’t see you.”
