I scroll through my messages. Hers. Every word, every emoji, every scrap of a laugh. Nothing new. I type something.Delete. Type again.Delete. It’s pathetic, but it’s the only conversation I still have.
The vodka burns as expected. I remember the taste of it on her lips, the night we danced in her parents’ living room, her father’s old stereo humming something slow and Polish. The city glows like a heartbeat below me, and before I can stop myself, I type the only words that don’t feel like lies.
I hit send before I can think better of it. The message goes out into the night, into the static between us. The silence afterward is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
Still here. Still waiting.
Chapter 69
Happy Thanksgiving
November moves like wet cement, slow, heavy and unrelenting. The clinic’s a blur of fluorescent lights and exhaustion. Half the partners are away visiting family, so the rest of us pick up the slack. The patient load doubled overnight. Conrad looks like he hasn’t slept in three days, muttering to himself as he flips through charts.
My days blur into long corridors and eye exams, difficult cases stacked one after another. People don’t realize how draining kindness can be, how much it takes to keep smiling when you want to lie down on the floor and stop existing. When I get home, I barely remember who I’ve spoken to.
By the time Thanksgiving comes, I’ve convinced myself I’ll make it through the day fine. Aga’s glowing, her belly round beneath a soft sweater. She’s reached the phase where Piotr hovers like a human force field, constantly refilling her water glass or rearranging the chair cushions. Kacper’s almost walking, wobbling between furniture with determination that has the entire family cheering every few steps.
“When he’s running, we’ll never sleep again,” Piotr says, mock-dramatic.
Natalia’s taking photos of everything, the food, the table, her own reflection in the window. “Perfect for my followers,” she says. “Food porn at its peak. Oh, and I got a sponsorship from that vitamin company, great for seasonal depression. You should try some.”
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, stabbing at the stuffing.
Dinner turns into its usual beautiful chaos, laughter, bickering, too much vodka. Piotr’s loud and sentimental, making toasts to Aga, eyes adoring her and the baby she’s carrying, promising he’ll drink her share since she can’t. Everyone groans and clinks glasses. For a while, it feels almost normal again.
Until the playlist changes songs. The first few notes freeze me, that familiar, aching piano. His voice, low and raw, the one I know better than my own pulse. My breath catches. The cover that started everything. Before I can move, Piotr’s already on it, lunging for the phone, muttering, “Next,” as he switches songs. The room exhales in a collective groan.Everyone loves that song.
But it’s too late. I’m gone. It all floods back, the taste of his kiss against the ice machine, the sound of his laugh echoing off the marble at the Connaught, the heat of his lips against the small of my back, his dimple showing when he handed me my helmet.
My chest aches so hard it feels like something’s breaking again. I excuse myself, ignoring the looks that pass between them. They all pretend not to notice, but they do. In the bathroom, the mirror is too honest. I stare at myself, tired, brittle, pretending. I pick up my phone before I can stop myself.
Maybe he’s over me by now, under someboring supermodelas he put it once. Maybe he’s happy. Maybe it’s nothing to him anymore. I wonder if he’s in Seattle for Thanksgiving. The thought alone is dangerous. I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Happy Thanksgiving.
I stare at the words, thumb hovering. It’s pathetic. It’s stupid. He’ll probably ignore it. But I hit send anyway. When I walk back out, the conversation has shifted, someone’s complaining about how the parade “just isn’t as good this year.” Piotr’s waiting for me with two shot glasses and that soft, knowing look he gets when he’s worried but pretending not to be.
He hands me one. “Na zdrowie, siostra.”
I down it in one swallow. The burn is clean, merciful.
He pats my back. “That’s how it’s done. Let the vodka do its work until the heart catches up.”
I nod, my throat too tight for words. Inside, the house fills with laughter and warmth. But it’s all noise against the silence of my phone sitting in my pocket, the screen still dark.
Rafe
Rithy’s halfway through a story about a disastrous date with a drummer from some underground metal band when I realize I haven’t heard a word of it. His voice fills the space anyway, bright, animated, dramatic enough for both of us. He’s good at that, pretending his noise can drown out my quiet.
The restaurant’s loud and polished, some L.A. place where the menus are QR codes and everyone talks like they’re auditioning for something. Rithy loves it. I don’t. He’s on his second cocktail, wavinghis hands as he reenacts how he accidentally sent agoodnight handsometext to the wrong person.
“And he answered,” he says, eyes wide, grin pointed. “Like—‘you too, beautiful.’”
I manage a weak laugh. “Maybe he meant it.”
“Oh, he didn’t.” He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I blocked both of them and ordered ramen.”
He takes another sip, studies me. “You know, it’s not healthy to sit in silence all the time. This is good. This is necessary, you need to leave your hotel room andstop sulkingfor five minutes. Saythank you, Rithy.”
