I can see it, the exasperated smirk, the little shrug. It makes me smile even as something in my chest caves in.
It was good, loud as usual.
So busy with the album you didn’t come home?
My heart sinks after I send it. Maybe some part of me, some wild, stupid, selfish part, wanted the possibility of seeing him again. The impulse to drive to his apartment and make a terrible mistake.
His reply comes:
couldn't.
didn’t trust myself in the same city as you.
If you were here, I wouldn’t trust myself either.
now I regret everything.
You should watch a Lynch film if you’re in the mood for poor choices.
I’d watch nothing but Lynch for the rest of my life if that’s what it took to have you in my arms tonight.
I close my eyes, sighing. The spark is flickering to life, that dangerous pull that’s always existed between us. My mind floods with memories: late-night calls, laughter through phone static, the sound of his voice lowering when he'd say my name, making my stomach flip. The way he looked at me when we were together, like he’d been searching the world for the exact light that fell on my face.
Rafe… we can’t do this.
I love you, but I can’t.
We can’t.
don’t.
please.
just keep talking to me Kas.
I stare at the screen until it blurs.
It’s not fair to either of us. Get some sleep.
I love you.
Don't wait. Be happy, Rafe.
I hit send and feel the sob building before it reaches my throat. I can’t cry here, not on the porch, not in frontof anyone. I stand, call into the kitchen that I’m heading home, ignore Mama’s question about leftovers, and run for my car. The night air is freezing, but it’s nothing compared to the cold settling inside my chest.
Chapter 70
Waiting & Wreaths
It’s Christmas morning and all I can do is stare at the tree, how it leans slightly from where Zosia and Kacper took turns tugging at the tinsel, and the floor is a riot of wrapping paper and ribbon. The gifts are predictable this year, which is exactly what makes them comforting: socks, sweaters, chocolates, the same fancy soaps Mama insists are “good for skin, not for decoration.” Tata opens a bottle of cherry cordial and declares it medicine for the heart.
Aga’s glowing and about ready to burst. January can’t come soon enough. She and Piotr unwrap a matching set of baby blankets and immediately start debating which one is better for proper swaddling.
Kacper toddles around on uncertain legs, laughing every time someone calls his name like it’s the best sound in the world. When he drops a bauble and it rolls under the couch, Tata gets down on hands and knees to retrieve it, muttering that Santa didn’t bring him a new spine this year.
Natalia’s snapping photos of everything, but every so often she checks her phone, smiling to herself. I don’t ask, but I already know who’s on the other end. Mama dishes out the sernik, while Piotr and Aga kiss under a branch of mistletoe Kacper somehow found, snow beginning to fall outside the window.
By afternoon, the house smells like placki and something sweet from the oven. That’s when Dominik arrives with Zosia, bundled in ared coat, cheeks pink, clutching a gift she’s clearly proud of wrapping herself. It’s lumpy, taped within an inch of its life.
