36. The Quiet After （Wren）
THE QUIET AFTER (WREN)
I turn the phone face down.
After last night’s downpour, the city is washed clean, shy spring light slipping through Larisa’s curtains. My body feels heavy—static humming just under my skin, colors dulled at the edges. That familiar pale-white buzz of overload.
Larisa is still asleep beside me on her double bed, wrapped in the Billie Eilish hoodie I bought her at the merch stand the other day, her hair sticking out at wild angles. She’s smiling in her sleep, mouth tipped up like she’s still there, still singing.
The memory of her joy over the past few days moves through me in warm bursts: greens, bright yellows, tiny sparks of light. I hold onto it as long as I can.
But the second I sit up, the weight returns. Last night. The concert. Him.
The way he looked at me under the marquee. Like he’d lost something he didn’t know how to get back. Like watching me walk away broke something in him too.
I shut my eyes harder. It doesn’t help. I can still see the steel blue, the gold flickering at the edges.
No. Not today.
Today is about leaving New York in one piece. About finding one small part of myself that isn’t cracked straight through.
My phone buzzes.
ERIN
If you’re still in the city, come say hi before you head back
I’m home
My heart drums.
I stare at the text. Yes would be easy. No would be safer.
Part of me wants to see her—needs to, even. But she’s his sister. Being close to her means being close to his orbit. To the possibility of running into him again.
But she was my friend. At the cabin. Before everything went wrong.
I text back.
WREN
My bus leaves at 3
I’ll stop by at 1?
Her reply comes instantly, along with her address.
ERIN
Perfect. Dmitri’s taking Amneris to a birthday party around then
I’ll text you my address
See you soon
The apartment wakes slowly.
In the kitchen, I drink black, eye-wateringly strong coffee with Tanti Dana, the kind that tastes of discipline and restraint, bitter and necessary.
When Uncle Mircea emerges from the bedroom, already dressed, he kisses Dana’s forehead, then cups my cheek briefly in his paint-stained hand. He smells faintly of turpentine and soap.
“Bun? diminea?a, Irina,” he says gently. “You look so much like your mother.”
I swallow hard. My mother played the flute in concert halls. Debussy and Ravel, light as air. I do differential equations and tutoring for some extra money. But when he says it, for just a second, I feel like maybe there’s still something beautiful left in me.
In his makeshift studio corner, a canvas leans against the wall—a cityscape, maybe Bucharest, buildings layered like memory with light breaking through in stubborn slashes of color. Even now, working as a doorman, he paints as a man who expects the world to take him seriously.
I came back to Queens for Larisa’s concert. Stayed for the echo of my parents in Mircea’s careful brushstrokes and Dana’s strong coffee. Places where I’m still Irina.
I finish breakfast, gather my things, and hug them both at the door.
“Drum bun, Irina,” Mircea says. Safe travels.
Outside, March air bites sharp and clean. The sun is bright, unapologetic. I pull my coat tighter and start toward the city.
The Upper East Side always feels like a different country. Clean sidewalks that shine. Old money. Dogs in tiny sweaters. Everything curated: warm neutrals, soft light, polite hum of cabs on Park Avenue.
Nothing like the chaos inside my chest.
The doorman greets me, polished and efficient, and announces into a discreet little receiver that a visitor has arrived for Ms. O’Connor. A second later, the elevator doors swallow me whole.
Upstairs, the hallway smells faintly of jasmine and new carpet. I knock softly.
Footsteps.
Then the door swings open.
“Wren!” Erin’s face lights up, all warmth and genuine joy. She pulls me into a hug before I can even form a full sentence. “So good to see you. Come in, come in.”
Her energy washes over me in warm burgundy edged with copper, unclenching the tension in my body by a fraction.
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay last night,” I say quietly, but she waves it off immediately.
“Don’t apologize. I get it.” Her tone stays gentle, matter-of-fact. She squeezes me once more, a steadying kind of contact, then steps back and studies my face. “I’m really glad you came today.”
“You were incredible,” I manage, and I mean it. “That performance was…unreal. You had my cousin hooked in the first few bars.”
Erin laughs, pleased. “She has taste. I approve.”
She leads me into the living room—minimalist but warm, with framed sheet music on the walls and glass doors cracked open to chilly spring air.
“Coffee?” Erin asks. “Tea? Dmitri made coffee this morning that could probably power the city grid.”
“Him and my aunt have something in common, then,” I huff a laugh.
Before I can make a joke about Eastern Europeans, a small tornado of curls and sparkles barrels around the corner. A tiny girl skids to a stop right in front of me and tips her head back, studying my face with cheerful, blunt curiosity.
“You’re Wren,” she announces, as if confirming a fact Erin promised her.
“I am,” I say softly.
Her grin goes wide. “I’m Amneris. But you can call me Ris.” She holds out her hand, solemn and brave, then, without waiting for my response, steps forward and wraps her arms around my waist.
My body goes still, not in fear, but surprise.
The contact lands somewhere I’ve kept sealed since the night everything cracked open.
Small and trusting.
I soften into it, returning the hug with the same quiet certainty she offers me.
Something in my chest loosens.
When was the last time touch didn’t ask me to prepare for what came next?
“Hi, Ris,” I murmur.
She pulls back and studies me with serious eyes. “You’re really pretty,” she declares, matter-of-fact. “Erin said you were smart and brave. She didn’t say pretty.”
My eyes sting. “Thank you, Ris. You’re really pretty too.”
“I know,” she says easily, patting my arm with grave authority before spinning toward the hallway. “Papa! I’m ready!”
Dmitri appears behind her in a navy sweater, expression set to a stoic Slavic neutral that somehow reads like home.
He gives me a single nod. “Good morning, Wren.”
I manage a small smile. “Morning.”
Erin tips her head toward the foyer, her tone sliding into mock-scolding. “Dmitri is taking Miss Sparkle to a birthday party, so you caught us at the perfect moment.”
Amneris plants her hands on her hips, scandalized. “You told me sparkle is a state of mind.”
Dmitri’s mouth twitches. That is his version of a full grin, I suppose. “Get your coat,” he says, and the way his hand settles on her shoulder is all quiet tenderness.
She bolts toward the closet, and a minute later they are out the door, Dmitri’s steady calm and Amneris’s glittery energy trailing behind them.
When the lock clicks, the apartment falls into a softer kind of silence.
Erin gestures toward the sofa. “Come on.” Her tone lightens, but her expression doesn’t. “Let’s sit.”
Erin lowers herself opposite me, then leans forward, elbows on her knees, gaze gentle but direct, as if tuning in before she plays a note. “I want you to know something.”
My stomach tightens.
She worries the corner of a throw pillow between her fingers, thinking. “Kieran told us what happened,” she says slowly. “He told Liam. He told my mom. And…we’re all ashamed for him.”
I go very still.
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
I don’t have an answer that makes sense. I shrug, and the movement is too small to be useful. Heat pricks behind my eyes anyway, stubborn and humiliating.
Erin reaches to take my hand, squeezing once, steady. “I’ve never seen him this ashamed of himself.”
My breath shudders out. “Good.”
She doesn’t flinch at the sharpness. If anything, her tone softens. “Wren…you are right to shut him out. He’s my brother, and I love him, but—” Her mouth tightens. “Let him sit in it. Let him stew.”
The words land in my bones. Then she adds, quieter, “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s the same boy he was a few weeks ago. I think whatever this is…it’s changed him.” Her gaze holds mine. “That doesn’t make it fair or okay.”
Something twists in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. I don’t want to care if he’s changed. I don’t want it to matter that he might be suffering. He should suffer. He earned it.
But some small, treacherous part of me whispers, what if there’s a way back?
“It doesn’t change what he did,” I say, and I sound more certain than I feel.
Erin nods, squeezing my hand again. “I know.”
My palms are trembling slightly. I stare at them like they belong to someone else. “It’s been…a lot.”
“I know.”
That’s when it hits me. Not the sympathy. The certainty. Someone believing me without needing proof. Without questioning if I’m overreacting. Without suggesting I should forgive and forget.
I don’t look up. “Everyone’s talking. Everyone saw it.”
“Let them. You’ll be fine.” Her tone firms. “That’s what matters.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until a single tear drops onto my wrist.
Erin shifts closer and slides an arm around my shoulders, gentle enough not to overwhelm me, solid enough that I can’t keep myself rigid.
I lean into her and let myself be held.
After a moment, Erin nudges me.
“Now,” she says, brightening the room by sheer force of personality, “tell me everything. Did Larisa enjoy it? Did she scream? Did she threaten to marry Luka?”
Despite everything, a pained laugh breaks out of me. “She…levitated for two hours.”
Erin dissolves into laughter. “That sounds about right.”
“And Luka is a flirt if there ever was one,” I add.
“Oh, he’s always that way. He thinks it increases audience engagement.”
“It does.”
“Of course it does. Men are disasters.”
This time I laugh fully.
“I loved watching you,” I murmur. “The way you play.”
Her expression softens. “Thank you. It’s a dream come true for me.”
The conversation drifts—music, school, Larisa’s future sign-making career.
Eventually, Erin says the thing I didn’t know I needed.
“I like you, Wren. No matter what happens with my brother, I want us to stay friends.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“Promise?” I whisper.
She squeezes my hand. “Promise. Now go catch your bus. And text me when you get home.”
I nod, wiping under my eyes. “I will.”
“Next time,” she says, touching my fingers lightly, “bring your cousin. We’ll make it a whole thing.”
Next time. Like there’s a future where I can have this—friendship with his sister, connection to his family—without him in it.
“Next time,” I echo.
Somehow, the phrase doesn’t hurt. It’s a scaffolding, thin, tentative, but steady.
As I step into the hallway, a cord inside me shifts.
Not healed. Not fixed. But not shattered anymore.
Tonight, I’ll walk onto campus. Let them stare. Let them whisper.
I’ll tutor Theo’s lab partner. I’ll text Erin about bringing Larisa to another concert. I’ll do my laundry and my problem sets and keep breathing.
One day at a time.
Just…beginning.