31. Sorry
Sorry
Rafe
Iswear under my breath, cross the room, pulse still racing, and yank the handle open. Rithy nearly falls through it, swaying, completely drunk, words spilling before I can even speak.
“What the hell—?”
He bursts out laughing, pushes half-way inside, using the door as balance, laughter shaking through him until he doubles over, bracing a hand on his knee.
I frown, confused, glancing from him to her. “What are you doing here?”
He can’t stop. He slides down the base of the doorframe, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. He leans back, eyes glinting when they catch hers, a grin forming in a way that makes something sick twist in my gut.
“You’re already here?” he says, head tilting lazily toward Kasia. “Tonight?”
Then he looks at me, his grin now wide and cruel, like it’s some private joke between us.
“She’s on your block list so soon? That was easy.
” He tips his head toward Kasia again, “Doesn’t wait for you to leave, so you can’t blow up his phone begging for a reply.
Simpler that way, no headache after. Brutal, our Obelus.
” He throws her a wink, slurring everything to hell.
Reminding me of the person I used to be, fucking my way through a heartbreak, something I’m not proud of.
Someone he knows I haven’t been in a long time.
“What the fuck, Rithy?” I snap, heat crawling up my neck.
He tips his head skyward, laughing harder, falling onto his back. He lies there, half in the hallway, half in the room, legs sprawled inside, hair catching the light from the corridor. He stares at the hallway ceiling like he’s talking to God, or maybe himself.
“Just another fucking groupie,” he says, voice slurring, still smiling. “Why was I even worried?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, stepping toward him, but before I can reach him, Kasia moves. She’s already at the door, stepping over his body, her dress brushing his arm. I reach for her wrist.
“Kasia, wait—”
“Let go,” she says in a clipped tone. Her eyes are hard, bright and above all, hurt.
Rithy lifts his head, eyes following her, laughter turning wicked. “Gone so soon?” he calls after her, voice sing-song and cruel. “But his best performance was just about to start!”
She’s gone before I can find another word. Rithy’s laughter dwindles, his body going slack, the relief and the drink dragging him under. I look down at him, jaw tight, breath shaking. I nudge him with my foot.
“Get up, Rith. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
He mumbles something, still smiling. I stand there, torn between rage and exhaustion, considering whether to shove him the rest of the way out and let him sleep in the hallway as punishment, like he's just another tray left out from room service. Then I glance toward the open hall. If anyone walks by, press, fans, crew, it’s over.
His name, mine, maybe even hers would be out there. All of it.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter. I grip his legs and pull him inside, hauling him backward across the carpet.
His back scrapes, his laughter echoing weakly until it fades to a hum.
He’s dead weight, and I nearly trip over him by the time I get him clear of the door.
I pull it shut with the leftover anger burning through me, the latch clicking loud in the stillness.
He keeps mumbling to himself, drunk nonsense, still grinning.
“You can sleep on the goddamn floor,” I say, standing over him. “Now I have to spend tomorrow trying to fix what you just broke. Fuck.” I drag a hand over my face, tired, hurt, and confused. No response. Just a sigh, half a laugh.
I crouch again. He’s staring up at me now, eyes glassy but lucid enough to sting.
I reach out and brush the hair from his face, it’s a habit, years of nights like this, one of us always looking out for the other when we got too drunk, wasted or lonely.
Even now, even after that bullshit, I can’t stop caring.
“Why are you doing this?” I sigh, poking his forehead. “I really don’t understand you sometimes.”
He blinks slowly, and for a moment there’s clarity under the haze. His hand finds mine, warm and shaking.
“Rafe,” he murmurs, “you’re the only one that does. You know that.”
The anger drains out of me all at once, leaving only ache. I squeeze his hand, sigh again, and let it go.
“Right now? I don’t,” I say. “I just want to punch you.”
We both laugh.
“Yeah, I know,” he mutters.
He makes a sound that might be another laugh, eyes fluttering closed. I stand, dust myself off, and look at him one more time.
“Get some sleep,” I mutter. “I’m taking a shower.”
When I shut the bathroom door, the mirror catches me mid-motion, my reflection looking as wrecked as I feel. I brace both hands on the sink, drag in a breath, and let it out hard. Even with the mess spread across the floor behind me, my body hasn’t stopped singing her name.
I send her a text:
I’m sorry.
The words fall flat compared to everything I feel.
It’s only been an hour, maybe less, but it already feels like days. I scroll up through the old thread, her messages from the very beginning, the ridiculous back and forth, the way she texted when she was ready for her escort to the party. Then tonight. The silence since.
My thumb hovers over the phone again. I could type something else: Are you okay? or Please, just talk to me but anything more would sound desperate, like I'm asking for more from her when I don't deserve it.
Rithy snores, turns over, mutters something incoherent.
I glance down at him and the anger flares again, hot and useless.
Then guilt follows, because he’s still my closest friend, still the idiot who used to share songs with me on cracked headphones.
He's the one that's translated every victory and heartbreak into chords with me. My heart feels heavy as I watch his chest rise and fall. Tears sting my eyes. I’d give him the floor, the ceiling, the goddamn world if only he asked, just not this.
I set the phone on my chest, screen still lit.
Stare at it until my eyes blur. Every second that passes makes the blue of it dimmer, colder.
Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she’s furious.
Maybe she’s already halfway to convincing herself I’m exactly what he said, some spoiled rock star looking to use her, a mistake.
The clock says 3:27. By the time the screen fades to black, I’m still staring at it, waiting for a reply that isn’t coming. The last thing I see before my eyes close is the single, stupid word glowing in the dark.
Sorry.
I don’t sleep. I lie here pretending, eyes closed, breath steady, body still—but my brain won’t stop replaying it.
Still nothing from Kasia. Rithy’s made sure she doubts everything I feel.
I glare at him. He’s still out cold, snoring softly, sprawled across the carpet like some fallen saint.
I hate him a little for the peace of it.
Eventually, I get up. Pull on the one purple shirt I own, silly maybe, but I hope she’ll see it and know she left something behind in me, that I can't get the sight of her laying across my bed out of my mind. I don’t even know what I’m trying to prove.
It’s barely seven. We’re supposed to meet Szklane Serce at ten, talk through the studio setup. Kasia said she’d help. Said she’d come, now I don’t know if she will. I groan, check my phone again. Still nothing.
So I start building armor. The silver necklaces first. The black choker.
Rings, piercings, even the faint line of eyeliner.
The whole costume they’ll want for the photos later.
I remember her voice on the phone once, teasing that the Egyptians had it right, that the liner made my eyes stand out when I complained about it being hard to scrub off.
The memory makes me smile, then hits like a blade.
When I finally glance at the clock again, it’s somehow eight.
I nudge Rithy’s leg with my boot. “Get up, Rith.” He groans, squints at me like a man mid-crucifixion. His face is the picture of pain, hangover coiled tight around his skull. I’ve seen it often enough to read it like sheet music.
“Come on,” I say, “you had more sleep than me.”
“I feel like death,” he mutters. “Leave me here to rot.”
“The thought occurred to me,” I tell him, “but you’ve got to play guitar in about two hours.”
He lifts a shaky hand, middle finger raised, then shifts it to the devil horns just to mock me before rolling over again.
I snort. “Yeah, you’re gonna need a deity. Now get the fuck up.”
I grab my jacket from the chair, the leather creaking as I slip into it before hooking my guitar over my shoulders.
It settles on my back, the weight of it comforting, familiar.
The air in here is starting to smell like stale whiskey and regret.
Rithy hasn’t moved an inch. I kick at his shoes again, harder this time.
“Don’t be late. You know Ronan gets pissed if you are.”
He groans something unintelligible, half buried in his own arm. I roll my eyes. Typical. He’ll drag himself upright ten minutes before call time and still somehow look like the poster boy for divine chaos.
I should leave. Take the rental, drive until I find a stretch of water or caffeine strong enough to scrape the night out of my head. Grab a coffee, reset, pretend I’ve got my focus back before the studio meeting. That’s what I should do.
Instead, I find myself in the hallway, guitar over my shoulder, heading toward her room like I’ve already lost an argument with myself.
Each step feels louder than it should, the low hum of air conditioning, the scuff of my boots on expensive hotel carpet, the faint echo of my own pulse reminding me I’m about to make a bad decision and doing it anyway.
I tell myself it’s just to talk. Just to make sure she’s okay.
Just to clear the air before we have to face each other in front of other people.
But the truth is, I can’t shake the sound of her voice from last night. The way she asked if that would make me Hades right before everything went to literal hell. By the time I reach her door, my hands already know what to do, I should turn around. I don’t. I knock once, soft. Then again.
“Kas…” My voice catches before I can say her name properly.
No sound from the other side, just silence.
Somehow, that hurts more than anything she could’ve said.
I stay there anyway, forehead against the door, wishing I’d done even one thing differently.
I'm about to give up and walk away when the door clicks.
She opens it just enough that I can see her face, eyes tired but steady.
“Hey,” I manage, voice lower than I mean it to be. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That you're still coming to the studio? You don’t have to, obviously.”
She crosses her arms lightly, not defensive, just containing herself. “I said I’d come. I meant it.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I start to turn away, ready to take the mercy of the closed door when it comes, but the words catch on my tongue before I can stop them.
“Listen, Haima—Rithy. He didn’t mean it. He says shit when he feels small.”
Her expression doesn’t change much, but her voice cuts. “Rithy must be feeling very small, then.”
“Yeah,” I take a deep breath. “I—Kasia, you—” I stop, rub the back of my neck, try to reset my brain. “The person he talked about, that’s not me anymore. I was younger, messed up over an ex. I don’t see you that way. You know that, right?”
“I know what you’ve shown me, and I know what he said,” She exhales, slowly. “Which should I believe?”
It’s fair. It’s reasonable. She’s right to say it, she’s right to doubt me.
I lean against the doorframe, just to be closer, just to steal the scent of her, hotel soap and those lilies mixed with rain again.
If I could pluck it from the air I would wrap it around me.
I lean into it and for a moment, she doesn’t pull back. That small mercy almost breaks me.
“Me. Believe me, Kasia. I meant what I said,” I say, nervously. “Everything.”
Her gaze flicks down, then back to me. “You should probably go, you’ll be late.”
I hang my head, nod once. I deserve that. I should’ve done more, should’ve stopped Rithy sooner, defended her harder. Or just not answered the damn door.
“I’ll see you there, yeah?”
“Yep.”
I push off the frame, force my feet to move.
No need to beg or explain, my boy. Only time and actions will matter now.
No sulking, chin up and get to it. I hear my father’s words, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out the window whenever I misbehaved.
As I walk down the hall, the sound of her door clicking shut follows me all the way to the car.