53. Atta Boy
Atta Boy
Rafe
The first-class cabin is loud with chatter and I drop into my seat, headphones around my neck, pretending I’m fine. The attendant recognizes me before I even buckle the belt, pretty, mid-twenties, the kind of smile that’s meant to look effortless.
“Mr. Ashton, we’re thrilled to have you on board.” Her voice lifts, bright, practiced. “I'll be your dedicated attendant.” I nod. She lingers, “You know, I’m really not supposed to say this,” she adds in a whisper, leaning a little closer, “but Riven is my favorite band. I’ve seen you live twice.”
I force a smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.” I turn toward the window.
A few minutes later she’s back with the bottle and another flash of that too-eager smile. “If you ever need anything, and I mean anything, just press the call button.” Her tone dips slightly on anything.
“Hey, I appreciate it, really. But I’m kind of… wiped. Long morning.”
The hurt flickers across her face, quick, but there. I sigh, dig into my pocket, pull out one of the guitar picks I keep on me all the time, worn smooth at the edges. I hold it out. “Here. Souvenir?”
Her face lights up. “Oh my god, thank you.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, already looking back at the window. “No problem.”
She leaves happy, and I get peace, silence. Just five fucking minutes of not being anyone so I can forget what I'm leaving behind, what I might have ruined.
By the time I land, the gray sky is bleeding into night and the city lights look washed out through the taxi window.
Berlin air always smells like diesel and rain.
Germany’s never been a big market for us, still sold out, but smaller, less fuss.
No one’s waiting outside the hotel, no camera flashes.
Just the usual blur of lobby marble and luggage wheels.
Normally, after check-in, we’d all go grab food. There’s a shawarma stand we’ve hit every tour since that first drunken stumble years ago, tiny place run by an old Lebanese guy who insists on feeding us until we can’t move. He calls us seine Jungs. His boys. The others already texted: meet in ten.
I ignore it, I’m wrecked. Half an hour later there’s a knock. Then another, louder.
“Rafe,” Ronan’s voice. “If you don’t open this door, I’m going downstairs and asking for a keycard. Don’t test me.”
I sigh, run a hand through my hair, open it and he looks me over like I’m a crime scene.
“Jesus, man. You look rough as fuck.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Feel wrecked.”
He walks in anyway, kicks his shoes off, drops onto the bed. “You weren’t answering texts. We’re heading for shawarma, it’s tradition. You, me, Rithy, Kiri, meat coma. Remember?”
I shrug. “Not hungry.”
He squints. “That’s new. You normally bounce off the plane like you snorted jet fuel. What is it?”
I don’t answer, just stare past him at the TV screen reflecting the city lights. My head’s still somewhere over the Atlantic.
Ronan rubs his face, groans. “Oh no, I know that look.” He leans forward, “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t.”
He grins, claps his hands once, then starts tapping a rhythm on the bedspread. “Our Rafey boy’s in love.”
I throw myself back on the bed with a groan, arm over my eyes. “Christ.”
Ronan laughs. “What you miserable for then? She’s alive, right? It’s only a couple months. Not the end of the world.”
I let out a breath, staring at the ceiling. “She told me she loves me before I left. I fucked it up. I froze.”
There’s a low whistle. “Well, now that...” He pushes off the bed like he’s backing away from an open flame. “I’m not standing near that kind of mess. It might rub off on me, and I’m still working my magic on Freja. Don’t need your dumbass vibes screwing with my luck.”
“Appreciate the empathy,” I mutter, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him.
He catches it, laughs, and throws it right back. “So you’re just gonna hide in here, not eat, to what, punish yourself?”
“Maybe.”
He grabs my ankles and drags me halfway off the bed. “Nah. You’re coming. Shawarma and garlic sauce cure heartbreak. Or at least give you something else to hate yourself for tomorrow.”
I can’t help a faint laugh. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“I know.” He points toward the door. “Up. Shoes. Come on, Romeo.”
I let him pull me to my feet. Part of me still wants to crawl back under the covers, but the rest knows he’s right. Food, noise. Something normal. Maybe it’ll stop the echo of her voice for a few hours.
As we step into the hallway, he slaps my back and mutters, “Atta boy. We’ll fix your disaster after kebab.”
For the first time since leaving her, I almost manage a real smile.
The shawarma stand is exactly how we left it: lights flickering, grill smoke curling through the air, the old owner grinning the second he sees us.
“Meine Jungs!” he shouts, pulling everyone into hugs, kissing cheeks, slapping shoulders.
We eat until we can’t move, meat dripping down paper wrappers, laughter spilling into the cold street.
For an hour it feels normal. No cameras, no schedules. Just grease, garlic, and my friends.
Then Ronan calls it. “Drinks, come on. Don’t give me that look, Rafe, you’re not getting out of this.”
I groan but follow. He’s right, the night’s not done.
We end up at one of the best clubs in Berlin, a place we’ve been coming to for years.
The owner spots us immediately, shouting greetings, ushering us upstairs to the VIP section with the kind of grin only large past bar tabs can buy.
Rithy throws an arm around me as we slide into our booth, and it almost feels good.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen before typing:
wish you were here. so much to show you in berlin.
still an obscene poet just with less frosting this trip.
let me know you got in ok.
I stare at the blinking cursor for too long, fighting the instinct to add I love you.
It makes my stomach twist, I can't say it like that, not for the first time. If I’d just said it back, maybe it would’ve been simple.
Maybe it’d already belong to us. But now it’s fragile.
So I send it as is, shove the phone back in my pocket, and signal for another round.
The table fills fast, Kiri’s already flanked by two women, both laughing loudly, glued to him.
Ronan’s perched on a stool overlooking the room, whiskey neat in hand, probably texting the drummer from R?vind, speaking in syncopation and paradiddles.
Rithy drops down next to me, flashing that wicked grin.
“So,” he says. “How was your little break?”
I know a fishing expedition when I hear one. I keep it vague. “Quiet.”
He narrows his eyes, not buying it, then glances toward the stairs. “Ah, there they are!”
A woman in a silver dress appears, dress might be generous, it looks like molten metal poured straight onto her skin. Rithy catches me glancing and smirks. “Back at it then, Rafe?”
“Hardly.”
He doesn’t believe me. In seconds, he’s across the room, cheek-kissing her and guiding her right back to our couch. “Keep this dark and broody one entertained,” he says, planting her beside me. “I’ll be right back.”
I sigh, forcing a polite smile, order another round, now for three. She’s nice enough, talks about Milan, Paris, London, all the usual modeling stops. I nod in the right places, suppress a yawn.
Rithy returns with another model in tow, handsome, sharp suit, perfect hair. Very Rith's style of poison. They all collapse onto the couch, Rithy between us, buzzing like he’s running on pure nightlife.
He demands a photo. Before I can say no, he’s got his phone up, shouting, “Come on, everyone squeeze in!”
We bunch together. Flash. Done. Within seconds, he’s posted it. I glance down at my drink, and that’s when I notice her hand, on my knee. I didn’t even feel it. When did that happen? The drink tastes sour all of a sudden.
“Can you not?” I shout over the music.
Rithy looks at me like I’m being dramatic. “What? I did the little veil stickers over the faces like you demand. Though, it hardly matters anymore, what’s the problem?”
I just stare at him. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
Kiri laughs from across the table. “Chill, Rafe. Have some fun. You’re not in Seattle anymore.”
“That’s the point,” I snap back, and their glances tell me I’ve just confirmed more than I wanted to.
Ronan stands then, ever the peacemaker, grabs both models’ hands and introduces himself with a grin before motioning at me.
“Come on, keep me company for a sec. Need a poet's help with this text to the lady friend. Swedish women are impossible to please.”
Kiri shouts, “Think that applies to all of ’em!” The table erupts in laughter as Ronan slings an arm around my shoulders and steers me away.
I follow him through the crowd, down the narrow hall that leads to the smokers’ terrace. The cold air hits, thick with tobacco and mint vapor. He turns to me, grinning.
“Go back to the hotel, call her. Don’t let Rithy drag you into his circus. I’ll cover for you, tell them you felt sick and left. Sound good?”
I exhale, the tension finally breaking. “I could kiss you.”
He smirks. “Save it for the stage. Wouldn’t want to steal you from your doctor. All this Irish sexual magnetism.”
We both laugh. I clap him on the shoulder, head for the exit, and step into the night, lighter.
I fumble the keycard twice before it finally clicks. I drop my jacket on the chair, kick off my boots, and start pacing. The silence feels wrong, too wide. I pull my phone out and call her before I can overthink it. It rings, and rings. Then the line dies.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark, then open my feed, and there it is, Rithy’s post. The photo from the club. Me beside a model in a dress that might as well be spray paint, her hand on my knee. Jesus.
I froze when she opened up to me and within twenty-four hours I look like this, partying in Berlin, acting like none of it matters.
If I were her, I wouldn’t answer either.
I drag a hand down my face, and sit on the edge of the bed.
My body feels too burdensome for itself.
I slide down until I’m on the floor, head tipped back against the mattress, phone in my hand, pressed to my mouth like it might help me breathe. Then it vibrates, she’s calling.
I fumble the answer button. “Hey.”
Her voice fills the line, a little tired, but still the best thing I’ve ever heard.
“Sorry, just got in,” she says. “I was unpacking. Busy day tomorrow, clinic, all the usual.”
The sound of her voice hits me like air after nearly drowning. I close my eyes, laugh under my breath, almost choking on it. “I—It’s just good to hear your voice.”
She pauses. The silence on her end feels full of meaning. “Are you okay?”
“No. Not in the slightest.” I sit up and lean forward. “Listen, please. You deserve better than me saying it over the phone, so I’ll save it until I see you again. But just know—I feel it too. I did. I do. I just—”
“No need for excuses,” she interrupts. “It was just—”
“It wasn’t just anything,” I cut in fast. “Don’t take it back.
Fuck. I might cancel the tour if you do.
” Silence follows. I can picture her standing still, blinking, trying to decide what to do with that.
I laugh, but it’s covering what could be classed as a mental breakdown. “God, listen to me. I sound insane.”
She exhales, and the sound cracks something in me, “Are you drunk?”
That makes me laugh for real, deep, and loud until I’m wiping at my eyes. “No. I’ve had a few drinks though. Rithy cornered me with some incredibly boring supermodel and I downed a few to make it tolerable.”
“Incredibly boring supermodel?” she repeats, amused now.
“Trust me, I was trying not to yawn. I escaped to call you, they’re all still there. All I wanted to do was leave.”
“To listen to me talk about my clinic and unpacking?”
I smile, staring up at the ceiling. “To listen to you, Kasia.”
My chest tightens so much it almost hurts. I feel like my heart’s trying to leave my body.
“I got your texts,” she says softly. “I miss you too. Not sure how we do this, I feel like half of me is across the world.” I can hear the hesitation in her voice but she offers it anyway.
A laugh slips out of me, pure relief. “I know exactly how you feel.”
We end up talking for hours. About nothing, about everything.
She makes dinner while we talk. I can hear her stirring something, humming under her breath.
I tell her about the gig schedule, the shawarma stand tradition, Ronan’s obsession with Freja growing.
The sound of her voice fills every hollow place I’ve been dragging around since I watched those elevator doors close.
At some point, I stretch out on the floor, phone pressed to my ear, and close my eyes.
When sleep finally gets me, the last thing that drifts through my head is the memory of her voice, soft and certain.
I love you.
It's the only thing that makes the dark feel bearable.