26. Until Sunday
Until Sunday
The house is peaceful when I pull up. Zosia’s bedroom light glows dimly through the curtains; by the time I slip inside, she’s already asleep. Dominik’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, loading the dishwasher.
I hop up on the counter, the same spot where I once whispered, harder, I won’t break, and a shiver runs through me.
Dominik notices instantly, a crooked grin cutting across his face.
He sets down the cup in his hand and spreads my thighs with easy familiarity, stepping in between them.
The scent of him, spice and soap dipped in heat wraps around me.
I loop my arms behind his neck, and he fits there, just like before. His hands slide to my waist.
“Shame we can’t do that again right now,” I murmur.
He leans in, flush against me, and I can feel the truth of his body answering mine. His mouth finds my neck, my jaw, then my lips and for a few precious seconds, everything else falls away: the tension, the noise, the worries. Bliss on our tongues.
A tiny cough echoes from down the hall, Zosia’s, soft and helpless. We break apart instantly, straightening like guilty teenagers. I rub my palms against my jeans, trying to chase off the tremor.
Dominik sighs, glancing toward the hallway. “Another babysitting night soon. Piotr owes me for plenty.”
I laugh, the sound half relief, half leftover heat. He chuckles too, goes back to stacking plates, every motion a reset. I watch him for a long moment before he speaks again.
“So.” He keeps his eyes on the sink. “Obelus. When did he become… a friend?”
The dread creeps up fast. “He showed me the cover since I’m Polish, asked for some help with it. Nothing major. We don’t get much time to talk.”
It feels like a half-truth, but I convince myself it’s a full one. We just talk, that’s all. The way my pulse spikes when I hear his voice wasn’t the question, but the guilt still makes its way in.
“Hm.” He doesn’t look up, but the tension in his shoulders says plenty.
“What?” I ask.
“Does he text? Call?”
I swallow. “A mix of both. It’s not often—”
“Right. A super busy, famous rockstar finds time to text and call his eye doctor? Strange, isn’t it?”
The scoff escapes before I can stop it. It crawls all over me, the implication that I’m too ordinary to be worthy.
That he’s baffled why someone like Obelus would bother speaking to someone like me.
Maybe that’s why Rafe makes my body feel like it's waking up, because when he gives his time, I feel like I matter. The anger flares anyway, fast and hot.
“Strange, how? I’m not just a doctor. I actually have a brain, interests. You’re acting like someone wouldn’t want to bore themselves talking to me.”
“I wasn’t saying—”
“Just because you don’t care about anything doesn’t mean everyone doesn't.”
He stops cold, locks up. Breathes once, hard, hands braced on the counter. The silence between us is louder than shouting. Then he exhales, finishes loading the last dish, hits the start button, and walks into the living room.
I follow, arms crossed. “What was that?”
“You insulted me,” he says, keeping his tone flat.
“I was trying to stay calm. I am calm.” He blows out a breath, eyes flicking toward the hallway.
“I’m sorry if I have a hard job, harder than the pretty musician.
Sorry I have real responsibilities. Zosia, work, family, church.
Sorry that doesn’t seem interesting enough for you now. ”
He turns off the TV and throws the remote onto the couch. “Sorry that’s nothing compared to your fancy new friend.”
He looks like he’s about to walk out, to his bedroom or out the door, I can’t tell. “I need some air,” he mutters, starting to move.
“Dominik.” I reach for his arm. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t soften either. “I’m sorry. It felt like you insulted me first, so I snapped.”
He nods, eyes dark. “I wasn’t trying to, Kasia. I’m trying to understand this.” He sits on the arm of the couch, shoulders falling a bit, trying to let the anger settle into something steadier. “You’re going Friday? For how long?”
“Until Sunday. Szklane Serce will be there Saturday in some studio. He asked me to help translate the song, make new lyrics.”
“Wow.” His tone drips with disbelief. “It’s like you have some other life I don’t even know about. You lay in bed beside me and keep all these plans, huh?”
Because I did. Because I tried to hide it. I can pretend it was all for patient confidentiality reasons but I know that's not all it is. I kept it secret, Rafe, the trip, the truth and now it hangs heavy in the air.
“I don’t talk about all the people I meet at work either,” I say, defensive. “It’s just work, Dominik.”
“Work? Are you getting paid and I missed it?”
That question burns because the answer is no. Just time with the band, with Rafe. And that truth settles like a stone between us.
“It’s just a couple of days,” I say. “A free concert ticket, helping them, then home.”
“It’s a whole weekend away and you didn’t even think to tell me about it, to ask me?”
“Ask you? Since when are you my Tata?” My arms fold again, anger threading into the guilt.
“I’m your boyfriend,” he says, low but pointed.
“Really? Since when? You’ve never said that, not until just now. Funny how getting jealous makes words magically appear that you didn’t know before?”
“I didn’t think I needed to.” He throws his hands up in the air. “Kurwa, I’ve talked about marrying you, kochana.”
“You’ve talked about a lot of things. Pillow talk is different. Asking is different.” I fold my arms across my chest, eyes cold.
“No chyba ?artujesz! (You've got to be kidding me!) Acting like you’re dumb now? So you can go off with another man for days? I’m just supposed to be fine with that?” He lets out a short, humorless laugh before meeting my eyes again. “You’re attracted to him. Admit it.”
The words cut. I stare at him, the quiet between us taut. There’s no point denying it; Piotr’s teased me about my teenage crush for years. Denying it would make me a liar twice over.
“Yes,” I say finally. “The same way you’re attracted to any actress you’ve had a crush on. It doesn’t mean anything.”
His glare hardens.
“What kind of man would I be to accept this?” he snaps. “Our fathers would laugh at even the suggestion and you’re acting like it’s normal?”
“Accept this? You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not about trust. It’s about common sense, something you don’t have.”
The blow lands and my voice goes cold. “You don’t trust me, because you don't know how to control yourself.”
“Gówno, (Bullshit)” he mutters, crossing his arms tighter, eyes narrowing, but I see it. The truth he’s refusing to admit, the one I was always too afraid to press.
“Lena. When she came back.” I whisper, a statement not even pretending at a question.
He freezes and the air thickens with the dust of a truth we've finally uncovered between us, one we both ignored in favor of what we felt.
My jaw tightens. “I knew it, you didn’t just talk. You fucked her. I thought it was all about Zosia?”
“Watch your words and your volume.” He glances toward the hall. “Little ears.”
I grit my teeth, but it’s not for Zosia’s sake, it’s to keep from screaming.
“You know what?” I whisper. “I don’t need you to say it. I always knew it from the second she sent that text from your phone. You cheated before you even took me on our first date and you have the nerve to be jealous?”
“It wasn’t cheating, we hadn’t even kissed yet.” His arms flex across his chest, muscles tight with restraint or guilt.
“Good to know nothing mattered, then. Of course nothing mattered to you but the physical part. That's all you know how to do.”
We’re just throwing knives now, hurt for hurt, wound for wound.
The air between us is too full with anger and something darker: the same force that once pulled us together.
The line between fighting and wanting is paper thin.
We're one shout away from a screaming match, one touch away from breaking the bed, making passion-stained marks on each other that wouldn't fade for weeks.
He breaks first, tone tempered, reaching for calm.
“If you go, it’s disrespectful to us. When I...
we'd only had one dinner and a few phone calls then. It's different now, between us. This is love, Kasia. We’re supposed to be building something, a family. Not playing stupid games.” He waves his hand, like what I want is flippant and what he did was nothing at all.
“So are you saying... if I go, we’re over?”
“I’d have to consider it. It's not just me, ask Piotr, your Tata. None would just roll over for your Obelus. ”
“Then don’t.”
I grab my bag. He catches my arm.
“Kasia, wait. Don’t go. Please.”
“Why? You’ve said what you had to say. Set your rules.
It’s funny, sleeping with someone isn’t disrespectful, but me helping someone with their work is.
Your rules change when they suit you.” I pull free.
“I’m going and when I come back, when I haven’t slept with him, because unlike you, I can control myself, I won’t be yours to beg back. I’m done.”
I make it to the car before the tears come. They hit hard, sudden, gut-deep. My hands shake on the steering wheel as I start the engine. I don’t know what I thought would happen when I went digging but I found exactly what I was looking for: proof that some hurts don’t heal, they just leave a scar.
Congratulations, Kasia. You win. The prize? Empty hands and an aching heart.
The drive home blurs. Streetlights smear across the windshield like watercolors, and the tears come faster than the wipers can keep up. By the time I pull into my driveway, it feels like a miracle I’ve made it in one piece. Dominik called once, just once. What could he even say?
God, how stupid could I possibly be? To ignore what I already knew, that I was always second, always the choice that came after. Now he wants to claim love, to frame it like something noble, when he had no trouble setting it aside the moment it got inconvenient.
When I slam the door behind me, the frame rattles and something small falls off the wall but I don’t bother to look.
I stand there in the dark hallway, trembling, throat raw.
I shower mechanically, scrub the smell of him from my skin, pull on a soft t-shirt and shorts, and climb into bed with a box of tissues.
The house feels cold. My head pounds. I just want to close my eyes, stop the replay, the gritted teeth, the angry whispers, the way he looked at me like I was the one who betrayed him.
Being unconscious is the only thing that might help.
I’m half under the covers, phone on the nightstand, when it lights up. Rafe. For a second I think about ignoring it. Then I see the first line of the message:
I’m sorry for earlier.
didn’t like the sound of my own voice when I hung up.
you didn’t deserve that.
The ache in my chest tightens. I swipe it open anyway.
wasn’t about you. my head gets strange sometimes.
full of words, fragments.
when things matter.
sleep if you can. I’ll make it up to you when you land in Miami.
I stare at the screen until the words blur, one tear sliding onto the glass.
I want to reply, to tell him it’s fine, that I understand but that’s the problem.
I do. I set the phone face-down, wipe my eyes, and pull the blanket up to my chin.
The room fills with silence again, except for the faint echo of his message looping in my head:
when things matter.