68. Still Waiting
Still Waiting
Halloween lands on a Friday this year, crisp and gold, the air smelling faintly of woodsmoke and cinnamon. It’s been a few weeks since our lives were turned upside down, and Dominik’s finally home from the hospital, still pale, still sore, but alive. That’s enough.
He’s at Mama and Tata’s tonight, sitting in a chair with a blanket over his lap while Zosia buzzes around the house in her bumblebee costume, wings crooked, antennae bouncing every time she laughs.
Tata clutches his chest and pretends to faint each time she flies past him, and she breaks into giggles.
Piotr and Aga arrive next, perfectly coordinated, Scooby-Doo and Daphne, with Kacper in a tiny Shaggy onesie and Aga’s baby bump wrapped in orange fabric, a tiny Velma. The sight makes everyone laugh, even Mama, who declares they look like “four cartoons of happiness” and insists on a photo.
I’ve barely tried. A black headband with small cat ears, mascara a little heavier than usual, that’s all I could manage.
Tata notices, of course he does. He’s always been able to read me, even when I’m smiling. He squeezes my shoulder as he walks by, and that small, wordless comfort nearly breaks me.
Natalia, naturally, looks like a sin incarnate. Some dark-angel costume with lace and feathers and just enough fabric to not get arrested. When she takes a selfie by the hallway mirror, she mutters, “Sending this to Kiri,” under her breath.
Only Piotr and I are close enough to hear.
Piotr’s head snaps around. “You can’t be serious. Talking to that band after what Kasia gave up for them? Give me that phone.”
Natalia pulls it out of reach, glaring. “No. I’m an adult. And for the record, if anyone had asked me—not that either of you ever do—I’d have said Kasia shouldn’t have given up Rafe for that crazy bitch. It was stupid. That’s what I think.”
Piotr goes still. “Natalia—”
She cuts him off, voice abrupt and shaking. “It's my life. Happy Halloween.”
I feel the tears coming, but I hold them back. Natalia grabs her purse, calls out a too-bright goodbye to Mama and Tata, and slams the door behind her. They wave as if nothing’s wrong. The silence she leaves behind is almost funny, except it isn’t.
Dominik breaks it by standing, slow and careful. “I promised a certain bee some candy,” he says with that brave smile that’s become his survival tactic.
So we all go, Dominik, me, Piotr, Aga, baby Kacper bundled in the stroller, and Zosia skipping ahead with her pumpkin bucket. The breeze carries the scent of damp leaves and sugar down the street. Kids run everywhere, parents chatting on the sidewalks. The world feels almost gentle again.
Dominik jokes about what Mary must think of Halloween. “Do you think Jesus would approve?”
Piotr grins. “Probably. He’d have given out loaves and fishes instead of candy.”
Aga nudges him. “Zosia should’ve gone as a saint. That would make Father Marek happy.”
We all laugh, and it feels strange, like testing a bone that might still be broken.
At the church, the parish has set up a little harvest fair: bobbing for apples, hay bales, bowls of candy.
Zosia shrieks with delight when she wins an apple and drops it straight into her bucket.
The priest waves us over, kind eyes shining behind his glasses.
Dominik and I hover close while she plays, and I catch Piotr watching us with a teasing spark in his eye.
I give him a look. Because I can’t. My heart’s still scattered somewhere between retinal scans and a man pouring his heart out in a studio in L.A.
Every shard still belongs to Rafe. The idea of anyone else feels wrong.
When we get back to Mama and Tata’s, Zosia dumps her haul across the dining table, candy spilling everywhere. Tata examines each piece like treasure. “Ah, the rarest of sweets! The famous Mars bar of legend!”
Zosia giggles so hard she hiccups. Then she picks up one wrapped chocolate and runs to Dominik. “Tatu??”
“Yes, my princess,” he says, crouching down.
“Can we save this one for Mama? Can you keep it for her?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. She would love that.”
She nods solemnly and drops the candy into his hand before running back to show me the rest.
When she presses one into my palm, I smile. “You know, chocolate is a sign of love.”
Her grin widens, bright and messy. I take a photo of her face, smudged with chocolate and joy. Instinctively, I open Rafe’s contact. His name still sits there, stubborn and glowing.
I start to type—She’s okay. We’re okay. I miss you. Then delete it all. I set the phone down and pretend no one notices. But I can feel Piotr’s eyes on me.
Later, Aga shows Mama a photo Natalia posted, another mirror shot, all legs and attitude. Mama gasps, mutters a prayer, and makes the sign of the cross. “She will get in trouble. Truly.”
I roll my eyes, and Piotr catches the look. We share a silent sibling sigh. When the night quiets, I walk Dominik to his car, just to be sure he doesn’t need to lean on me. His face is still pale under the streetlight.
“Are you really okay?” I ask. “Do you need anything?”
He gives me that crooked grin. “Do you have an extra gallbladder?”
I laugh. “No. But I could maybe give you half of mine.”
“Tempting, but I’ll pass.” He softens. “The wounds will heal. You know this. Some she’ll keep carrying." He lifts his chin towards Zosia happily munching on chocolate in the car. "Mine, all fine.”
He’s bluffing, but I don’t call him out. I just squeeze his hand and kiss his cheek. “You’re a good father... a good man.”
The warmth between us lingers a little too long. I pull back first. Before I can say anything else, Zosia’s small voice calls from the car—“Tatu?!”—and he’s already moving.
As they drive off, Piotr comes up beside me, hands in his pockets. “I think he still loves you. Gave up an organ to prove it, eh?”
“I know,” I whisper. “I’m just not in a place to think about it.”
His mouth tightens, eyes soft. He pulls me into a hug that carries his scent, cheap bar soap and motor oil beneath it, and it feels like home. When he lets go, he grins. “So, what did you get from Zosia? Because she gave me a Snickers. I saw her give you a Reese’s Cup. Trade?”
I smile, small but true. “Deal.”
Rafe
The guys finish recording early, which is usually a miracle worth celebrating.
Tonight, though, it feels like another hour I have to fill with pretending.
There’s a big Halloween party, label-sponsored, all the usual plastic crowd and I’ve already told them I’m not going.
That lasts exactly six minutes before there’s pounding at my door.
“Rafe,” Ronan calls. “You’re fucking going.”
When I open it, all three of them are standing there like a bad intervention.
Ronan’s dressed as a priest, the collar crooked, black shirt half-unbuttoned, a silver flask peeking from his pocket like a confession he hasn’t decided to make.
Rithy looks like some gothic fever dream: velvet coat, fake blood on his throat too convincing to be funny.
And Kiri, of course, went pirate, leather coat, rings, eyeliner better than mine, topped with a hat that looks almost authentic.
They’re all smirking like a pack of devils.
“I don’t have a costume,” I say.
Rithy waves a hand. “You wear one every day. Just make it worse.”
“Worse?”
He pushes past me, rummaging through my things like he lives here. “More eyeliner. Smudge it down your cheeks. Here—” He grabs my face, eyeliner in hand, dragging it under my eyes. “There. Hot clown territory.”
I laugh. “That a compliment?”
“Only if you make it sadder. Which you’re great at these days.” He studies me for a second, and the humor fades. “It’s good you’re going. Better than staring at the walls.”
I want to argue, but I don’t. He’s right.
I dig through a pile of old tour clothes and find the leather waistcoat from the Glass Myth run, a white dress shirt rolled to the elbows, too many rings, too many bracelets.
The old pocket watch from my grandfather, Dad’s gift, the one I only wear when I need grounding, hangs heavy at my chest.
Rithy tilts his head. “Now you’re a hot executive clown.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, the sound cracking on its way out. “Perfect. That's exactly what I was going for.”
The mansion’s already vibrating when we arrive, music pounding through the glass, bass rattling the marble.
Bodies everywhere: costumes, glitter, smoke machines.
The label execs really outdid themselves.
There’s a pool full of people dancing and at least one couple is definitely fucking under the surface.
“Probably got ahold of that dodgy Molly he always passes around,” Ronan mutters, nodding toward some guy laughing at nothing.
I huff a laugh and reach for my phone out of habit.
The first instinct is to take a picture, show her the chaos, make her laugh, but I shove it back into my pocket instead.
That’s when I see them. Six Valkyries sweeping up the stairs, feathers, armor, glittering wings.
The girls from R?vind. And someone else I recognize but can’t place.
Ronan’s grin explodes when he spots Freja. “You look fucking ridiculous,” he says. “That’s it, we’re leaving. Get your wings, we’re done.”
She smacks him and laughs, already pulling him in for a kiss.
I can’t help teasing. “So which Valkyries are you all supposed to be? I'm a little familiar with the mythology, sort of my thing.”
Freja salutes me with her drink. “Skuld,” she declares. “The future.”
Signe chimes in, “Brynhildr, obviously. Shieldmaiden.”
Mina grins. “Eir. The healer.”
Liv’s sipping a cocktail, glitter in her hair. “Mist. The gentle one.”
Ingrid smirks. “Gondul. She decides who lives or dies.”
The last girl hesitates and it makes me narrow my eyes on her.
“Mara,” Freja says, nudging her. “She came up with the idea. Bit shy, but she loves this stuff. Go on, tell them who you chose.”
That’s where I recognize her, the girl in the ponytail who was setting up the piano, the shy one who ran into me with the cables.
Mara tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I picked Kara,” she says softly. “She’s my favorite. The Valkyrie who carries souls with song. I like the idea of music saving people.”
She laughs, embarrassed. “It reminds me of a lot of Riven’s stuff, the mythic feel, like it’s written for gods that might still be listening. I love when myths blend with music.”
“At least someone else appreciates it, Ronan just thinks I'm being dramatic.” I say. He smirks, I huff a laugh and the girls give a collective giggle. But Mara, she just looks right at me.
She smiles, shy but bright. “I do. Appreciate it.”
We talk awhile. She’s smart, funny, easier to be around than I expected.
She plays acoustic, writes her own stuff.
Says she loves that I put Greek imagery in rock.
I tell her it’s just a habit, the only gods that ever listened were the broken ones.
She laughs at that, a tender laugh that feels too close to something I’m not ready for.
Then she touches my arm. Just lightly, and I flinch.
The reaction is instant, like touching fire.
My stomach twists. All I see is Kasia. Her fingers on my wrist, her laugh.
The way she looked at me the night she finally let me in, how she felt, the sounds she made under me, above me.
I clear my throat, mumble something about needing air, and slip out before anyone can stop me.
The Uber is coated in a film of cheap tequila and regret.
I pick up a bottle of vodka on the way back, the good kind, one that burns on the way down.
I know she'd approve and that'll make it sting more.
I want it, the pain. Anything to distract from the gnawing fucking ache.
The driver keeps talking about L.A. traffic. I nod at the right times.
In the hotel, I take the bottle to the balcony and sit on the cold concrete, city lights stretching out below me. The noise from the party still clings to my skin, but it’s fading.
I scroll through my messages. Hers. Every word, every emoji, every scrap of a laugh. Nothing new. I type something. Delete. Type again. Delete. It’s pathetic, but it’s the only conversation I still have.
The vodka burns as expected. I remember the taste of it on her lips, the night we danced in her parents’ living room, her father’s old stereo humming something slow and Polish. The city glows like a heartbeat below me, and before I can stop myself, I type the only words that don’t feel like lies.
I hit send before I can think better of it. The message goes out into the night, into the static between us. The silence afterward is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
Still here. Still waiting.