The days without her roll by, but only the ones where her face frames everything seem to matter anymore. The rest is just surviving through them until I can get to her again.
Saturday we take the bike down by the waterfront. She insists on stopping at a coffee kiosk that only takes cash, so I dig through everypocket and come up with a handful of crumpled notes. She grins like I’ve handed her treasure. We sit on the seawall, legs brushing, steam from the cups mingling in the air. She asks about Greek myths, why musicians always seem obsessed with them.
“Because they were the first songs,” I tell her. “People trying to explain why they felt too much.”
She smirks. “So HadeskidnappingPersephone was just him being emotionallyoverwhelmed?”
I laugh. “We don’t have the right translation. We pretend we do, but it falls short. I’d like to believe it wasn’t theft, it wasacknowledgment.He saw in her a counterpart, someoneso perfect, so sacred, he couldn’t turn away, even if he wanted to.”
She studies me over the rim of her cup. “That still doesn’t exactly sound likeconsent.”
“It’s complex,” I say. “It feels more like fate. Which makes me think she had a hand in it, that somewhere in her, she knew she belonged beside him. Something close tocomplicit surrender, harder to translate. That’s a kind of nuanced honesty people spend their whole lives avoiding for an easier lie. Who knows, maybe she orchestrated it all? Knew where he’d watch and waited?”
She hums, the sound I’m starting to learn she makes when she’s thinking but not ready to admit I might be right. The wind picks up, carrying salt and the faint edge of rain. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and for a second, I forget every song I’ve ever written.
When I convince her to see me again that Wednesday, it’s at her place this time. She cooks, claiming she’s not much of a chef, but everything she does feels precise, the way she slices the garlic, tastes the sauce, moves through the kitchen like she’s composing something. The room smells like home and summer drifting in through the open window.
We talk about paintings, chiaroscuro, the violence of light and shadow.
“Maybe that’s why I love myths,” I say. “They’re brutal, but theyneverapologize for it. Like music,” I murmur, almost to myself. “I don’t soften the notes to make them kind or easier to swallow.”
She laughs, and when she leans her head against my shoulder, it feels like permission disguised as something casual. Later, when she drifts asleep on the couch, I stay where I am, tracing the curve of her shoulder with my eyes, nothing more. It makes me realize I’ve never been so aware of skinwithouttouching it before. It feels like dying and being reborn with each sweep and eventually the rhythm of it claims me too, until I fall asleep beside her, pulse thudding at themagic of sight.
Chapter 47
Terrible At Boredom
After we wake up late, the rest of the day blurs. The kind of blur powered by the rush of being behind, an unconscious way of setting the next twenty-four hours off-kilter. Either that, or the way just the breath in my lungs feels like it's on fire and under water at once, heady and thick. The way he makes me feel, the way the world changes shape and color when he's around, is something I can't really describe. Other than it makes it almost impossible to concentrate, or tell time. The following morning, Rafe’s already texting ideas for Saturday.
a little joyride on the motorcycle?
then dinner somewhere with actual chairs this time?
you pick.
A few minutes later:
or I’ll pick.
you’ll hate it.
but I’ll look smug in leather.
and you’ll forgive me.
Then:
no sticks.
per the agreement.
I promise.
I can almost hear him laughing through the screen, see the tilt of his head, that dimple that appears when he’s trying to charm his way out of being ridiculous. I send a single emoji, an eye roll, and shove my phone into my bag before I start smiling like an idiot in public.
When I arrive at Mama and Tata's house that evening for our weekly feast, Mama’s scolding Tata for sneaking bites; Natalia’s pacing Kacper around the room in her arms, drool pooling on the triple bibs she’s stacked on him, looking at him like he’s a science experiment gone wrong while he shrieks in delight. Aga’s propped up at the table, glowing, the bump starting to show beneath her sweatshirt. Piotr sits beside her, beaming just from the sight of her.
Dominik isn’t here, thankfully. He’sbusy, apparently. That’s what Piotr says when I sit down, his tone carefully neutral. But I know him, busy means angry. I try not to think about it. I focus on helping Mamawith the placki, on laughing when Tata makes his usual comments about my “fancy surgeon hands” and how they were meant for bread dough, not scalpels. It’s all normal, ordinary, comforting chaos.
