Aga just blinks. “Wait. Really? He wants to come to achildren’s birthday party?Someone like him? He mustreallylike you, Kasia.” A knowing smile on her face.
“Seems so,” Piotr says, far too pleased. “Time to get yourblood mandrunk on good Polish vodka and ask him why he hit his friend in the video.”
I shoot him a look that could kill. “Piotr.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “What? Public wants to know. I’m part of the public.”
I take a breath and text back before the room can combust further.
It’ll be chaotic, but yes, you’re officially invited now. If you want to. You really don't have to.
Then I put the phone down and sigh, already regretting everything.
Mama clasps her hands together. “A famous man at my table.Boze Swiety,we need to iron the tablecloth.”
Somewhere beneath the noise, my phone buzzes again.
perfect.
I’ll bring flowers and my best behavior.
God help him. God help me.
The entire neighborhood shows up, Mama wasn’t exaggerating when she said everyone. The living room’s bursting with chatter, tables lined with dishes, kids running between legs with frosting already smeared across their faces. There’s schabowy, kielbasa, cakes from three different bakeries, and Zosia’s new obsession, a rainbow balloon arch so big it threatens to lift the house.
Then there’s Rafe, he shows up precisely on time, incredibly composed, in his signature dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, flowers on top of a box big enough to hide a small human. He's carries it with surprising ease. The moment he steps inside, the room goes quiet. You can feel everyone’s heads turn. Mama freezes with a ladle midair. Tata straightens like he’s back in the army.
“Dzien dobry(Good morning),” Rafe says, that perfect, polite smile in place. His charm isabsurd, so controlled, effortless, like he’s harnessing every watt of stage presence and wrapping it in calm. “I hope I’m not too early.” He could be at a press conference, the way he delivers it, smooth and measured. The thought crosses my mind: maybe he’s never used thefull forceof what he can do to a crowd,on me.
The thought unravels something inside me, a little break in my defenses. For the first time I wonder if Rithy wasso afraidbecause he saw Rafeopening up, and knew exactly what that meant. That he wasn’tperformingfor me.
“Too early? Boze, come in, come in!” Mama stammers, ushering him inside. “You areso tall,my goodness. Isn't he tall, Tata? Oh, you must be starving.”
Zosia spots him first and barrels toward him, hair flying, birthday tiara slipping. “Is that mine? Can I open it?” She eyes the box like it might be another cake, ready to bite.
Rafe crouches down to her level, grin wide. “It is, it’s from me and your Auntie Kasia. Go ahead, it’s your birthday. Unleash destruction.”
He slides the box forward. Zosia tears into it with the determination of a pirate. When the wrapping falls away, she gasps, a full dollhouse, two stories tall, with tiny lights that flicker and furniture sealed in neat plastic bags, waiting to be placed. She grabs a bag and tugs at my sleeve for help, eyes gleaming. As each piece comes out, I’m stunned by the detail, by howrealit all looks.
Her little hands fly to her mouth. “Wow. Did you make it?”
“I wish,” Rafe says. “But I helped pick it out. Your Auntie told me you’d love something you could play pretend with.”
She throws her arms around his neck with frosting-covered hands before anyone can say a word or stop it. Natalia looks absolutelyhorrified. Zosia squeals, darting back to the dollhouse and trying to arrange the furniture, her fingers sticky with sugar and joy.
The whole room softens instantly, everyone except Dominik. He’s been standing by the table since Rafe arrived, expression unreadable, drink untouched. When Zosia hugs Rafe again, something flickers across his face. Not anger, loss.
“What an entrance,” he says finally, his voice deep enough to cut through the noise. Zosia is thankfully absorbed in her new toy, and Natalia moves to keep it that way, pretending interest in the tiny sofa. Dominik doesn’t look away, instead he digs his heels in, staring him down, cocking his head to the side with suspicion. “Alwaysso generous?” he asks. “Or just trying tobuyyour way in?”
“Dominik,” I warn under my breath, but he keeps going.
“You know,” he says, eyes still on Rafe, “a month ago Kasia was right here onmy arm.” He gestures with a roll of his shoulder, part location, the rest a show of strength. I roll my eyes.
“Mygirlfriend,” he adds, voice tinged with pride and something uglier underneath, the title like a badge of honor, one he never used until things slipped sideways. Then he straightens, smirking like he’s reclaiming ground. “She’ll be back, when you’re off hitting on celebrities in fancy places. You’ll get bored of usnormalpeople.” The last part lands like a jab meant for both of us, the ghost of our last fight alive in every syllable.
The air stills. Even Mama just keeps stirring the punch, pretending not to notice. Only the kids keep laughing, the background noise of innocence against the tension in the room. Everyone else watches, transfixed, as if the party’s turned into live television.
Rafe just smiles, calm as a blade in its sheath. “Well, lucky for me, I’mterribleat boredom. I’ve been singing thesame songsfor a coupleof decades but it never gets old. Hard to get bored of somethingyou love,right?” He gives a small huff of a laugh and pats his shoulder.
