I smile, staring up at the ceiling. “To listen toyou, 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.
Chapter 54
Absinthe & Want
Rafe
The next night we meet Råvind for dinner after load-in, it’s tradition to take the openers out the night before the first show, a little goodwill before the chaos starts. Half the tables are covered in open menus and unopened bottles of wine.
Rithy’s halfway through charming the waiter in three languages when Ronan elbows him aside to pull out a chair for Freja, Råvind’s drummer, and the reason he’s been looking like he hasn’t slept properly in days. She’s all blonde curls and smudged eyeliner, leather jacket hanging off one shoulder. When she laughs at something he says, he looks like someone just handed him oxygen.
Across the table, I hide a grin behind my glass. It’s the first time I’ve seen Ronan nervous since our first tour. He’s usually the loudest in any room, but tonight he’s tripping over his own words, trying too hard to look casual.
Freja’s bandmates are just as magnetic. There’s Signe, the guitarist, shaved side, silver rings, the kind of swagger that makes you want to watch her walk away. She keeps sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. I catch her once, give a polite smile, but nothingmore. I’m not feeding any stories tonight. Not when the air finally feels light again.
Ingrid, the lead singer, has that stage-born confidence, dark hair, silk scarf, voice that sounds like it’s been steeped in whiskey and poetry. Every word she says lands like she’s aware of how it sounds. Liv, their bassist, is the opposite, soft-spoken, calm, the gravitational pull that keeps the others grounded. There’s even a keyboard player, Mina, barely twenty, eyes wide and bright, like the world still feels new to her.
Kiri’s swirling his drink, eyes flicking to his phone every few minutes. He’s got that faraway look he gets when someone new’s found their way under his skin. I raise a brow at him, but he just shrugs and grins like he’s been caught. The conversation drifts toward setlists and soundchecks.
Råvind’s running their opener straight into “Glaskyrkan” which is their hardest track. I love that, I’ve always believed openers should come out swinging. Freja sings a few bars of their second track, Ronan joins in with his fingers drumming against the table, and within minutes, half the restaurant’s turned into our rehearsal space.
By the time dessert shows up, the whole place is vibrating with laughter. Someone, probably Rithy, orders shots, and someone else starts ranking who’s most likely to forget their lyrics first. I shake my head, letting the noise wash over me. It’s chaotic but perfect.
When we finally spill out into the street, Rithy claps me on the shoulder. “Shame it’s all girls,” he says, grinning. “Could’ve used atour-long distraction.”
I laugh, a real one, from somewhere deep. “I think you’re already enough of one.”
“Touché.” He smirks, mock-wounded, and jogs to catch up with Kiri, cigarette already betweenhis fingers.
I linger a moment outside the restaurant, hands in my pockets, watching the others fade into the neon glow. Ronan’s still hovering near Freja, trying to impress her. Kiri’s typing something that makes him smile. Even Rithy, for all his chaos, looks lighter.
Tonight feels like maybe, the current’s running in the right direction. The laughter carries down the street, bright and messy. Tomorrow will be loud, hectic, and dare I say, maybe evengood.Kasia’s voice drifts through my mind.He looked... happy.
It’s past ten when I check my watch, but in this city something’s always open. Up ahead, a Späti glows like a lighthouse for insomniacs and bad ideas. The fluorescent buzz greets me when I step inside. Bottles line the shelves, green and gold under the harsh light. I grab a bottle of absinthe, giving in to old superstition tugging at the back of my mind. The Obscene Poet. Our first European gig. The way Rithy had been then, wild and alive. Maybe this is how I fix it. Ease it. Make the rest of the tour less complicated. A makeshift olive branch of alcohol and memories.
Back at the hotel, the others scatter. Ronan to call Freja, Kiri to brood or text whoever has him hooked. I change into sweats and a hoodie, grab the bottle, and step back into the hall. I hesitate, staring at the green glass, then turn toward Rithy’s room and knock. There’s a pause before the door opens.
He blinks at me, shirtless, looking like he’d been expecting anyone else. I swallow, suddenly more nervous than I anticipated. “Well,thisis a surprise.”
“No entourage?” I glance past him, mock-theatrical. “What happened to your devotees in every city?”
He rolls his eyes. “Noteverynight’s a party.”
I lift the bottle. “In memory ofThe Obscene Poet. Thought we’d pay our respects.”
That earns a grin. “Fantastic, I have the eyeliner ready. Shame about your wrinkles, but I’ll make it work.”
