“Mm.” He tips his beer toward me. “The shop’s busy. Some of us actually see real life instead of squinting at eyeballs.”
Natalia snorts behind her phone. I ignore both of them and reach for the basket of fresh-baked rolls Mama always makes. The scent of butter and yeast fills me as I breathe in deep.
Aga smacks Piotr on the arm, careful not to jostle the baby. “Here. You can hold your beer and your son. I’m not doing it all by myself.” She hands the baby over, and Piotr beams with pride.
“So, siostra,” he goes on, rocking the baby, “you still listening to our altar boys? The ones with the big concerts coming up?”
I freeze mid-reach. “They’re notaltar boys.”
“The Riven Altar,” he says with exaggerated reverence, rolling the r and lifting his beer in a flourish. “I remember how you wallpapered your room with their posters. Maybe you should check my eyes, I'm sure I lost some vision walking in on you kissing them goodnight.”He teases.
Natalia perks right up. “Mama, diddeluluKasia kiss her posters goodnight?”
Heat floods my face. “I didnot.”
Mama turns from the stove, spoon in hand, eyebrows arched. “Kasia was too busy studying to waste her timekissingposters. Something the two of you could have learned from her.”
My smile widens in triumph as Natalia groans and Piotr rolls his eyes in perfect sync.
Piotr leans back, satisfied anyway. “Mama’s covering for her. She rubbed the lead singer’s face right off.” He winks at Natalia. “You wouldn’t even know who they were if it wasn’t for me taking you to that gig.” He leans in toward Natalia like he’s spinning some epic legend and I just roll my eyes. “She loved hanging out with us older guys andstealingmy leather jacket.” He smirks at me. “Admit it. You were happy as my shadow.”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “I liked the scene. The music.” I take a bite of my roll, talking with half a mouthful “And I neverstoleyour jacket, youofferedit.”
Piotr grins wider. “Sure, now look at you, a whole doctor but still drooling over them. Obelus, Haima,whoever-the-fuck.”
Mama shoots him a look that sayswatch your mouth, and he bows his head in apology.
“Their real names are less impressive,” he mutters, still smirking.
I level a glare at him. “They want to be anonymous, so Irespectit.”
Piotr rolls his eyes. “You know they went to Lincoln High, right? I had friends there who knew them. Said they were total nerds. Skinny little basement rats.”
He says it like it’s the knockout blow, like that’s supposed to erase a decade of lyrics I can recite by heart.
I take another bite, chewing slowly. “Funny,” I say at last, eyes on the table. “Doesn’t sound like it stopped them from filling stadiums. Tickets were insane to get.”
He barks a laugh. “So you’re going. I knew it!”
I lift my hand in mock violence. “You’re lucky Kacper’s in your arms, or you’d feel the blood I’d sacrifice for Obelus right now.”
Laughter erupts around the table, warm and tired. When it fades, I open my phone just to look at the tickets one more time, then close it and tear another bite off my roll like a small, privatevictory.
Chapter 4
Ta Ostatnia Niedziela
The front door creaks open, boots thudding heavy in the hallway. “Dzieci!(Children!)” Tata calls, voice booming with end-of-day cheer. He carries in with him the scent of late February air, chilly, edged with the bite of winter and bleach from mopping the shop floors when he strides in, cheeks ruddy from the walk home.
He doesn’t miss a beat, plants a kiss on the top of my head, then Natalia’s golden-dyed locks, then swoops around the table to press one to Piotr’s dark hair. Piotr groans like it’s the worst thing in the world, ducking low, but Tata catches him anyway. The baby gets his kiss last, soft and lingering, Piotr’s complaints forgotten as his father bends to the tiny head with infinite gentleness. He clucks his tongue, telling Piotr he’ll need to feed the boy properly, that he doesn’t have enough fat on him for a baby.
He turns then to Aga, drawing her into a quick embrace. “And you, kochana,” he asks warmly, “is my son treating you well?”
Aga smiles, the kind that crinkles her eyes. “Yes, always.”
Satisfied, Tata nods and heads straight for Mama, gathering her in his arms mid-stir. He rocks her in place, humming before breaking into song,“Ta ostatnia niedziela…”The old Polish tango about one last Sunday before lovers part. His favorite, all drama and heartbreak. Mama laughs, trying to twist away, smacking him with her wooden spoon, but she doesn’t pull too hard. The onions hiss louder as if tojoin the chorus, and for a moment the whole kitchen leans toward music and mischief.
Tata finally releases her, slipping the spoon from her hand as though he’s been waiting for his cue. He stirs the onions without being told, reaching for the salt, moving around the kitchen in sync with her as though they’ve practiced this dance a thousand times, which, in truth, they have. I catch myself sighing. Love, in their hands, isn’t a grand gesture or a fairy tale; it’s something older, steadier. Mama rules the stove, Tata mops the shop floors, and somehow in between he 's never short on romance. He always seems to know what she needs.
