Page 27 of The Encore’s Crown

Her eyes flick toward me and she sniffs. “As if you’re enough to make me cry. Please. I come from a long line of strong Polish women. Men don’t make us cry. We make men cry.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah. I can see that. Rafe was a total disaster when Kasia dumped him last year. I thought we were gonna have to sedate him. Hook him up to strings and drag him out like some creepy puppet for shows. He lost the will to live, I swear.”

She goes still, her smile fading. “It was stupid,” she says after a moment. “Mama and Tata making demands over that psycho. As if Rafe had anything to do with that nutso stalker showing up at our house. It was scary… but breaking up never kept anyone safe. They shouldn’t have gotten a vote. Kasia and Rafe are adults. I'm glad they're back together. It’s their life, not anyone else’s.”

There’s something raw in her voice now.

I swallow. “Are we still talking about Rafe and Kasia?”

She blows out a breath and leans back against the bench. “You’d think they’d be the last ones to do it to someone else. That they’d understand how it felt. But no, of course not. I had to get out of there before I had to endure another fucking lecture.”

“About me?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. About me. The fuck up compared to her… I didn’t name you, I wouldn’t do that. Even though you deserve it after what came out of your mouth.”

That hits deeper than I expect. I look down at my hands. “I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Look, don't bullshit me, I've had enough of it for tonight,” she cuts in, softer. “Kasia's just… worried about me.” She hesitates, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “It shouldn’t be so much to ask, to chase what makes me—” She stops herself. “If I told her what happened tonight, she'd be worried. She gets this face, she squints at me with disappointment, I hate it. Her doktorka face, like I'm something else to diagnose. So I kept it to myself." She sighs before she continues, glancing up at me. "They both say you've got a terrible track record with women, you know? I see the panic in their eyes anytime I get near you.” That makes her laugh to herself, picking at the bench before meeting my eyes.

I grimace. “I deserve that panic.”

“I can tell. That speech on the roof? You're an asshole, you know that right?”

“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, the words piling up before I can decide whether I want to let them out. “Yeah I do. Fuck." I sigh and let my head hang just long enough to decide if I'm going to quit talking or actually give something of myself for once. "My love life’s pretty shit, if you can even call it that. Everyone knows it. It’s just—”

I trail off, staring at the lantern glow scattered across the gravel.

She waits.

“It’s the packaging,” I say finally. “The surface. The attitude.” I raise my eyebrows at her and she nods back like she knows she has enough attitude to power this whole city. “I'm into it, so I chase it. But once they're caught? I end up in a hotel room with someone who wants handbags and clout and a picture taken at the right angle so everyone knows they’re with the bassist. But the minute we’re actually alone, they’re on their phones the whole time. Well, between rounds of—" I cut myself off, and cough abruptly to avoid the truth of it, even if we both know it already. "Anyway, there’s nothing underneath it. Then I get bored and start backing off, so they start holding on tighter.”

The silence that follows is too big, the honesty almost painful.

“And if they don’t get exactly what they want out of me, sometimes they go tell their version of the story. Sell it, post it, threaten to post it. I’ve had people try to blackmail me with shit that never even happened because they know one made up headline travels faster than the truth.” I shrug, but there’s no humor in it. “Makes it hard to trust anyone who gets too close.”

I drag a hand down my face. “There. I’ve just said something out loud I’ve never admitted before. Probably some childhood bullshit thrown in I should 'unpack' with a therapist.”

She sits back, looking at me, curiosity flickering across her expression. She opens her mouth like she’s about to ask something, then stops. We sit there in a quiet that isn’t hostile anymore. Just tired and vulnerable. Human. Eventually, she exhales and lets her head tip gently to the side, resting against my shoulder. I freeze, unsure. But she doesn’t pull away. I’m so damn tired of pulling back from her that I let myself lean into it just a little, enough to feel her warmth through the fabric of my hoodie.

After a moment, my arm lifts and settles around her shoulders, slow and careful, a silent question she doesn’t reject. She scoots closer, knees tucked up, her breath soft and steady against my sleeve. We both stare straight ahead at the path, because we know exactly what would happen if we looked at each other. The spark from the terrace hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s waiting. Ready to drag us under again.

But for now, just for this minute, this is enough. Enough to breathe, to stop hurting. Enough to admit, without saying a word, that neither of us is done with the other. The garden path is empty, until footsteps crunch softly on gravel somewhere behind us.

I stiffen. Natalia hears it too. Her head snaps up, eyes wide for a split second, and without even thinking she yanks my hood lower over my forehead and pulls me towards her, trying to keep my identity hidden. I mirror the motion for her, pulling the fabric forward until her face is covered, enough to obscure a view if anyone clocked us. Someone walking by would think we’re two exhausted tourists huddled together for warmth, not two people with a whole damn storm brewing between them.

The footsteps draw closer. Voices follow. Natalia curls into my side, tucking herself under my arm. I angle my shoulder, shielding her without thinking, both of us trying not to breathe too loudly.

It feels exactly like hiding under a blanket together.

The memory hits me hard. Me and Rithy, small hands clutching the edge of a thin blanket, pulling it over our heads while our father stomped through the hallway. His voice booming, slurred by rage and beer. Glass shattering. Our mother pleading, her voice breaking. Then the thuds. Hard, sickening. Rithy was shaking so badly I thought he might come apart, so I cupped his ears and pressed him into my side, whispering stupid stories about dragons and magic just to drown out the screaming.

Shh, I’d told him, even though I’d been the one trembling. It’s just a game. We’re hiding from the monster.

The footsteps pass behind us and fade into the distance. Natalia moves slightly, her breath warm against my collarbone, and the memory dissolves. I blink hard and force myself back into the present.

She has no idea what just tore through me. She’s just smiling like the two of us sharing this ridiculous hiding place is funny and sweet instead of something that dragged a terror straight out of me. I can’t look away from her. It’s the first time in hours she hasn’t looked furious or hurt. We could pull apart now. We should, the coast is clear, but neither of us moves.

Instead, my hand finds her face, gently cupping her cheek with a palm that feels too rough and undeserving to touch someone like her. She freezes, not scared, just alert, like this moment is balancing on the head of a pin. Her skin is warm beneath my thumb. I brush it along the curve of her cheekbone, feeling the softness there, the faint tracks where she wiped away tears.