Chapter Text
In the end, Rick arrives in America like it’s nothing.
A normal ship on a normal afternoon, no extra fuss about his papers or luggage or unfriendly face as he disembarks with the other passengers. It’s as relieving as it is infuriating.
After all of that. After everything. After he tried so hard to get back, after he swore he’d never step foot in his home country again. After Casablanca, after Brazzaville, after the blood and sweat and tears and god, the fucking sand in his eyes.
He spent almost as long trying to secure a visa as he did killing Nazis. If the world was going to thank him for his service over the last few years of the war, it would’ve been in the form of easy travel to America, so he knows he’ll never get any thanks at all. Which is fine, he supposes. He didn’t do it for the world. And don’t ask him what he did do it for; it doesn’t matter.
In any case, it’s the summer of 1949 and Richard Blaine is standing on a pier in New York City, the place he once called home, a very long time ago. And he has never felt more alone.
.
It takes Rick a few months to make it to their apartment. He finds out where they’re living pretty easily, all things considered—he still has a few contacts that made it to the States.
It’s just that he’s had other things to do. People to see, debts to pay, opportunities to seek out and turn down. That’s all it is.
He sent a letter to them right away, after all. And they sent a letter back, too. Ilsa sent a letter back, that is, and she said Victor sends his love as well, which would sound like a damned lie coming from anyone but the two of them. It would be easier for him if it was a lie, Rick thinks.
They have a daughter. A six year old kid. The light of their lives, apparently. Of course, you wouldn’t say anything different in a letter.
Rick keeps the piece of paper adorned with Ilsa’s penmanship in his coat pocket, close to his chest. It’s a new coat, a waterproof one; he bought it his first day in New York. Dark black, pristine. For now, at least. Not much longer.
It’s just… strange, Rick thinks. Ilsa never mentioned wanting a child. Not in Paris, not in Casablanca. But things were complicated then in a way they must be simple now. Rick had never imagined a life for himself beyond the war, much less something so domestic. It’s funny. Gun to his head, he would’ve said Laszlo felt the same. Things change in America, he supposes.
And now he’s sitting on a train headed to Brooklyn to finally see them at their apartment.
He shouldn’t be nervous.
He should be pontificating on how much the city has changed in his years away, but it’s been a few months and he’s grown tired of that. When he last was in New York City, he carried a flask of whiskey on him. Now, almost two decades later, he does the same, but without the fear of arrest for it.
No, the city has changed too much to bother taking notice. Instead, he thinks of Paris, and takes a drink from his flask.
.
His hand shakes as he knocks on the door.
For a moment, no one answers. Maybe they’re not home. They weren’t expecting him on any particular day; he didn’t call ahead, for some godforsaken reason like not being able to bring himself to pick up the phone.
He breathes out, half ashamed and half relieved, and turns to walk back down the hallway.
Then, the door opens.
Just his luck.
“Richard?”
He turns around to see Ilsa Lund standing in front of him, and he forgets how to breathe.
She smiles at him, and he’s tossed back a decade and across the Atlantic Ocean. He’d grown so used to only seeing her when he closed his eyes, it’s hard to even believe she’s really standing in front of him. Her face has grown older since the last time he saw her, but the way her eyes shine, even in the low light of the hallway, hasn’t changed a bit.
She opens the door wider and beckons him into the apartment. “It’s so good to finally see you again.”
“Ilsa,” he says, because it’s all he can manage to say, and follows her in.
The apartment is nothing extraordinary—a small kitchen and living room connected to a hallway with a few doors Rick assumes are bedrooms and closets.
Victor Laszlo is sitting at the kitchen table with a book in his hand when he looks up to meet Rick’s eyes.
He stands up from the table and walks over to offer a firm handshake.
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Blaine.”
“We’ve both been busy.”
“I never had the chance to really thank you for what you did for us in Casablanca. Words cannot say—“
Rick shakes his head, eyes steady. “Don’t mention it. It was the right thing to do.”
Laszlo nods, understanding.
He gestures toward the living room a few paces away. “Please, have a seat. I will let Rose know it’s safe to come out.”
Right. Their daughter.
Rick takes an uneasy seat on an armchair as Ilsa takes a seat on the couch next to it.
“Welcome back to America,” Ilsa says, clasping her hands in her lap.
“Feels like I never left.”
She gives a slight grin. “There is so much to catch up on, I don’t know where to start.”
“We won the war. That’s a place to start.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Quite a relief for everyone.”
“Your husband must be proud.”
She nods. “I think he was grateful, when it ended, to be living in a country that took all the credit for itself instead of turning to him.”
Rick cracks a smile. “Fair enough.”
“How have you been?”
He shrugs. “I told you in the letter. Worked with the resistance in Africa, lived in Lisbon for a year or so, took damn near forever for this place to let me back in again…”
“But how have you been, Rick?”
Ah.
“No more ‘no questions’, huh?” he mutters, more to himself than to her.
She shakes her head. “I’d like us to know each other, perhaps for the first time.” She pauses in thought. “If that’s alright with you.”
Rick raises his brow in surprise. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s alright with me.”
Before either of them can say anything else, Laszlo appears from the hallway.
There is a young girl at his side, and the first thing Rick sees is that she has her mother’s eyes. She has dark blonde hair like her father’s, tied up in two short braids, and she’s looking at him with a neutrally curious expression that looks too much like her father for words. But god, she has Ilsa’s eyes.
“Mr. Blaine, this is Rose, our daughter. Rose, this is Richard Blaine. He is a good friend of your mother and I, and helped us a great deal before you were born.”
Rose nods at Rick. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blame.”
Rick snorts. “Call me Rick. That goes for your father too.”
“Okay.” Her expression doesn’t really change. “Were you one of the good guys?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
Laszlo puts a hand on her shoulder, looking Rick right in the eye. “Yes, he was. One of the best.”
Rick looks down, unsure how to feel. “I can’t argue with the expert.”
Laszlo takes a seat on the couch next to Ilsa and Rose follows next to him. Rick watches him put a hand over his wife’s hand and an arm over his daughter’s shoulders, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake. He should’ve left the past in the past, remembered Paris for what it was, and found something new for himself, for the hundredth time. Being here, seeing them again, he’s just tarnishing something real.
They have a kid, for god’s sake.
“What’s your job, Mr. Rick?” asks the kid.
He shrugs. “Oh, I’ve done a lot of things, and I was never good at any.”
She furrows her brow.
“He just moved back to the country, dear, I’m not sure he has a new job yet,” Ilsa says.
“Could he be a professor, like dad?”
“A professor, huh?” Rick looks to Laszlo, brow raised.
He shrugs. “The war is over.”
“I just can’t imagine it.”
“A chalkboard is not the same as a newspaper, but in some ways it is even more powerful. I’m honored to shape the minds of the next generation.”
Alright, maybe he can imagine it.
Ilsa smiles fondly to herself in the corner of his eye.
“How do you two like it in the States, by the way? I bet you know the place better than I do by now.”
Laszlo looks down.
“It was… quite an adjustment when we arrived,” Ilsa responds, “But I think we’ve settled in quite nicely. Don’t you agree, Victor?”
“Um, yes, of course.”
Rick narrows his eyes at his hesitance, but decides it’s better not to comment. “It beats a concentration camp, at least.”
Laszlo’s lip twitches.
“We’re safe here, and that’s what matters.”
Laszlo’s grin fades and he mutters something under his breath. It sounds sort of like “for now”.
Ilsa gives him a look.
Rick should not be here.
“How silly of me. I forgot to ask if you’d like anything to drink, Rick.”
Ilsa stands up and moves to the kitchen.
“I’d love a glass of whatever you have.”
She smiles.
Laszlo pulls a cigarette pack out of his jacket and offers one to Rick, who accepts.
Laszlo turns to Rose. “Dear, will you open the window for me?”
She nods and runs to the window on the other side of the room.
Ilsa arrives back to the table with a bottle of cognac on a tray as they each light their cigarettes.
“This was sent to us from some friends in Lille,” she says.
“Ah, the good stuff,” Rick takes a drag of his cigarette. “I haven’t had a real French cognac in years.”
“Really?” Ilsa asks, pouring three glasses.
“It’s harder to come by when you don’t own a bar.”
“I see.” She hands him a glass.
“Do you plan on opening one here?” asks Laszlo.
Rick laughs. “No way. Nothing special about Rick’s Cafe Americain when you’re in America.”
“Oh, I think there would be a lot that’s special about it,” Ilsa interjects.
Rick waves a hand. “Plus,” he adds dryly, “It’s too hard to find corrupt cops here.”
Laszlo has a good chuckle at that.
.
He gets a job as a bartender.
It’s strange, being the one behind the bar again. It’s strange not needing a translator to understand the patrons’ orders, or fearing that a misunderstanding would escalate to an impromptu battle. It’s strange how normal it should feel.
The whole damn world is telling him he should feel normal. The war is over, we’re supposed to be free. Young couples dance without a care in the world to jazz standards on the piano. The piano player at this bar is alright, but he’s no Sam.
He watches a young couple, a girl and a boy no older than twenty, cling to each other on the dance floor as La Vie en Rose plays, and he finds himself thinking of Ilsa.
What if they were younger, and they’d met each other here?
A ridiculous notion, but it captivates him regardless.
The boy whispers something in the girl’s ear and she smiles. She looks up at him with loving eyes, and he looks back down at her. They must think this will last forever.
It sticks in the back of his mind. What if there was no war, no cause, nothing to keep them apart?
Then a whole lot would be different, wouldn’t it. The whole world would be different. There’s no use dwelling on the past, especially an imagined version that doesn’t even make sense.
The girl spins on the dance floor, her bright blue dress swirling in the air.
Rick pours himself a shot of gin.
.
Rick had not expected to end up at the Laszlos’ apartment a second time. One visit would most certainly be enough, for the sake of both politeness and that seeing them settled in their new life would finally allow him to excise the last remnants of real attachment he had to that part of his, like the amputation of a rotting limb. Surely they felt the same about him, anyhow.
And yet, like one of those ancient Egyptian curses some of the men in Algiers and Tunis were so fond of telling stories about—bearers haunted til their dying days by horrible visions and tragic happenstances, no escape except by way of madness or death—Victor Laszlo calls to invite him over again.
So here he is, sitting in their living room, smoking a cigarette Laszlo offered him before running off to put their daughter to bed, Ilsa sitting next to him on the couch, two so-far untouched glasses of cognac in front of them. It’s not right; not after all those years knowing he would never see her again.
“Alright,” Rick says to her, because at this point, he might as well. “I want to take you up on that offer. The one where we ask questions.”
Ilsa smiles, melancholy lingering in her eyes. “What would you like to know?”
“The past eight years. Have you been happy?”
She looks to the side, past him. “Of course.”
Rick frowns. “I’m not trying to steal you away. I just want to know.”
She sighs. “You were right. At the airport. Of course you were right. If that’s what you want to know.”
Rick leans back in his seat. “Well, that’s part of it.”
“Victor is my husband, and I love him.”
“I know.”
“He should’ve hated me for what I did to him.”
“He would never.” Rick takes a drag of his cigarette. “He doesn’t even hate me for it.”
She sighs, looking into the distance. “I don’t deserve him.”
Now, there is no good way for Rick to respond to that.
Thankfully, she seems to realize it, and her eyes land on him again. “And you? You were… happy with your choice?”
“I didn’t regret it for a second.”
“Good.” A pause. “Did you ever… meet anyone else?”
Rick can’t help but chuckle at her hesitance to ask. “A few, over the years. Nothing that lasted. I’ve never had a talent for keeping women.”
“Maybe one day the right one will come along.”
“I don’t know if I believe that much in second chances.”
Ilsa narrows her eyes. “We both know that’s not true.”
There is the sound of a door opening in the hallway, and Victor Laszlo walks into the living room.
“She wants you to read to her,” he says to Ilsa, with the tiniest tinge of disappointment.
She grins sympathetically and begins to stand up.
“Our daughter,” Laszlo sighs, now turned to face Rick. “She hates my reading voice. I’ve told her that it was and is part of my job to read things out loud; it doesn’t make a difference.”
Ilsa smiles. “She’ll grow out of it,” she says, and reaches up to kiss him on the cheek. Rick feels… something.
“I’ll be back soon,” she says to them both, and heads into the hallway.
Laszlo takes a seat next to Rick on the couch, right where his wife had just been. Whatever feeling Rick had a moment ago, he still can’t shake it.
“Apologies for my absence the rest of the evening. Rose can be quite stubborn about bedtime.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Laszlo. I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent, and I demand no explanation.”
“Fair enough.” Laszlo reaches into a pocket of his jacket and procures a cigarette, then pauses. “Do you have a lighter with you?”
Rick pulls a lighter from his own pocket.
“Have you seen the news of the Soviets testing a nuclear bomb?” he asks, as Rick lights his cigarette. “Thank you.”
Rick gives a shrug as he puts the lighter away.
“Does it not terrify you?”
Rick takes a drag of his own cigarette. “The end of the world?”
“What else?”
“I can’t imagine a more fitting way for the world to go out.”
Laszlo gives him a curious look. “What is it like to be able to dismiss the world like that? I don’t know how you do it.”
Rick can’t help but laugh. “I don’t know any other way.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
He winces.
Laszlo sighs. It’s strange seeing him so… not resigned, but close to it.
“If it makes you feel any better, I admire your ability to face it head on.”
He gives a bitter sort of smile, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I don’t know any other way.”
“And it’s done a whole lot of good. We both know that.”
His eyes glance toward the glasses of cognac, forgotten on the coffee table. “It all feels so small, now, doesn’t it? When a single bomb can wipe out a city?”
“Some things are too big for one man to comprehend.”
“And what if we had said that about the Nazis?”
Rick takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out on the ashtray on the table. “I don’t remember you as one for what ifs, Mr. Laszlo.”
The corner of his lip curls upward. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It was much simpler when there was a war.”
Rick smirks. “You know what… you might be right about that. Though we may be the only two people in the world who believe it.”
Laszlo smiles, a real smile, and Rick finds himself wondering if it’s the same one he has for Ilsa.
He grabs the glass of cognac that had been his wife’s and raises it. “Cheers, Mr. Blaine.”
“What are we toasting?”
“Whatever you’d like, I suppose.”
Rick pauses in thought, then raises his glass to meet Laszlo’s. “To the rest of our lives.”
He clinks his glass with Rick’s, and they both drink.
“Did I miss anything?”
Ilsa walks back into the living room, and Laszlo’s head turns to look at her. Rick notes that the smile he gives her is not unlike the one he gave him moments ago.
It takes him a moment to remember he should be envious. In truth, he still loves Ilsa; he doubts he will ever rid himself of that, but he’s made his peace with the fact that she’ll never be his. Victor Laszlo is a better man than he could ever be, and he is nothing but glad she is sharing her life with someone so good, someone who loves her as much as he does.
“Nothing at all,” says Laszlo.
Ilsa smiles back at him, like they have some kind of shared secret.
They probably do.
It’s none of Rick’s business.
.
One early morning, Rick wakes up to a ringing phone.
He hurriedly and groggily gets out of bed, frustrated at the inconsiderate person calling his apartment at such an early hour, when he glances at the clock to see that it’s almost noon.
Ah, well.
He picks up the phone. “Hello?”
“Richard! So sorry to disturb you, but I have a favor to ask,” says the voice of Ilsa on the other line.
“Anything,” he responds, out of some old, half-forgotten instinct.
“Victor and I were asked to attend… an event,” she says, carefully. “It’s quite last minute, and we need someone to watch Rose.”
“She’s seven years old, isn’t she? Can’t she watch herself?”
She sighs. “I don’t want her to be home alone, Rick. Not with everything right now…”
“Alright, alright. I’ll be there in an hour.”
She sighs again, this time with relief. “Thank you so much!”
When he arrives at the apartment, Ilsa and Victor are already gone.
Rose is lying on her back on the couch, reading a book. Her eyes flick up to Rick for a moment when he enters, but they fall back down when she sees it’s him.
“Hi there, Rose.”
“Hi.”
“What are you reading?”
She holds the book out farther in front of her to give him a better view, impressive in her ability to avoid looking away from her reading.
He takes a step closer.
Reform or Revolution by Rosa Luxemburg. An interesting choice for a seven year old.
He takes a seat next to her. “Can you understand the words in that book?”
She shrugs.
“Does your dad know you’re reading it?”
She shrugs again.
“They make books for kids, you know.”
“I don’t like pictures.”
“You don’t—?! Okay. Sure.”
Her lip curls in a tiny smile in the spitting image of her father, and still her eyes remain on the book.
Is this just what children are like? Rick can’t remember the last time he spent time with any.
“What do you like to do, then?”
She shrugs.
“Alright, fine.” He props his legs up on the table and closes his eyes. “I won’t bother you.”
“What do you like to do?”
Rick opens his eyes and regards her skeptically. “Me?”
She nods, flicking her eyes up at him.
“Drink,” he says, on instinct.
She frowns.
“It’s a bad habit.”
“Why do you do it if it’s bad?”
He sighs. “That’s a complex question, kid.”
“Dad says people do bad things because of the system we’re in.”
“What does your mom say?”
She tilts her head. “I don’t know.”
“How about you ask her. She might understand.”
She furrows her brow. “Okay.” A pause. “When will they be back?”
He purses his lips. “I’m not sure.”
“Tonight, right?”
I don’t make plans that far ahead.
He nods. “Of course.”
She narrows her eyes at him, but says nothing.
“Well, you can get back to your book now. I don’t want to keep you from your revolution.”
“Did you really kill a Nazi to save my parents?”
Rick raises his brow, taken aback by the question. “Yeah. I did.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
He snorts. “It didn’t feel that way in the moment.”
“Why not?”
“I was terrified.”
“Oh.”
He clenches his jaw. “Your parents will be back by tonight.”
She blinks, and her eyes fall back to the book.
.
Hours go by, and they’re still gone.
Rose seems perfectly content pretending to read German communist theory, occasionally asking Rick to tell her what words like “superfluous” or “compulsion” mean.
Rick watches the clock and taps his fingers on his leg.
Finally, he breaks.
“Rose, is there a chess set in this place?”
She looks up, towards the first doorway past the living room. “Yeah, in the closet.”
Rick stands up, muttering to himself about how something like that should be displayed, not buried somewhere, and opens the closet door.
It’s filled with assorted boxes of random things—as Rick glances through them, he unconsciously braces himself to come face to face with something from his past, something from Paris. But of course, he doesn’t. Ilsa’s traveled a continent and a half and across the sea, all while on the run, since then. It wouldn’t make sense for much of what she had then to make it all the way here.
He finds the chess set in the third box he opens, under a book labeled “Photo Album” that he knows better than to look inside.
He carries it back to the living room and places it on the table. Rose looks up.
“I take it you don’t know how to play?”
She shakes her head.
“Alright, let’s start simple.” He opens the polished wood box and pulls out the white king. “This is the king. Your goal is to protect yours and capture mine.”
She nods.
Rick begins to set up the board.
“Can I hide it?”
“Huh?”
“My king.”
He chuckles, placing down the last few pawns. “The pieces all have to stay in the boxes on the board.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the rules of the game.”
“Dad says that just following orders isn’t an excuse.”
“That’s—that’s not—“
.
Rose Laszlo is no natural chess player, but she is clearly trying her best to learn. Rick, for his part, is enjoying himself in the challenge of believably going easy on her.
When he takes the second of her pawns, Rose looks into the distance, like she’s deep in thought.
After a moment, she tilts her head at Rick. “What happens to the pieces after they’re captured?”
Rick snorts. “You know, I’ve wondered that too.”
“I think they’ll be able to escape and make it somewhere safe.”
“That’s a nice thought.”
She puts a hand to her chin, studying the board. “They might need help, though…”
Fine. Rick will play this game too. “Yeah? You want to sacrifice another piece to help your pawns make it to the New World?”
She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re trying to trick me.”
He puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m just trying to play the same game you’re playing, kid.”
“Why can’t we just help the king escape?”
“Because then the other side will take over the board.”
She furrows her eyebrows. Something about the expression looks so inescapably like her mother, and Rick can’t help but conjure a memory…
April 1940. Paris.
They’re sitting together on the couch in their small apartment. Ilsa rests her head on Richard’s shoulder, his hand in hers.
“They’re heading for Norway now, I hear.”
Richard’s eyebrows raise in concern. “Your family—will they be okay?”
She swallows. “There is a strong underground resistance in my home. With the advance warning, I believe they will be able to save many lives.”
He smiles, intrigued. “You sure know a lot about underground resistances.”
She blushes, looking down. “Only what I hear around.”
“I think it’s great stuff they’re doing. Part of me wants to be right there with them.”
“But that’s… so dangerous, isn’t it?”
“Of course, but someone needs to fight the Nazi bastards.”
Ilsa nods. There’s something in her eyes. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”
Richard softens his voice. “Hey, kid, don’t worry. I’m not running off to fight any Nazis.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “You promise?”
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course I promise.”
“Okay, I guess so.”
Rose’s voice snaps Rick back to the present, and she’s still looking at him with Ilsa’s eyes. Like she wants to say something, but can’t bring herself to say it.
“It’s your turn.”
Rick nods, and moves a pawn away from her knight.
.
Around midnight, Rose falls asleep on the couch.
Rick considers making an attempt to carry her to a bed, but he doesn’t know which door hers is behind, and he doesn’t feel like exploring any more rooms in this apartment. So he lets her lie there, breathing softly, Reform or Revolution clutched to her chest.
Rick sets up the chess board anew and begins a game by himself. He moves the pieces as softly as he can, an instinct he remembers well from his days with Ilsa.
At one point, a bishop clatters to the wood floor, and he freezes. Nothing changes; Rose still breathes softly next to him, fast asleep. Not a light sleeper after all. She must get it from her father.
At around one in the morning, the door opens and Victor and Ilsa Laszlo walk back into their apartment hand in hand, looking worn out and exhausted.
“Where have the two of you been?” asks Rick.
“We can explain some other time,” replies Laszlo. “Is Rose alright?”
Rick gestures to the sleeping girl next to him.
Laszlo looks at her and breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
Rick shrugs. “She’s a good kid.”
Laszlo breaks away from Ilsa, who had been leaning on his side, to pick Rose up and carry her to her bedroom. She groggily opens her eyes for a second as he lifts her from the couch, but closes them again in his arms.
The way Victor Laszlo looks at his daughter… Rick’s not sure he’s loved anything that much. Or been loved by anyone that much. He doesn’t know how Laszlo does it—love, that is—like it’s the only thing that matters, like the world depends on it. Being loved by Victor Laszlo must be… suffocating.
“Really Rick, thank you for this,” Ilsa says, moving to sit in the space where Rose had been.
Rick leans an arm on the back of the couch to face her. “I’ll consider us even if you tell me where you were.”
She looks down, not meeting his eyes. “Helping a friend.”
“That’s all? Doesn’t seem too bad.” He raises his brow, awaiting more information.
“He was written up by the National Council for American Education.”
“Jeez. What’d he do?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. They’re targeting professors with ties to anything they perceive as ‘communist’. Especially immigrants, especially… well…”
“Targeting war refugees, huh? How American.”
She sighs. “I’m worried about Victor.”
“Just because of that? Or something else?”
“He has been… stirring up controversy. At the university.”
“I’m shocked.”
“It’s not the same as it was during the war.” She sighs. “He’s not… We’re not… And, well… if he makes enemies in America, it would be so easy to turn people against him. We’ve seen it happen before.”
“What enemies could he have here? He’s Victor Laszlo!”
She looks at him with a sort of pity. “You’ve been gone a long time, haven’t you.”
Rick shifts in his seat. He does not like to be a step behind. “I guess so.”
“But anyways, we were talking to some friends of his about how far this could go. How much danger he’s in.”
“And?”
She swallows. “I don’t know; it all depends. People declare war on the strangest things.”
“No kidding.”
“I wish he would be more careful…”
“But we both know better than that.”
“Yes. We do.”
“He’s lucky to have you looking out for him, you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
“I’m sure he tells you too.”
She hides a smile, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Well. I should be going.” Rick stands up and starts to move toward the door.
“No! It’s too late for you to go all the way back to the city.” Ilsa stands up to face him. “We have a guest room.”
Rick freezes, chest clenching. “No, I—“
“Please, Rick. It’s the least we can do.”
He scoffs. The least they can do. As if they owe him anything.
She looks at him expectantly. A strange wave of nerves passes over him. He couldn’t possibly sleep next door to the two of them. It wouldn’t be right.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll find a hotel somewhere close. Tell your daughter I’m up for a rematch whenever she’s ready.”
She sighs. “Alright.”
“Take care of yourselves.”
“You too, Rick.”
Rick opens the door to the apartment and walks out, shutting it behind him.
The hallway is dark. He takes a deep breath.