In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen
Eight years ago
Mal
Dear Princess Aurora of New Jersey,
So. This is awkward.
Mostly because I told you we should leave it to fate, and here I am, writing to you, which is essentially flipping fate the finger while driving slowly by its house after trashing its locker.
I decided I don’t want to leave things to fate. Feck fate. I don’t know it personally. Why should I trust it?
Anyway, I’m not writing to you about our contract. Forget about it. Well, obviously, don’t. I still have it. But I’m trying to give fate a nudge in the right direction.
Thing is, I’ve been thinking, and perhaps I was a bit rash in my decision not to try this whole long-distance thing. What harm could it do? Let’s try.
Also, I would like to point out that I haven’t been my flirty self lately. Apropos of absolutely nothing. The edge is gone, I suppose, and anyway, it’s never been about the sex, I hope you know. It’s more of a validation thing. I suppose you won’t relate, because you’re brainy and fantastic and go to college and have terrific tits.
Are you still thinking about your father? Stupid question. Of course, you are. I’ve thought about your da a lot since you left. Not in a weird way or anything. Mam says our loved ones that have passed away are watching us, sitting on fat clouds, which is grossly inaccurate and improbable, as you know, seeing as you’ve been on a plane and above the clouds. But I’d like to think, especially for you (and a bit for me, because I’m not completely heartless when it comes to my own late da), that they are watching us.
But not all the time, because I do enjoy wanking and taking shits without an audience, and cannot possibly see that changing anytime soon.
Busking is good. Two music producers from the UK tried to buy my songs, but there’s just something too bittersweet about being poor and talented and struggling. Once I have the taste of the money, I’ll be a goner, and I still want to enjoy what I do.
I don’t want to blab, so I’ll leave it at that. How have you been? How is college? Do you have any plans for the holidays? Christmas?
Have you ever had a mince pie? (It does not, in fact, have mince in it.)
Attached are some stamps for you to use to send me back a letter. I know the student life can be financially challenging and such.
Love,
Like,
Faithfully,
Mal
Dear Rory,
I realize I might’ve come on a bit too strong in my previous letter. Perhaps talking about the ghosts of our fathers seeing me wank was not the best way to start up a conversation. I don’t know. I’m new to this whole pen-pal thing.
It’s just that things have been a bit off since you left. I’m trying to make them better.
My sister, Bridget, had a miscarriage. She was seven months into the pregnancy. We are all quite devastated. Mam went to Dublin for the month to help her out. I’m still busking and looking after the house. I took a side job on the farm so I could help Mam since she stopped working to be with Bridget. They say Bridge is depressed, and they gave her some pills, but I think Mam needs something, too.
Everyone else is fine. Kathleen has started wearing very short skirts and took up cooking. I think my mate Sean has a massive crush on her, so perhaps we’ll hear wedding bells soon.
I wrote a few songs I’d love for you to hear, but no worries if you’re busy. If you’re not, you could always send me your phone number. Also, feel free to answer by email if it’s easier (yes, I’m aware I’m breaking more napkin rules):
Or you can just snail mail something back. Or just answer through the power of telepathy.
(I’m kidding. Don’t do that. It is not a reliable form of communication.)
Enclosed are more stamps, in case you’ve lost the previous ones.
Snogs and hugs,
Mal
Dear Rory,
Congrats on the photography award. Saw it in your college’s newsletter.
Very proud.
(And equally pathetic.)
Mal
Dear Rory,
How about just tell me you’re still alive and I’ll leave you alone?
Cheers,
Mal
Dear Mal,
Good news: I’m alive.
Bad news: Sometimes I wish I wasn’t.
I didn’t want to write you this letter.
In fact, I never meant to hurt you the way I am about to. Please remember that as you read on.
I need you to stop writing to me. You have no idea how painful it is to see your name. We cannot be together. I’ve moved on, and I’m trying to rebuild my life.
After I came back from Ireland, I found out I was pregnant. I was scared, I was alone, and I was at college. I didn’t have any means to take care of the baby. I had no one to turn to. Becoming a single mother, alone and financially struggling, sounded like a nightmare I was all too familiar with. Reliving my mother’s life was out of the question.
I debated contacting you several times, but what could I say?
You are there, and I am here, and it’s not like you could have provided for the baby and me.
I had an abortion. I don’t regret it, although a part of me will always mourn the loss of this child. Every year, I will wake up and think what age they’d be right now. What they’d look like. What they’d be up to.
You were a beautiful mistake, but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret you.
Every time you write to me, it’s a reminder of what I shouldn’t have done.
Make it stop.
If you care about me at all, you will respect my wishes and leave me alone.
Not yours,
Rory
The letter cuts me open like a sharp blade, guts the parts she left inside me, and dumps them onto the floor. Everything about it makes me want to throw up.
The content.
The confession.
The abortion.
The mistake.
The fact that it was printed and not handwritten—I’d handwritten all of my letters to her—the ink smudged enough for me to guess she crammed it into an envelope off the printer in a hurry, not even giving it time to dry. That hurts, too.
She sounds icy and emotionally separated and different—not the girl who asked me about God and ran with me in the rain.
I snap. I finally—finally—snap.
Cue a destructive bender.
Mam is away, Bridget is a mess, Rory aborted our child, called me a mistake, and made it clear we are over.
I have nothing to live for, or die for, or look forward to.
I drive down to the village. My plan is to buy whatever alcohol I can afford, which is not much considering Mam hasn’t been working and I’m paying all the bills and buying all the food. When I get to the register and slam two bottles of vodka in front of the cashier, I rummage through my pockets to find out they’re empty. I had a slow busking day. The weather was a state, and whatever I had, I threw into a homeless guy’s mason jar because he looked like he needed it.
My wallet is empty, too. I pretend to look in other pockets, under the scrutiny of the cashier, and I’m contemplating stealing the damn bottles when a delicate hand slips from behind me and hands the lady a debit card.
Kathleen steps forward in one of her teeny-tiny, tight dresses that slashes across her rack, flashing me a seductive smile.
“Mal,” she purrs.
She always purrs these days.
I watch her pay for my alcohol and don’t attempt to argue, fecking gentleman that I am. She throws a bag of crisps and mint gums into the mix, her smile still something big and dazzling.
“Cheers.” I grab the bottles by their necks. I contemplate telling her I owe her, but I don’t want to take her drinking. I’d rather stuff the notes into her mailbox.
“Care if I join you? I could use a stiffy.”
I bet you could, my mind snarls.
Christ, I don’t want to think like an arsehole. It’s bad enough to see my mates showing each other naked pictures of their girlfriends. The idea of being someone like that makes my skin crawl.
Kiki plays with a lock of her hair and—shocker—purrs, “Long week. Lots of finals.”
“No offense, but I’d rather be alone tonight. Tell you what, I’ll give you a bottle and we’ll take a rain check. I’ll make shite company, anyway.”
This may or may not be the understatement of the millennium. I grab one bottle and head straight to my car. I rev up the engine, but it’s coughing. That’s just grand. A trip to the mechanic is exactly what my overdraft has ordered. I see Kath inching toward my car through the window, waving the second bottle in the air, and I slam my foot against the gas pedal, trying to start the car.
Come on, come on, come on.
Her hand is on the door handle. It’s like in a horror film. Will he or won’t he? I twist the keys back and forth in the ignition as she opens the door and slips in.
“Me again,” she sing-songs, tucking the bottle between her bare legs for balance.
I punch the wheel, staring forward.
“I said I—”
“I don’t care,” she snaps. “I know you’re going to be a miserable sod. I want to be there for you, anyway.”
At my house, I open one bottle and we pass it between us at my dining table, filling our tea mugs to the brim. It’s pissing outside, and suddenly, I hate Tolka, and Ireland, and myself. No wonder Rory doesn’t want anything to do with us. All of us. She’s better off not knowing what kind of person her da was. Let’s just say there’s a reason Kathleen wasn’t particularly heartbroken when he died.
Stop making excuses for Rory. She’s a world-class cunt who didn’t even tell you before aborting your child.
Her body, her choices, I remind myself. A heads-up would’ve been nice, though. I could’ve pleaded my case. Weighed our options. Popped the question.
Whoa, time to put the liquor down.
“You look like you need another one. Let me take care of that.” Kathleen pats my arm, filling my mug for the third time, the vodka sloshing over.
I notice she doesn’t drink hers. Hardly a surprise. Kiki has never been much of a drinker. I stop and wonder why she said she needed a drink in the first place, then decide I’m too busy drowning in self-pity and alcohol to decode her behavior.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” I growl into my already half-empty mug. I polished off my first two servings like they were water.
She sits across from me, shaking her head.
“I think I know what it’s about, and it’d only gut me to learn more. I’m exercising self-control.”
“Glad one of us can,” I mutter, thinking about the stupid letters.
I’ll never live them down. Now I truly know I’ll never sell a song. The risk of becoming known and having her leak those letters is simply one I cannot take.
“You don’t deserve this.” Kiki leans forward and rubs my shoulder.
“Trust me, I do.” I laugh to the ceiling. “I made a fool of myself. That’s on me.”
“You could never be a fool, Mal. You’re the smartest, most talented man I’ve ever met.”
“You should change your social circle then, milady.” I raise the mug in the air, tossing its remaining contents into my mouth in one go.
Everything is spinning—white and slow and sluggish. The air is heavy, stuffy, suffocating. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a murky pool.
At first, I don’t notice when Kath slides onto my lap. It’s only when her arms circle my neck, heavy as a noose, that I blink and rear my head back, away from her mouth.
“Kiki,” I groan. “No.”
“Shhh, Mal. Let me take care of you.”
She grabs the back of my neck and squeezes my face to her chest, pushing her tits together. It’s nice. She has big tits. Bigger than Rory’s. They’re soft and warm against my nose and mouth. They smell of a flowery perfume and a bit of sweat.
Kath runs her fingers through my hair, kissing the top of my head. My ear. My cheek.
“Your sister. I love her,” I grunt into her rack.
Her cleavage is wide open for me. I dip my tongue in the crack between her tits, tasting her salty skin, how wrong it is in my mouth, and it reminds me why I haven’t bedded anyone since Rory left.
Kathleen doesn’t say a word. She pops one of her tits free of her bra and moves her pebbled nipple across my cheek.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” I say bluntly, pulling my head back.
It’s the truth, but I’m still hard. Because she’s here, and she is soft, and she is wanting—something Princess Aurora of New Jersey isn’t. Every part of Kathleen is hot, not cold like Rory is, but it’s easy to ignore that when you’re bollocksed. Especially as there’s a part of Kathleen that’s Rory, too—a chunk of DNA and genes that Rory could never take away from this village. From me. Kiki is right here, in Tolka, ready for me to screw her to death. And I’m hard, so fecking hard I’m straining against my Dickie’s.
Oh, how I wish I were more like Daniel or Sean or Jake or any of my mates who could just sleep with Kiki because she is here.
“Get off,” I huff, shaking my head. “Please, darlin’. You’re better than what you’re doing right now.”
But Kathleen’s hands are everywhere. They’re on my chest and shoulders and back and face. They cup my jaw, and she dips down and kisses me, deep and punishing and cruel. With tongue and hatred and frustration. She kisses me like I did something horrible to her, and now I need to pay.
My head spins like a broken roundabout. I mumble, “Stop. Stop. Stop.”
She presses her palm against my hard-on and squeezes. “If you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t be hard.”
“Younedda stop,” I slur.
She unbuckles my belt, ignoring my command. My mind is a gray fog of floating thoughts, but I still manage to put things together. Her new fondness for short skirts and dresses makes for easy access. She planned this all along. And she always brings something to eat and alcohol when she is over. Coincidence? I think not.
I feel her warm, wet cunt descending over my throbbing cock.
“Kathleen, I don’t want to fuck you,” I repeat, as coherently as I possibly can.
The thought of this happening makes me sick. Because I know Rory would never take me if she knew I slept with her sister. Selfishly, that is the first reason, with the second being I don’t want to hurt or delude Kiki.
“You are fucking me,” she hisses, licking the length of my neck. “And you’re going to continue until you come.”
She slides up, then down, building friction, and my balls tighten.
“No.”
“Yes. Mal, I’m so wet for you,” she says.
And it is true. She is the wettest I’ve ever had, I think.
Fuck Rory.
Fuck Rory who fucked me over, thinking we were only just a fuck.
I’m shagging her sister now, and they say revenge tastes sweet, but the bitterness that explodes on my tongue is so tangible, I want to puke.
Kathleen’s cunt, however, is not at all bitter. She is straddling me fully now, moving slowly and deliciously up and down my shaft. I hear the slap of our thighs together. Feel the slick of her wetness, her juices dampening my pubic hair. She moans into my mouth, her lips sweet and sharp. She bites my lip and makes me bleed as she clenches around me.
I close my eyes and throw my head back to an angle where she can’t put her lips on mine. The kissing part is not my favorite. The fucking part, on the other hand…
“Go faster, Rory.”
If Kathleen notices my slip of the tongue, she lets it slide. She moves faster, my balls tighten, and I know I’m close.
I’ve always tried to be a good lover. To go down on the girl, to hit deep, to feel what she likes and doesn’t like. But right now, all I want is the personal gratification of being inside Rory’s sister, spiting her somehow, without her knowledge.
Still, I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine it’s her I’m fucking.
“Rory, Rory, Rory,” I chant shamelessly, too out of it to be good, to be fair, to be present. “I’m coming.”
“Come,” Kathleen drones.
And in that moment, I swear her voice is throaty and low, just like Rory’s. I shoot my load inside her, growling in frustration and pleasure.
I can feel the spurts of cum shooting straight into her, and that’s when I realize I didn’t wear a condom.
And that’s when I realize I don’t particularly care.
I’ve only ever gone bareback with Rory, only once, and it didn’t end well.
But Kath, Kath is nothing like Rory.
She is dedicated to me. She’s not the hunter, but a willing prey.
“I don’t mind, you know,” she tells me quietly. “If you call her name. I really don’t. It’s kind of kinky, I think. I like it.”
I clutch her waist in one hand, her jaw in the other, and kiss her mouth hard, ignoring the blood between us, filling my lap.
What it means.
What she just did to me.
What I just unwillingly took.
And the calamity that’s waiting for us around the corner.
