In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen

Present

Rory

Inever get to tell Callum about what happened with Mal. As soon as we shut the door behind us, he gets a call he has to take and locks himself outside on the balcony. He uses his hushed, I’ll-make-meatballs-out-of-you, hedge-fund-analyst tone that makes my skin crawl.

The phone call lasts nearly two hours and reaches octaves better suited for the jungle. I feel sorry for him that he has to work on New Year’s Eve. But by the time he’s done, I’m getting ready to hop into the shower before the party.

When he walks back in, his face flushed and pouty, he glances at my half-naked figure and perks up, plastering a lazy smile where a scowl rested seconds ago.

“Me. You. Shower. Sex. Let’s go.”

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t reckon anything is more important than a quick shag, especially with your hipbones poking out Bella Hadid-style. Despair suits you.” He runs his tongue over his upper teeth. “Go on. You can’t tell me you haven’t been longing for my cock all this time.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, hunched and defeated, racking my brain for how to deliver the news—how to rip us open like a mummified body and dump all the internal organs.

I hate that Summer was right in her prediction.

The napkin didn’t mean nothing.

It meant everything.

Mal warned me years ago that he was going to break whatever I had going with someone else if we met again.

And he kept good on his promise.

Callum tugs at my sleeve, and there’s something in his expression that makes my heart rattle my ribs like they’re metal bars.

I burst out in tears, covering my face, feeling ashamed not only for what I did to him, to me, but also for being such a coward. For not coming clean like a grown-up. He stands there, the summer blush vanishing from his face, watching me.

“All right then, no shagging. I didn’t think the idea would upset you quite so much…” He scratches his head, trying to make light of things. “I did give my willy curls a good trim, if that’s the reason you’re distraught.”

I try to laugh to make him feel better, but the truth is, we don’t have time right now to have the conversation we obviously need to have. I slip into the shower and turn the water to sizzling hot, staring ahead at the powder blue tiles with their tiny cracks of old age, wondering when it all went so wrong.

I know exactly when. The minute I took this job.

Because being around Mal and not wanting him is impossible.

I can deny myself of a lot of things, but he’s never been one of them.

Mal makes me burn. Crackle. Melt. My love for him is thick and sturdy. Metallic and alive. A beating organ, co-existing with my heart.

I get out of the shower and face Callum, who is choosing cufflinks from a little velvet box he takes with him everywhere.

“When we get back, we really need to talk,” I mutter.

He answers without turning to look at me, his voice surprisingly dead.

“You’re the boss.”

Spin the bottle.

We are playing spin the bottle.

This party is a total shitshow.

And Alex Winslow never showed up.

“Winslow?” Richards puffed on a suspicious-looking cigarette and laughed when I asked him about it. “His idea of partying is curry night in front of the telly with the wifey. A total straightedge, that fucker,” he said with the worst impression of a cockney accent to ever be recorded on planet Earth.

Instead, the music is crappy (mostly Ashton’s stuff), the place is ninety-nine-percent semi-naked women in togas, and there’s a self-proclaimed tattoo artist taking spontaneous customers on Richards’ rotating bed while it’s rotating, which anyone with three brain cells can see is not the best idea of the century.

There are servants walking around the suite offering platters of grapes, cheese, crackers, champagne, and schnapps. New Year’s Eve balloons adorn the room in gold, silver, and black.

And as I mentioned, we are sitting in a circle, playing spin the bottle like the big, screwed-up, dysfunctional pile of random people we are.

“Rules.” An English chick with fake boobs and highlighted hair twirls like a fairy around the room, batting her eyelashes in every direction. “Since we have a proper couple here, we need to make sure they’re both all right with seeing other people snogging their significant other.”

She directs her big, hazel eyes at me and raises a daring eyebrow. I glance at Callum, fully expecting him to shut it down. That was one of the points I always brought up to Summer when I wanted to break up with him after we started seeing each other—his conservative, traditional streak that drives me nuts.

“I’m always up for a bit of fun.” He smiles, much to my amazement.

He slices his gaze toward me, narrow-eyed, like this is some kind of test.

I glance at Mal across from me, briefly, so as not to raise any suspicion. His face is stoic, his eyes zeroed in on the empty champagne bottle between us. Maybe he’s finally getting it. That it’s not only because of Callum that I refuse to entertain the idea of us.

It’s because he is Glen.

I’m starting to see that my father wasn’t the lovable, village-drunk martyr I’d imagined him to be. The secrets and lies swarming around Tolka have a root, and that root might be his grave.

Everyone is staring at me now, assessing my reaction. This could go south fast, and I’m too old to cave to peer pressure. On the other hand, I can’t pretend to be a prude. Not when Cal is game.

“Go on. You’re the one who always tells me to lighten up.” Callum elbows me with a chuckle.

There’s a threat laced in his voice for the first time since I’ve known him, and I don’t have time or the ability to crack it open and study its inside right now when I’m already tipsy.

I shrug in acceptance, and all the girls in the circle woo-hoo and meow like cats in heat. Callum is prime meat in this testosterone-deprived environment. Plus, Ashton looks too tanked and Mal too unattainable to promise any type of real action. The English chick goes as far as shimmying her boobs in Callum’s direction and winking. Very understated.

“Are you good with seeing Rory snog other lads?” she taunts.

“No one can kiss her the way I do, love.” He flashes her a predatory smirk.

Love. He calls everyone love. Mal is right. It’s not romantic. It’s kind of annoying.

“And what about other birds?” she pokes.

I choke on the beer I’m nursing, but say nothing,

“Especially birds.” Callum laughs.

“And what about you? Are you open to kissing a bloke?” She continues grilling Callum.

She is flirting up a storm with my boyfriend. It occurs to me that I should be mad, but all I can muster is irritated apathy, like when you see someone being a bigot online, but all you can manage is Liking the comment that argues with them, not actually entering the exchange.

Callum clears his throat. “Let’s keep it straight, yeah?”

Of course. Me kissing girls is great, but him kissing guys is out of the question.

“What about you?” British Bombshell turns to Ashton, who’s sitting next to Mal. “Are you okay with snogging a bloke?”

Ashton gives a brief, nonchalant nod, sliding his gaze to Mal. Mal looks between British Bombshell and Ashton, his face blank. I realize I am holding my breath, waiting for his answer, when he opens his mouth.

“I don’t discriminate when it comes to hating and fucking.”

“Hallelujah!” Bombshell giggles.

I cross my jeans-clad legs, feeling my panties lined with wetness. I don’t know why the idea of him kissing Ashton is so erotically pleasing to me. Maybe because they’re both so aesthetically beautiful. Maybe because I know Mal hates Ashton, and that Mal is the kind of guy who can hate-fuck anyone into a coma, despite his eccentric, contradictory nature. And suddenly, I’m imagining Mal dicking Ashton from behind, and the air gets hot and heavy and incredibly thick in my lungs.

“Rory?” Callum turns to me.

“Hmm?”

“You’re fanning yourself. Is there an issue with the air conditioning?”

Shit. I drop my hand and steal a glance at Mal again. His purple eyes shine as they laser their way into my pupils. Busted.

Ashton is the first to spin the bottle. It lands on a Greek brunette. They both crawl on all fours, meeting halfway in the middle of the twelve-person circle. Knowing they’re about to set the bar for the rest of us, they grin at each other conspiratorially and plunge in with force.

Callum and I exchange looks when we realize it’s much more than just kissing. Richards’ hand slides into her shirt, and she cups his erection through his jeans as they kiss deeply. She lifts one of her legs and straddles him in the middle of the circle.

“All right,” Callum says in his cheerful tone. “Let’s break it off before someone gets pregnant.”

Everyone laughs nervously, and the flushed brunette scurries back to her spot. British Bombshell spins the bottle, eyeing Callum like he’s pizza to someone in ketosis, and sure enough, karma decides to spit in my face, and the bottle lands on him.

Maybe it’s because I don’t have the right to be angry, but I’m oddly okay with this outcome. It doesn’t even surprise me much. Mal says Kathleen has been messing with his life in a roundabout way since she died, and maybe he’s right. So many coincidences happen when we’re together. It’s like we’re sewn into one piece, entwined in the same pattern, on the same path, and every time someone else tries to get close to us, life rips it to shreds.

Callum searches my face—for approval or jealousy, I have no clue. My pulse escalates. There’s a ball of guilt the size of my fist lodged in my throat.

I give him a small nod. “Make the most of it, stud.”

They both shoot to their feet and meet outside the circle, by the bed. He cups her cheek like he does to me when he wants sex. It is technical, familiar.

“Hi.” He smiles down at her.

“Hi,” she breathes.

I realize I’m smiling, too, because they’re cute together. But I shouldn’t think that way. When his lips meet hers, half the girls in the circle turn their heads to watch me. I force myself to stare at Callum and the girl, willing myself to feel something—anything—but it’s pointless. It’s like watching a TV show, a half-engaging one at that. After ten seconds of a slow, sensual, French kiss with tongue and awkwardness and a healthy dose of anxiety, they break away, and something in the air crackles with tension. She’s still clinging to his body as he takes a step back, shaking his head like he can’t believe he did that.

He glances at me. My heart breaks, but for all the wrong reasons.

She can make him happy, and I’m standing in her way.

Not for long,I tell myself. Callum deserves more, and it’s time he gets it.

“Okay, thank you for the PG-13 exhibit of sloppy first base.” Ashton yawns. “I’ll make sure to recommend your asses next time Ed Sheeran needs to write a church-friendly song. Brandy, your turn.”

Brandy is his assistant, I discover. The one who gave Mal her number back in Tolka. Yup, same one with the long, tan legs and flaming red hair that looks like fine cherry wine. She leans forward, her cleavage more generous than Oprah Winfrey’s charity work, and spins the bottle. I already know where it’s going to land. My heart feels like an iron fist trying to break the bony wall of my ribcage.

Thud, thud, thud.

And then…it happens.

The bottle lands on Mal, and Brandy’s smile is so wide, I can comfortably fit a baseball bat into it. Horizontally. Not that I’m thinking about doing that.

Maybe just a little.

She crawls to the center of the circle, probably wanting a rehash of the way Ashton manhandled the Greek goddess, but Mal stands up, walks toward her, and yanks her up. By her ponytail. He does it so casually, so effortlessly, I hear a collective sigh from all the women in the room and realize I contributed to it with my own little moan.

Mal looks down at her. She tilts her head, a seductive smile stamped on her lips.

“What are the odd—” She can’t even pronounce the S before his lips smash into her mouth, and they kiss so deeply, so brutally, so cruelly, I want to cry. It feels like a tiger slashing my chest with its pointy claws, ribbons of blood spurting from my heart.

I’m not okay.

Actually, I feel like I can’t breathe.

When his tongue slides past her lips and conquers her mouth, I inhale sharply and force myself not to squeeze my eyes shut. Her moans and groans of pleasure seep into me like poison.

When they’re finally done sucking each other’s faces, Callum clears his throat. I turn and realize he’s been looking at me the entire time.

“Enjoy the show?” His lips twitch in annoyance.

“More than the company,” I mutter.

I’m so fed up with his passive-aggressive BS. But I also acknowledge it is my fault for not spitting out what happened between Mal and me in Ireland. Though it wasn’t my fault he had to be holed up with a business call. I tried. I couldn’t do it twenty minutes before we left for the party.

Mal and Brandy go back to their places, and I can feel my face heating up, like I did something wrong.

“Rory, your turn,” Callum clips.

I try to ignore his tone as I grab the bottle, look up at the ceiling, and say a silent prayer.

Please don’t let it be Mal.

I’m fine with anyone else. Preferably a girl. Even kissing Ashton would be okay. He is cute, a rock star, and not conscious enough to even remember this tomorrow.

My fingers clench the bottle.

“Are you planning on spinning it, honey pie, or just staring at it, hoping it’ll turn through the power of telepathy?” Ashton inquires, snickering.

I close my eyes and inwardly scold my no-show dad for the very first time since I was born.

Hey. So…we don’t really know each other, but if you’re up there, spare me the awkwardness. It’s the least you can do.

I spin the bottle, suck in a deep breath, and watch. It turns and swirls one, two, three, four times before it lands on…

“Mal,” Callum states with conviction.

“Ashton,” Brandy says at the same time.

Of course, she wouldn’t want me to kiss her crush.

Oh, and by the way, Thanks, Glen.

“I think it landed on Ashton,” I contribute.

Though I have to say, on the off-chance Glen is up there, trying to make amends by pointing the bottle toward Ashton, he is not keeping sober in heaven, because it does seem like the bottle is pointing smack between Ashton and Mal.

“It’s definitely pointing at Mal,” Callum disagrees, tapping his smooth chin.

What the hell is he doing? I’m not stupid enough to actually ask this when we’re with company.

“Guess it can only mean one thing.” British Bombshell cackles like a hyena, staring at Callum with a look pregnant with lust.

Everyone here has a dog in this fight, and hers seems to be the hungriest, most vicious one.

“And what would that be?” Callum turns to her without patience.

“A three-way kiss,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her hair over her finger.

“Yes!” Ashton pumps his fist in the air. “Fuck yes. Sex Slave and Pouty Poet in the same pot. Sign me up.”

“Sex Slave?!” Callum loses his cool.

“Chillax, it’s a pet name.” Ashton laughs out a curling ribbon of smoke.

I swear I will get stoned just from kissing him.

“Works for me,” Malachy says tonelessly.

I feel Callum giving me a shove toward the center of the circle.

“Go on, then,” he says.

“Wait, I don’t know about this,” I mumble.

“We had this conversation!” the British girl cries. “Don’t pussy out on us.”

“Yeah, don’t be a party pooper, Rory,” Callum presses.

I turn toward him, scowling.

He shrugs, a private, secretive smirk on his lips. “You’re not the only one who’s good at sharing. That’s good news, right?”

I walk toward Mal and Ashton, feeling my palms getting clammy.

“How are we going to do this?” I put my hands on my waist. “Do we want to start kissing just two people, and the third one will join in, or is it going to be…”

Without further ado, Ashton grabs the back of my head, pulls me in, and kisses me silly. He shoves his hot, alcohol-soaked tongue into my mouth, and that’s when I realize we’re all kind of drunk—Callum included for once.

Shitty music aside, Ashton Richards can kiss. I’m starting to enjoy it when I feel a second tongue wrestling its way into the mix, and now I have two tongues in my mouth. One of them is Malachy’s, and I know exactly which one’s which.

I can feel my clit swelling, my lower belly tingling in anticipation as we kiss slowly and passionately, Ashton nibbling at the corner of my mouth and Mal Frenching me to oblivion and back. It becomes clear that this is not a three-way kiss as much as it is two guys kissing one girl. They have minimal contact with each other, and they are here to serve me.

Just when I begin to wonder if I’m the only one getting carried away in the situation, Ashton puts a hand on my waist and plasters me to his body. I feel his thick, throbbing erection against my thigh and let out a groan. Mal is having none of it and pulls at my other side, tugging me close. I’m nestled between them, feeling hot, liquid lust slithering down to my panties.

I should feel ashamed, or self-conscious, or embarrassed, and I do—I feel all three, I swear. But I mostly feel like taking my clothes off and kissing every inch of their bodies until they screw me from both sides. My mouth is full, and my nipples are erect and painfully sensitive.

It occurs to me that this is the shot of a lifetime—the one Ryner wants to see on the cover of Rolling Stone—of his rock star, his songwriter, and his photographer making out fervently. But he can’t have this shot, because all three of his artists have gone rogue, and there’s no one to take the picture.

We kiss for long minutes before I feel someone tugging me back by my shirt. I snap my eyes open and find out it is Ashton. I also realize he’s a step away from us. He’s not a part of the kiss anymore. He hasn’t been a part of the kiss for a while, I notice when my mind adjusts to the fact that there was only one tongue in my mouth for a few good seconds, if not minutes. My legs are clasped around Mal’s thigh. I’ve been riding it. Jesus.

“C’mon,” he whispers to both of us through a mostly closed mouth. “You’ve been soloing for a full minute now. People are starting to rub their genitals on the floor to get off.”

My eyes flare, and I look over at Callum, who stands up from the circle, turning toward the door. He grabs my camera before dashing out, and the thick, red cloud of lust I’m engulfed in evaporates. In a knee-jerk reaction, I launch myself after him, chasing him down the corridor.

“Callum, wait!”

He thunders toward the elevators, swinging the camera here and there. By the time I catch him punching the elevator button, I’m out of breath. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he turns around, swatting it.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Please,” I beg.

I don’t even know what I’m begging for. It’s pretty obvious what happened there got out of hand, that Mal and I shared more than a kiss. There were feelings there, too.

“Please, what? Please, let me make a fool out of you, Callum? Please, let me go suck someone else’s cock? Please, leave me alone so I can pick up where I left off with a man who so very willingly let me go?”

He screams in my face, and he is red and angry and no longer the Callum I know and feel comfortable and safe with. The elevator dings, and he walks in. I follow him.

“I wasn’t going to let you go, Rory. I was supposed to be the last man standing. I put up with your bullshit attire and stupid quirky dreams and boring colleagues.”

He stares at the corridor, the elevator doors still open. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t even know if it’s worth coming clean about what happened, because this is a breakup, and even though I did something vile, he is being no less despicable.

That night on the balcony, at that Christmas party, I took one look at Mal and knew with certainty what he’d said was true.

Loving someone is willingly accepting that they can destroy you.

Mal ruined me.

I wrecked Callum.

I think you were put on this Earth to destroy me, Callum said all those months ago.

Was that the truth, or did Callum simply want to be destroyed?

“I wanted to play the stupid game so I could see how you’d react. You didn’t care when I snogged that cow over there.” He points sideways to where we were, in the presidential suite.

I flinch at his offhanded insult. The doors slide shut, and we begin to ride down to his room.

“But when Mal kissed that bird, you almost exploded. Then you went and continued kissing him long after Richards withdrew.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, cursing Summer inwardly for creating all this mess, even though I know I’m more responsible for it than anyone else. “God, Callum, I never meant to hurt you.”

Even I know how lame I sound. I wish I could turn back time.

I’d change one thing and one thing only—I wouldn’t have touched Mal before I broke up with Cal.

The elevator dings, and Callum steps outside and turns to face me.

“By the way, if you’d waited just a little longer, you could have broken my heart and my bank account, walking away with half my shit.” He shoves his hand into his front pocket, produces a small, velvety black box, and throws it at me. I catch it, but don’t open it, already aware of what must be sitting there.

God, Callum.

“I bought another one in London, because the first one was left in that godforsaken dumpster in Ireland, and I wanted to propose as soon as possible.” He stops, looks down. “But not soon enough, apparently.”

My eyes are full of tears. My head hurts. I’m losing it. I’m breaking apart, and suddenly, all I want to do is make him feel better, no matter the cost. I take a step toward him, but he shakes his head. He punches the button to call the elevator when the doors begin to close, not quite done hurting me.

“This is the line.” He juts his chin to the threshold between the elevator and the corridor. “You don’t get to pass it anymore. We’re done here, Rory. We’ve been done from the beginning. I was always temporary, a starter to pass the time until the entrée arrived.”

I fall to my knees, letting out a sob.

He slings the camera into the elevator, and it lands next to me.

“You’re always so obsessed with taking the perfect picture. Well, I took photos of your little threesome. That’ll keep your slimy boss happy. You’re welcome.”

I look up, my eyes blazing with shame and anger.

He is going far.

Too far.

Twisting the knife in my chest, watching me bleed.

Yet I’m full to the brim with guilt.

“I know we should break up. I know. But if it’s the right thing to do, why does it hurt so bad?” I ask, feeling snot running down to my mouth.

Nothing about this situation is pretty, me included.

“Holding on to something that never existed is far more painful,” he spits. “Trust me, Rory, I’ve tried.”

A NOTE FROM SUMMER

Time to air the dirty laundry, and boy, there’s a suspicious-looking stain the size of Alabama on my conscience.

Okay—insert deep, cleansing breath—here goes.

A month after Rory and Callum started dating, he dropped in unannounced while she was at work. It was supposed to be a surprise. He brought flowers and champagne and sashimi from her favorite sushi place and wore a bowtie—and not even in a hipster, looks-good-with-skinny-jeans kind of way. Rory was supposed to be home, but Ryner had called her in—some emergency about a pop star who lost a bunch of weight and decided she wanted a reshoot of her album cover.

Rory never turns down work. I think she’ll die clutching her camera to her heart.

Anyway, so Callum knocked on the door with all this stuff, and I happened to answer it. I’d just broken up with the guy I’d been dating for three years who had cheated on me that day. Suffice it to say, I was not in a good headspace.

Callum stuttered, apologized, and said he’d drop in at her work. I laughed, knowing she’d probably take the opportunity to dump him if he did that.

We ended up sharing the bottle of champagne Callum brought. He wasn’t much of a drinker. That’s what he told me, anyway, but he said he was feeling really on edge. He said he knew Rory was going to break up with him. He thought she found him boring and too straightedge and overtly proper.

He thought correctly.

Rory did find him boring. And she always compared him to Mal. Which grated on my nerves, because yes, Mal was awesome, gorgeous, and great in the sack, but that was over, and it was time to move on.

When she came back from Ireland all those years ago, she showed me the pictures she took of him. I had a brilliant idea of how to help her get over him. I told her to come up with negative things about Mal and write them on the back of the pictures, so every time she thought about hopping on a plane and begging him to be with her (which happened more often than logically acceptable), she’d remember.

But all we could come up with was that he was a flirt and tried (and succeeded) to be really good in bed. It was useless. He was perfect. Other than, of course, the fact that he’d let her go.

Anyway, back to Callum and me. That night, one bottle of champagne led to two others.

“I don’t get it. I have demons, too, you know?” he said. “I’m not the squeaky-clean bastard she thinks I am. I can be a horrible person, Summer.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said.

“I’m selfish,” he replied.

“We all are.”

“Me more than most.”

That was the last thing he told me before his mouth descended on mine.

We slept together.

He cheated on her.

Icheated on her.

It was brief, quick, four-minutes-and-he-came sex. So anti-climactic in every sense of the word. I still consider it the worst thing I’ve ever done. And I wasn’t even close to climaxing. I didn’t enjoy it, but Callum had always been the fantasy—well-bred, well-endowed, and well-hung. Not to mention, the guy in a suit was the eighth wonder of the world, I’m pretty sure. It was a moment of weakness.

“See?” he said as he put his shoes on in a hurry. “I told you. Selfish.”

I said nothing to that.

“But I thought she’d be different, you know? I thought she’d get me out of that behavioral pattern. I don’t know. Maybe I have a sex addiction.”

I stopped answering him because I didn’t pity him. I had my own problems, my own issues with life.

The thing is, I didn’t know she would come back home, plop down next to me on the couch, notice the roses and sashimi on the counter, the traces of the masculine cologne he’d left behind, and say: “You’re right. I’m so stupid. I should just get over Mal and give this thing with Callum my best shot.”

That’s what she said when I could still smell the rubber of her boyfriend’s condom wafting from my pajamas, even after I took a shower. And Callum wasn’t doing much better guilt-wise. I’d watched from the window half an hour earlier as he shoved himself into the back of an Uber, on the verge of sobbing.

“I think you should,” I told Rory, thinking, but please don’t.

So now you see why I’m carrying five tons of guilt on my shoulders.

I never thought it would pan out this way. And even though I want to throw up every time the three of us are together in the same room (which doesn’t happen often), I just can’t be the one to let her break up with Callum.

My conscience can’t handle the failure of their relationship, no matter the reason. But secretly? If you asked me in a closed room—padded and soundproof—what I thought, I’d tell you my best friend, whom I love to death, is a brat.

She should just choose a guy and put everyone out of their misery.

I wish I had a pouty napkin boy who would rip the world apart to be with me.

I wish I had a rich, selfish-but-irresistible boy who would do anything he could to make sure Napkin Boy couldn’t.