In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen

Eight years ago

Rory

Iprop my back against my father’s headstone and pluck a few blades of grass, throwing them in the air and watching as they float down onto my dirty Toms. The church bells chime, the sun slinking under green mountains.

“You could’ve waited, you know. Laid off the alcohol for a month or two so I could meet you,” I mumble, yanking out my earbuds. “One” by U2 still plays distortedly until I kill the music app on my phone and throw it beside me. “Sorry. That was rude. I’m cranky when I’m tired, which…you probably would have known, had you decided to actually meet me. Jesus, Dad, you suck.”

But even as I say those words, I don’t believe them. He didn’t suck. He was probably the best.

I bang my head against his tombstone and close my eyes.

I’m freezing in the middle of summer, as per usual, and exhausted from the long flight from Newark to Dublin. And from arguing with the hostel’s receptionist for forty-five minutes because my reservation got lost in cyberspace and they ran out of rooms. After I unloaded my small suitcase at a hotel off Temple Bar Square, I took a shower, ate half a bag of stale mini-bar chips, and freaked out over the bill I was going to pay for my unforeseen accommodations, which no doubt is going to kill my dream of purchasing a new camera before I leave for college.

Then my mom called, informing me that I was dead to her for traveling to Ireland, in her highly diplomatic way.

“What is the meaning of all this?” she demanded. “First of all, he’s dead. Second, you were better off without him. Trust me on that one, sweetie.”

“So you say, Mom. You never gave me a chance to find out myself.”

“He was a lazy drunk and a terrible flirt.”

“He was also talented and funny and sent me gifts every Christmas and birthday. Things that were much more interesting than your Sephora gift cards and eyebrow-enhancing creams,” I mumbled.

“I’m sorry I wanted you to get yourself some nice things. You could’ve used it to buy better makeup to cover your birthmark. It’s easy to be the cool parent when you don’t do the actual parenting,” she huffed. “Are you looking for your half-sister? Bet she lives in a fancy-schmancy house. All that money ought to have gone somewhere.”

What she meant by somewhere was probablynot to you.

I want to look for my half-sister, but I don’t know where to start. To be honest, I haven’t really planned this trip. I just wanted to see the place where my dad was buried. Expecting…what? Some magical connection with the cold stone beneath me? Probably. Not that I would ever admit that aloud.

“Anything else, Mom?”

“Don’t you give me this attitude, young lady. Not when I did my best to raise you and all he did was drink your inheritance.”

I grunted.

Money, money, money. It’s always about the money.

“I can’t believe they buried him near a church,” she mused. “Hopefully the grass won’t grow black, like his heart.”

She hung up after a string of complaints about her too-prominent new highlights and milking a promise from me that I’d buy her a carton of duty-free Parliament cigarettes on my return trip.

Now here I am, in a cemetery in central Dublin, staring at a gray squirrel who is eyeing the bag of chips peeking from my backpack. I envy its coat of fur. I’d legitimately consider walking around with a sheet of fur all over my body to protect myself from the constant chill.

“They’re not even that good. Who puts vinegar on chips? It’s barbaric.” I yank the bag out of my backpack, pull a chip out, and throw it its way. The squirrel jumps back in fear, but then gingerly makes its way to the snack. It sniffs the chip, grabs it with its tiny paws, and makes a run up a nearby tree.

“Where I come from, you get jailed for assisting a murderer,” a voice cracks behind me.

I look around with a jerk. A priest is standing a few paces behind my father’s grave—black robe, big cross, all-ye-sinners-are-doomed expression, the entire shebang. I jump to my feet, grabbing my bag and phone, and swivel to face him.

Okay, so he doesn’t look super dangerous, but being all alone in a foreign land makes me hyperaware of my vulnerability.

“Now, now.”

The man takes slow steps down the rolling green hill on which my father is buried, his hands knotted behind his back. He looks like he lived through both World Wars, the Renaissance…and Hannibal’s invasion of Italy.

“No need to be scared. I reckon you’re highly uninformed regarding the gray squirrels and their hidden agenda.”

He stops behind my father’s tombstone, gazing at the prominent birthmark on my temple. I hate when people do that—stare so openly. Especially because it looks like a scar. A crescent-shaped thing, it is somehow even paler than my normal shade of dead. Mom always encourages me to do something about it. Cover it with makeup. Remove it with a laser treatment.

Something flickers in his eyes when he sees my birthmark. He has fluffy white hair and a face stained with age. His eyes are so small under heaps of wrinkly skin, I can’t even make out their color.

“The gray squirrels endanger the red squirrels, driving them out of their own territory. The reds were here first. But the grays are better at problem solving. Street smart. The grays also carry a disease that only affects the red squirrels.” He removes his reading glasses, cleaning them with the hem of his robe.

I swallow, shifting my weight from foot to foot. He slides his glasses back on.

“’Course, the grays also eat the reds’ food and are better at reproducing. Red squirrels don’t reproduce under pressure.”

I stare at him, not sure if he is an avid environmentalist, an awkward conversationalist, or simply batshit crazy. Why is he talking to me about squirrels?

More importantly—why am I listening?

“I, um, thanks for the info.” I play with the hoop in my nose.

Leave, Rory. Start walking in the opposite direction before he gives you a lecture about ants.

“Just an interesting anecdote about squirrels. And maybe about how unwelcome guests sometimes take over territory simply because they’re better than the locals.” He smiles, tilting his head. “And you are?”

Confused and excessively emotional. “Rory.” I clear my throat. “Rory Jenkins.”

“You’re not from here, Rory.”

“America.” I kick a little stone at my feet, somehow feeling like a punished kid, though I’ve no good reason to. “I’m from New Jersey.”

“That’s why you fed it.” He nods. “Should I take a guess why you’re here, or are you in a sharing mood?”

I’m too embarrassed to tell him I came here to find closure before I go to college, practically flushing all the money I’ve saved the past two years working at Applebee’s down the crap-stained toilet.

“Neither.” I fling my backpack over my shoulder. It’s time to go back to the hotel. Nothing is going to come out of this stupid trip. “Thanks for the fun facts about squirrels, though.”

It was totally worth the trip across the ocean.

I’d taken my first steps toward the cemetery’s gate when I hear his voice behind me.

“You’re Glen O’Connell’s daughter.”

I stop, feeling my shoulders tense. My whole body turns to stone. Slowly, I swivel on my heel, muscles frozen.

“How do you know?”

“You’re the third offspring to visit his grave. I’d heard the last one was supposed to be American. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“We?”

“Well, I.”

“Where are the other two?” I look around, as if they’re hiding behind tombstones.

“One lives just a short drive from here. Known her since she was a wee baby. Still attends this church with her mammy every Sunday. Glen was in her life as much as he could be, considering his…er, limitations.”

Translation: Alcoholism.Strangely, I still envy her.

“And the other one?”

“Lived up north. County Antrim.”

“Why the past tense?”

“He passed away a few weeks ago. Leukemia, would you believe? Such a young lad. He met his da a couple times, but never got to know him quite well.”

My heart sinks like an anchor, clawing at the bottom of my stomach. I had a brother who died, and now I’ll never get to meet him or know him at all. I have a potential family here. This guy…I could have hugged him, comforted him in his last days.

I know next to nothing about my father. Only that he died at age fifty of a heart attack that wasn’t unwarranted, considering his affection for fast cars, fast women, smoking, drinking, and artery-clogging food. He was born in Tolka, the son of a butcher and a teacher, and shot to fame writing “Belle’s Bells,” a Christmas song that exploded all over the charts in Ireland, the UK, and the US, giving Mariah Carey and George Michael a run for their money. The Christmas song was his first and last brush with labor, or anything similar to a career, but it was enough to secure him a house in Dublin and an annual budget for food and booze.

He was a womanizer. The kind to bed everything that moved. He met Mom at a bar in Paris while she was backpacking with friends and he was trying to find his muse again. They had a one-night stand, and he gave her his address so she could write to him if she ever happened to be in Ireland looking for a good time. When she did write to him, informing him I was in the oven, he invited her to come live with him, but Mom never did. Instead, he sent child support money every month. Sent me gifts, letters…but everything was always carefully monitored by my mother. I hated that she controlled our relationship.

So I rebelled. From a young age.

I’d tried to get in touch with him on my own over the years.

I wrote him letters my mom wasn’t aware of—sent him pictures, emails, poems I’d ripped from books at the library. I begged Mom for crumbs of information about my mysterious sperm donor. I never heard from him, and I thought I knew why. He knew how much of a bossy bitch Mom was, and he was afraid if she found out we were talking behind her back, she’d cut off his communication with me completely.

Dad agreed to only talk to me through Mom, and never on the phone, out of respect for her. He once wrote to me that he was ashamed of his voice, of what had become of him. He’d said he slurred now even when he wasn’t drunk, and his voice shook all the time.

I didn’t care what he sounded like. I just needed his voice in my ears.

I wanted a dad.

Not even a particularly good one.

Seriously, any sort of dad would do.

My father died two months before I graduated high school. I was walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water when Mom got the phone call. I plastered my back to the hallway wall so she couldn’t see me.

She wasn’t sad. Or angry. Or broken. She just grabbed the vintage, corded phone, lit a cigarette, and sat down at the dining table, flipping her hair behind her shoulder.

“So he finally kicked the bucket, huh?” She coughed. “Only sad thing about it is I’ll have to tell Rory. She doesn’t deserve this heartache.”

I didn’t know who she was talking to, but I wanted to throw up. He was my father, and he was a part of me—presumably a part of me she wasn’t too crazy about.

If Glen had waited just a little longer, I could have met him face to face. Now, I’m meeting him grave to face, hearing about his legacy of out-of-wedlock offspring from a priest.

Class act, Dad.

“Father…?” I eye the giant cross on his chest.

“Doherty,” he provides.

“Father Doherty, did he ever say anything about me?”

In that space of time, between my question and his answer, I feel the entire weight of the world pressing against my shoulders, ready to bury me.

“Yes. Of course. He spoke of you all the time. You were the apple of his eye. He bragged about your photography. Whenever he got out of the house, he made a point of shoving pictures of you in people’s faces and saying, ‘This, right here, is my daughter.’”

Whenever he got out of the house.

His situation was so awful. Mom never once tried to help him. Why?

“How come he never wanted to see me?”

I don’t know why I decide to unload all these questions on this stranger. He couldn’t have known my dad too well. It’s not like Glen used to attend church regularly…at least I don’t think.

“He sent you money every month and loved you from afar, knowing you were better off not knowing him.” Father Doherty evades the painful question. “Some people are weak, but not necessarily bad. He’d been battling depression and alcoholism, and wasn’t in a state to take care of a child.”

Maybe Dad did save me from himself. The important thing is that he talked about me, right? That he took care of me in his own, roundabout way? Yeah, I can work with that. But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that Mom had a hand in the fact that we never met.

A trickle of warmth sneaks into my chest. “Can I meet my sister? Do you know where she lives?”

I’m grasping at straws at this point. I can hear the desperation in my voice, and it makes me actively dislike myself. Get it together. He didn’t even leave you a letter before he died.

“Ah, poor thing’s in a state. I’m afraid she doesn’t want to be reached. However…” He strokes his chin, mulling an idea. “I know someone who could help you. Follow me.”

I shadow Father Doherty into the church, all the way to the dim back office, where he sits at a heavy oak desk and scribbles an address on a piece of paper. He talks as he writes.

“My grandson busks on Drury Street. He knew your da well enough. Glen taught him how to play the guitar. I’m sure Mal is full of stories about Glen. Why don’t you talk to him over a few pints, eh? But not too many, unless you want the stories to take unexpected, bizarre turns.” He chuckles, sliding the address across the desk along with a fifty-euro note.

“Thanks, but I can’t take your money.” I grab the address and shove it into my corduroy jeans’ pocket, leaving the note untouched.

“Why?”

“Because you owe me nothing.” I hitch one shoulder up. “And you’ve already done enough.”

He looks up, the tenderness in his eyes leaving me with stupid thoughts—thoughts like I wish he’d adopt me. I wish he’d be my granddad. There’s nothing quite like feeling you don’t belong. Floating rootless on this planet, without anyone to fight for you. Well, there’s Mom, but she has a weird way of showing her love.

“Show me unfailing kindness like the Lord’s kindness as long as I live, so that I may not be killed. Samuel 20:14. We all owe each other a little kindness, Rory. A little kindness goes a long way.”

His teeth are as yellow as the shards of light cutting through the tall church windows. I swallow, not making a move for the money.

“Now, go before my grandson’s finished. Malachy rarely stays in one spot. There’s always a lady friend or two lurking, and they always drag him into hell-knows-where doing God-knows-what.”

I have a pretty good idea as to the what part. Anyway, his playboy grandson’s sex life is not something I want to talk about in a church. Or, you know, ever.

“How will I know who he is? There must be more than one singer on Drury Street.”

“Oh, you’ll know.” He folds the money between his fingers and hands it to me.

I hesitate, but take it. “And if I don’t?” I furrow my brows.

“Just yell his name. He’ll stop everything at once. Malachy never could resist a pretty girl or a stiff drink.”

I already dislike this Malachy guy, but if he can give me closure, I can ignore the fact that he sounds exactly like my father: a flirt, a drunk, and a man who avoids responsibility like it’s the plague.

“Can I take a few pictures of his grave before I go?”

He nods, looking at me with sheer pity, the type that crawls under your skin and takes residence. The type that defines you.

“You will prevail, Aurora.”

Aurora.I never told him my name. Only Rory.

“Aurora?” I lift an eyebrow.

His smile vanishes, and he clears his throat. “Your father told me, remember?”

Yes. Of course. So why does he look so…guilty?

Two things hit me in that moment as I regard Father Doherty:

1. The man’s eyes are mesmerizing—a weird shade of violet dipped in blue that instantly warms you up.
2. I will meet him again, someday.

Next time I do? He’ll change my life. Forever.

I shoulder past the thick wall of female bodies that crescents the street artist. Drury Street is an explosion of colors, scents, and sights. Red, exposed-brick buildings covered with vibrant graffiti. An Asian market peeking from a corner, a parking garage, a bus stop, and little hipster shops. It looks like a picture, and I can’t help but stop everything and make it one, capturing the beauty of the street with my old camera.

A bus, passing in a blur, slicing through the colors like the stroke of a brush.

Click.

Two suited men walking past FUCK CAPITALISM written on a wall.

Click.

A lone beer bottle lying on the pavement, tucked between junk food wrappers like a sad drunk.

Click, click, click.

When I finally come face to face with the street artist standing on the side of the pavement, his guitar case open and full of rolled-up notes and change, I understand why his grandfather told me I’d recognize him with the self-assurance of an avid believer.

I’ve never seen someone like him before.

He is beautiful, true, but that’s not what stands out to me. He is radiant.

It’s like his presence has a presence. He sucks the air out of everything in his vicinity, making it impossible not to look at him. Malachy is tailor-made for a huge, colossal heartbreak. Everything about him—his tattered jeans, filthy boots, white shirt, and leather jacket that was broken in decades ago—screams trouble. He looks like a seventies heartthrob. An icon. A Terry Richardson muse. Bruce Springsteen pre-fame.

His voice is like honey and warm spices. It lulls me into a place in my mind I’ve never been before, even though it’s far from beautiful. It is gruff, throaty, and smoky. When someone bumps my shoulder to get closer to him, I snap out of my reverie and realize what I’m listening to.

“One” by U2.

The coincidence is strange. I try to tell myself it’s nothing. This is Ireland. U2 is a national treasure.

His eyes are squeezed shut as he sings. It’s like no one exists other than him and his guitar. Something warm rushes through my skin, like a heat wave, and I shudder in delight.

Warmth.

I always thought there was something melancholy about street performers—the way people walk past them, ignoring their music, their art, their passion. But this guy, he’s the one doing the ignoring. The tables have turned. He’s got the crowd eating from the palm of his hand. Every woman here is under a thick, sweet spell. He’s got that Harry Styles quality that makes girls want to bed him and older women want to adopt him. The men are a cross between impatient, annoyed, and jealous. You can see it in the way they tap their feet, check their watches, nudge their wives and girlfriends to move it.

The song ends, and Malachy Doherty cracks his eyes open and stares directly at me, like he knew I’d be here. Like he watched me watching him through closed eyes. Disoriented—and for some reason wanting to do something, anything—I throw a bill into his guitar case and look away, realizing to my horror that I threw the fifty euros his grandpa gave me. Everyone around me murmurs and whistles. They think it was intentional. I can feel my face flaming red. I bet he thinks I want to sleep with him.

Do I?Probably. But should he know that? Hell no.

Too late to take the money back now without looking like a crazy person, though. And between crazy and an easy lay, I think I’ll go with the latter.

Flushed, I back away. Malachy leans forward, grabs my wrist, and tugs at it. Electric heat courses through my veins, like a snakebite. I gasp.

I’m staring down at my shoes, but he crouches and peeks into my face, a brash, lopsided grin playing on his lips.

“Any requests, Baroness Rothschild of good fortune?” he drawls.

Can I get my money back? I need to buy you drinks with it so you can tell me about my father, I try to convey to him with what I’m sure is a sweet-but-seriously-psycho look.

“None that I can think of.” I slant my gaze sideways, playing nonchalant but secretly wanting to die.

Bright side: I’m no longer thinking about my dead father. Silver lining and so forth.

“The Copacabana!” someone suggests.

“Cavan Girl!” another shouts.

“Dick in a Box!”

Malachy looks around and laughs, and the minute his eyes leave my face, the warmth is snatched away. Still, his rolling laughter is like hot wax seeping into my stomach.

He straightens up. “Who’s the rale Bulgarian who suggested that?”

Some guy in a green beret and orange tweed jacket raises his hand and waves his fingers.

“Not Bulgarian, English.” He grins smugly.

“Jesus, much worse,” Malachy deadpans, and everyone around us erupts in more laughter.

I use the opportunity to gentle my pulse back to normal, smiling along. Ha-ha indeed.

Malachy swaggers back to his spot and secures his guitar strap over his shoulder. He has the slender, yet muscular body of someone who works in the field, not in the gym. He points the guitar pick at me, and everyone’s heads turn to see who he’s pointing at.

“I’m not keen on girls who don’t know what they want.” He quirks a dark, thick eyebrow. “But I’ve a feeling you’re here to change that.”

He starts playing, and maybe it’s because I’m feeling small and vulnerable and broken, but I allow myself to cave to the sound of him, close my eyes and let go. I can tell this one is an original, because I don’t know the lyrics. It’s too good not to be a hit. He sings it completely differently from the way he did “One.” Like every single word cuts through his flesh. A welt, a scar, a burning thing.

Weakness, hate, desire,

How I’d love to light your soul on fire,

In a room full of pretty lost girls and bad broken boys,

You will find me, dip me in ice, and drown all the white noise,

I want to see the world through your eyes and fall in love,

But most of all, I am frightened you don’t really exist,

Because then my fairytale has no beauty,

Just a sad, lonely beast.

This guy can move me without touching me, and touch me without laying a finger on me. His grandfather was right. He’s trouble.

Everyone is so quiet, I begin to doubt this moment is real. I stop swaying and open my eyes. To my astonishment, I find the entire street staring at him. Even waitresses stand on the thresholds of restaurants and at café doors, admiring his voice.

And Malachy? He is staring at me.

I snag my camera and take a picture of him as he sings.

When he finishes the song, he takes a little bow and waits for the claps and shouts to die down. He wiggles his brows at me with a grin that tells me he’s going to sleep with me, which is stupid, because I’m eighteen, and not the sleeping-around type.

I’ve only slept with one person in my life: Taylor Kirshner, senior year, because we’d dated for a while and both of us didn’t want to leave for college saddled with our awkward virginity.

But I believe Malachy. We will.

I believe him because he is that guy. Someone like my dad must’ve been. A completely unhinged, typhoon-souled, damaged Romeo who would break your bed, heart, and resolve if you let him.

Not maliciously, no. And not because he wants to. He simply cannot help himself. He would wreck everything in his way. This misunderstood, beautiful, brilliant boy who is burdened with gifts he never asked for, but unwrapped nonetheless. His talent, charm, and beauty are a weapon, and right now they’re aimed at me.

I watch as he scoops the money from his guitar case, stuffing it into his pocket. The circle of people around him thins and dies away. Two college-aged girls approach him, tucking their hair behind their ears. He flirts with them shamelessly, shooting me a look every now and again, making sure I’m still standing here.

I’m only here because of my father, I want to clarify. I’ll tell him that as soon as he’s done.

Since Malachy feels comfortable keeping me waiting, I don’t feel guilty taking out my camera again and snapping a picture of him just as he hoists the guitar case over his shoulder, awarding one of the girls with a kiss to the knuckles.

“Flattered, but see, I promised this generous, albeit clingy lass, I’d let her buy me a pint.”

I lower my camera and arch an eyebrow at him. He beams at me as both girls scatter along to a bus stop, giggling breathlessly and swatting one another.

“I think you can afford to buy the generous, albeit clingy lass, a drink, everything considered.” I tuck my camera back into my backpack, throwing the hood of my jacket over my head.

“Only if she sends me a copy of that picture.” He juts his chin to my backpack, flashing me a lazy grin.

“Whatever for?”

He thumbs the strap of his guitar case as he saunters over. Stops when we can breathe each other in. “So I’ll have her address.”

“Who’s being clingy now?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Me.” He grins, the world likely tinted a dramatic shade of mauve through his mesmerizing eyes. “Definitely me. You American?”

I nod. He scans me.

Purple eyes, like his grandfather’s. But different somehow. Clearer, with depths that suck you in if you’re not careful.

I turn around and start walking, knowing he’ll follow me. He does.

“What’s the story?” He shoves his hands into his front pockets.

“Can we sit somewhere?” I ignore his question, looking around us.

I could use a drink and something to eat. I’m guessing any normal guy would have a hundred and three questions about what I want from him, but Mal seems nowhere near the normalcy spectrum. He motions with his head in the opposite direction, and we turn around. Now I’m the one doing the following.

Turning the tables. This street performer is good at that.

“You have a name?” he asks.

I catch his footsteps. Barely.

“Aurora.”

“Aurora! Princess Aurora of…?”

“New Jersey.” I roll my eyes. What a flirt.

“New Jersey. Of course. Known for its processed meat, goldfinch, and Jon Bon Jovi, although I won’t hold the latter against you.”

“That’s incredibly considerate.”

“What can I say? I’m a charitable soul, too. Mind you, everything I know about New Jersey I learned from a little show called Jersey Shore. Mam is a goner for the one who’s got enough gel on his hair to fill up a pool.”

“Pauly D.” I nod, smiling.

Suddenly, I feel hot. I need to get out of my army jacket. Maybe even my hoodie. De-onionize. Peel off my layers of clothing.

“That’s the one.” He snaps his fingers. “Although, I’m sure you and your family are nothing like him and his orange mates.”

I chew the side of my thumbnail. “Actually, my mom is pretty much the queen of those people. She’s twenty-five percent fake tan, twenty-five percent hairspray, and forty percent skimpy clothes and hair dye. She is, like, super flammable.”

“Where’s the other ten percent?” He chuckles, shooting me a look I can’t decode.

“She’s not very good at math,” I deadpan.

Malachy throws his head back and laughs so boisterously, I feel it vibrating in my stomach. Back home, a boy like him would elevate his looks to his own benefit somehow—become an actor, model, a social media persona, or some other made-up job. My mom would have a heart attack on impact if she ever saw Malachy laugh. He laughs with his entire face, practically inviting wrinkles. Every inch of his flesh is squeezed tight.

“I’m Mal,” he says.

Since we’re mid-walk and he can’t shake my hand, he bumps his shoulder against mine, tugging my hoodie down to reveal more of my face.

“What about you? Are you going to smash any Irish stereotypes?” I ask.

Mal takes a sharp turn onto a corner street. I follow.

“Afraid not. I’m Catholic, a mammy’s boy, and a mostly functioning alcoholic. My grandfather…actually, he’s not technically my granddad. Father Doherty’s a Catholic priest, but Mam’s da died young and Father Doherty, his brother, kind of took care of her like she was his own. Anyway, he taught me how to make stew, which, to this day, is the only food I know how to prepare. I live on a farm with a staggering amount of sheep, all of them arseholes. I prefer stout to lager, missionary position over doggy, think George Best was a god, and reckon brown sauce can cure anything short of cancer, including but not limited to hangovers, a badly cooked meal, and possibly hepatitis C.”

“We’re…incredibly stereotypical representations of the places we come from.” I roll my nose hoop, moving it around inside its hole. I do that when I’m nervous. Keeps my hands busy.

“Stereotypes exist because they have a seed of truth.” He stops, turns around, and raps the roof of an old Ford the color of bad teeth. “Now, come. We have places to go, things to see, and I’m afraid you must do the driving.”

“Huh?”

“Have you not seen any decent romance movies, Princess Aurora from New Jersey? All the best meet-cutes in cinematic history involve the woman driving the man somewhere. When Harry Met Sally, Singin’ in the Rain, Thelma and Louise…”

“The last one wasn’t a meet-cute. And Geena Davis is not a man.” I can’t help but laugh. How dare he thaw me before I’m ready to defrost?

“To-may-to, to-mah-to.” He throws a set of keys into my hands, and I catch them on instinct. “Your carriage awaits, Madame Semantics.”

This guy is sleek, charming. The worst type of heartbreaker—not compassionate enough to let you know he’s an asshole by actually behaving like one. I bet he leaves a string of half-beating, bleeding, broken hearts in his wake wherever he goes—like Hansel and Gretel left breadcrumbs to find their way home by following the trail. Only I know where this path is leading: destruction.

“Wait. Before we go anywhere, I have something I want to ask you.” I raise a hand. Best to set the expectations right now.

“All right.” He throws the passenger door open, sliding inside. I’m still standing on the pavement when he shuts the door, rolls his window down, and rests his arm on its frame, sliding his aviator sunglasses on.

“You coming?”

“Aren’t you going to ask what that is before you let me in?” I frown.

He raises his aviators and flashes me a smile that can hold up the entire universe with its magnitude.

“What’s the point? I’ll give it to you, anyway. Be it money, a snog, a shag, a kidney, a liver. God, I hope it’s not my liver you’re after. Unfortunately, mine has seen some mileage. Come on now, Aurora.”

“Rory.”

“Rory,” he amends, dragging his straight teeth over his bottom lip. “Much more fitting. You don’t look like a princess at all.”

I arch an eyebrow. I don’t know why his statement annoys me. He’s right. I look nothing like the princess my mother wanted me to be. My best friend, Summer, says I look like a suicidal pixie.

“You look like the more beautiful stepsister in a Disney movie. The underdog who gets the prince at the end. The one who wasn’t born with the title, but earned it,” he explains.

I can feel myself turning red, thinking that ironic, as I just found out I do have a half-sister.

“Oh, she is blushing.” He raises a fist in the air through the window. “All is not lost. I still have a chance.”

“Actually, you don’t.” I douse his enthusiasm in cold water. It makes him laugh harder, because he already knows. The bastard knows he is winning me over.

“I won’t have a one-night stand with you,” I say.

“Of course, you won’t,” he agrees easily. Freely. Not believing a word.

“I mean it,” I warn. “Over my dead body.”

Laughing harder, he taps the passenger door.

“Chop-chop now, Princess.”

Mal directs me out of Dublin in his own peculiar way (“Take a left. No, your other left. Never mind, the original left”), and though I’m terrified driving on the other side of the road, and despite the fact I don’t have an international driver’s license, I still find myself behind the wheel.

Maybe it’s the setting that unchains me from any type of reasonable logic. Maybe it’s Mal himself. All I know is I’m eighteen, newly orphaned by a dad I didn’t know, and I feel like I’m suspended in the air, like a marionette. Between sky and earth. Nothing to lose, nothing to gain.

We roll into a small village, tucked between green hills a stone’s throw from Dublin, with a white wooden sign announcing our arrival in Tolka, Co Wicklow. There’s a river to our right, an old stone-arch bridge over it, and old houses with bright red doors edging the town’s entrance. It’s more like a main street with a few houses scattered around it, like spots of hair on an otherwise bald head. We drive down Main Street, passing a bright blue house, a church, a row of inns, pubs, and a little cinema Mal tells me offers actual individual seats, and the people operating it still use traditional reels.

The road winds, snaking up and down, and my heart feels strangely full when I park the car, as instructed by Mal, a few buildings down from a pub called The Boar’s Head.

When we exit the car, I stop and take my camera out. The pub is painted stark white, with green windows decorated by flowerpots with marigolds and cornflowers spilling out of them. The Irish flag hangs on a pole by the door.

It looks like something out of folklore, a tale my late father would have told me in another life.

“What’s keeping you, Rory?” Mal turns around mid-stride into the pub and catches me crouching down on one knee, squinting and aiming the camera at him.

“Make love to the camera, gorgeous,” I say in a creepy, old-man voice, expecting him to tell me to quit it.

Instead, Mal breaks into a huge grin, covers an imaginary blowing-in-the-air dress, and sends a kiss to the camera, a la Marilyn Monroe. Only his dripping masculinity makes it look one hundred percent hilarious and zero percent feminine.

Click. Click. Click.

I stand up and walk over to him. He offers me his arm. I take it, too tired to resist.

“Is this where you live?” I motion around us. “In this village?”

“Just under that hill.” He runs his fingers through my hair to pull it out of my face, and my spine tingles in unexpected delight. He smiles, because he notices. “With all the arsehole sheep I told you about earlier. You’ll meet them in a bit.”

“I have a flight to catch tomorrow.” I clear my traitorous throat, which keeps clogging with all sorts of emotion.

“So?”

“I can’t stay long.”

He stares at me with a mixture of confusion and mirth. I think this is possibly the first time he’s been rejected. Then he does the unbelievable and reaches to run his thumb over my birthmark, staring at it, mesmerized.

“How’d it happen?” he asks, his voice so soft, it sounds like it’s fading.

I feel so warm I can practically sense the sun beating down on my skin, even though it’s cold and gray out.

“It didn’t. I was born with it.”

“You were, huh?” His thumb drags from my temple to my lips. Was he expecting some crazy story about a car crash or a freak accident?

I pull away.

“Anyway, I can’t stay. I have a hotel booked in Dublin.”

“I’ll drive you back to check out.” He snaps out of his weird trance. “You’ll be staying with me tonight.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you. Over my dead body, remember?”

He cups my cheeks in his hands. They’re rough and confident, an artist’s hands, and my heart thunders with newly found pity for my mom. Now I get why she slept with my dad. Not all Casanovas are slimy. Mal isn’t.

“Don’t let your feelings get in the way of facts.”

“Meaning?” I frown.

“Just because you don’t like the fact that you’re going to sleep with me doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen.” He brushes his thumb over my lips. “And just because we’ve only met doesn’t mean we’re strangers. Do we feel like strangers?” he asks, jerking me to his body.

No. No, we don’t.He feels like he’s never left my side. Like I carried a tiny part of him with me from the moment I was born, and now that he’s here, we can fit the part I kept with the rest of him, like finishing a puzzle.

I gulp, but say nothing.

“Exactly. Now, you’re cocking up our perfect meet-cute. Geena Davis is rolling in her grave.”

“Geena Davis is not dead, Mal!”

“Come, Madame Semantics. Let me feed you.”

Three corned beefs and a shepherd’s pie later, Mal points at me with his half-finished Guinness pint—his fourth. I’m still nursing my first vodka Diet Coke.

“You wanted to ask me something.” He squeezes one eye shut, like he’s zeroing in on me with a gun, licking the white foam of the Guinness from his upper lip.

Here goes…

“I came to Drury Street on your granddad’s advice. He knew I was Glen O’Connell’s daughter. He said you’d be able to tell me more about him.” I study his face carefully.

He takes my hand, flips it, and trails the lines on the inside with his finger. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“I used to go to Granddad’s church every Sunday when I was a kid. Glen lived behind it. He’d let me listen to his records. He taught me a few notes and helped me string a sentence together when I started writing songs. Taught me how to bleed onto a page. So, yes, we knew each other quite well. Well enough for him to tell me he’d kill me if I ever touched his daughter.”

Huh?

“The other one.” He shakes his head, laughing when he sees the look on my face. “Not you. God, Glen would have died on the spot had he met you in person. He would’ve appointed an army to protect your virtue.”

“From you?”

“And the rest of Europe.” He smirks.

Is that his weird, Mal way of telling me I’m pretty?

“Why didn’t Granddad send you to Kathleen, Glen’s daughter? She lives right down this street.” Mal frowns, finishing off his pint.

Kathleen.

My sister’s name is Kathleen.

The penny drops, and he realizes I didn’t know her name.

“You knew you had a sister, yeah?”

I nod slowly. “My mom refused to tell me her name. She said it shouldn’t matter, because no one here particularly wants to know me. How come this entire village attends a church in Dublin if you all live here? Kinda weird.” I circle the straw inside my drink.

Mal sits back. “Not the whole village. Just us. Mam works weekend shifts at Lidl, so Kathleen’s mam took us both to Sunday mass to support my granddad’s Dublin gig, essentially babysitting me. I usually went home with Granddad, but sometimes I stayed with Kathleen when she hung out with Glen afterwards.”

“What kind of father was he to her?”

“A good one,” he says, then frowns and amends, “but not good enough for you.”

“And how old is Kathleen?” I ignore his attempt to make me feel better.

“My age.” Mal still studies my hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Twenty-two,” he adds.

“You must know her well.”

“We grew up together.” He clanks his empty glass on the sticky wooden table. “Why he would direct you to me and not to her, I wonder.”

“He said she was in a state and didn’t want to see anyone.”

“Bollocks. Kathleen’s more social than a penguin.”

What an odd thing to say. I try not to smile at his choice of words. Everything about him is so…different.

“What’s she like?” I feel like an FBI agent, but it’s hard to keep myself in check when I want to learn everything there is to know about Dad. About my sister. Plus, if my lips keep moving, I don’t have to stop to examine the stain of jealousy in my voice. Kathleen had years of growing up with Dad. And being next to Mal.

“Sweet. Nice. Saintly. You’ll see. Let’s go see her. She must have a load of photos of him.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I do. You’re not getting out of here empty-handed. Let’s go.”

He takes my hand and yanks me to my feet. He slaps a few bills onto the table, and I don’t even attempt to pay for my portion of the meal, because with the hotel, I’m already deep in the red on this trip.

My hand clasped in his, Mal blazes through Main Street like a bullet. It starts to rain, and I duck my head, trying to dodge the downpour.

He laughs, his voice muffled by the storm. “I can’t believe it’s raining in the summer. It’s like you brought winter with you, Rory.”

It is weird, but it keeps us close and touching, so I don’t care.

“Why not take the car?” I yell.

“Her house’s right in front of my car, actually. Besides, she’ll have mercy on us if she sees us wet and miserable.”

“I thought you said she was saintly.”

“Even the godly have their limits, especially considering I’ve been ignoring her for three consecutive months.” He snorts.

“Mal!” I shriek, but he only laughs harder.

We arrive at a white-bricked, black-shuttered Victorian house. Mal raps the door and runs his fingers along his dripping hair. It sticks out in a thousand different directions, making him look annoyingly delicious. A few seconds pass before the door swings open and a girl who looks like a rounder, less-edgy version of me appears. Her hair is ruby red, a few shades lighter than my original light orange, but she has the same big, green eyes and bony nose and downturned, pouty lips. She has freckles, like me, and the same beauty mark by her upper lip.

But as far as appearance goes, this is where our similarities end. She’s wearing a sensible white cardigan with a long, blue A-line dress underneath. Her leggings are pristine white, like bones. I shift in my Toms and hoodie and jam my fists into my pockets to stop myself from playing with my nose hoop.

“Mal!” she cries when she sees him, throwing her arms over his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. “What are you doing here? God, you’re soaking wet!”

“Kath, I want you to meet my friend, Aurora, from New Jersey.” He flashes her a big, goofy smile and motions to me as if I’m some kind of a prize in a game show.

We’re still on her doorstep, the rain pounding our faces. But even that doesn’t stop Kathleen from taking a sharp inhale, her eyes bulging when she notices me for the first time. Mal is too busy kicking the rain off his boots and shaking his head like a dog to recognize the delicate situation he’s just created.

“You said you always wanted to meet her, and she told me she doesn’t even have any pictures of Glen. Well, bumped into her in Dublin and reckoned it was high time for a reunion. Thank me later.” He winks, knocking his shoulder against hers, his fists stuffed in his jacket pockets.

So my mom was right about one thing. Men do have the emotional intelligence of underdeveloped bricks.

I blink at her, refusing to dwell on the fact that Father Doherty insisted she didn’t want to see anyone, yet Mal says she’s been dying to meet me. Only one of those things is true, and I have my hunch.

Kathleen assesses me—not that I can blame her, it is a bombshell—and I immediately feel guilty for going against Father Doherty’s word. She shakes her head, snaps out of it, smiles, and flings her arms around me in a hug, throwing herself into the rain. I stagger back and return a squeeze.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.” She crushes my bones with her hug.

I melt into her and burst into laughter and tears at the same time. It’s a total case of emotional diarrhea, but it’s not every day you meet your half-sister for the first time.

“You’re both drenched! Come! Shall I make some tea?” She disconnects from me, tugs my hand, and ushers us inside, padding to the bathroom and coming back with two warm towels. We wrap ourselves gratefully.

“Tea!” Mal exclaims, like it’s the best idea he’s ever heard in his life. “The magic word. Rory, did you know Kath makes a mean cup of tea? Best in the county. No joke.”

Kath swats Mal on the chest and giggles like a schoolgirl on our way to the kitchen. We follow a narrow hallway with coats and scarves piled on hangers. Everything is small and neat and cozy. The house has a ’70s feeling to it, with green wallpaper, brown furnishings, and yellow lights. It is soaked with familiarity. Fully inhabited—not just a space with furniture like Mom’s house in New Jersey.

“Country, not county,” Mal amends.

Kathleen swats Mal’s shoulder and keeps her hand on him, possessively. Sighing like it’s a job, he captures her wrist, turning her around and pinning her against the hallway wall in one swift movement. I halt, watching the situation unfold. He holds her like a farmer holds cattle, rough and without passion, but she is breathing hard. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dripping lust, daring him to make another move. She lets out a little moan, flinching at her own lack of control and turning bright red. He looks down at her like she’s a chewed toy. The familiar, old type that is too nostalgic to throw away, but no one wants to play with anymore.

“How’s school, Kiki?” he asks with a pang of regret in his voice, like he hates to do that—string her along.

Then why does he?

He knows exactly what he’s doing to her, and that bothers me, because I can see just how much he oozes control. She is locked in the moment, but he’s an observer, the gatekeeper keeping her in a foolish dream, the key far from her reach.

“Grand.” Her voice shakes. “I…I tried to call you a few times. Dropped by on Sundays after mass. Your mam said you’ve been busy.”

“I have.”

“Not too busy for Aurora, apparently.” She turns scarlet again. There’s nothing mean about her tone. Just desperate.

My loyalties are torn between the boy she loves, who is trying to help me, and the sister who’s falling apart because of him.

“She prefers the name Rory.” Mal removes a lock of hair from Kathleen’s face, tucking it behind her ear.

I want to punch him in the balls on her behalf, then kick him in the knee on mine.

“Sorry, Rory.” She flashes me a nervous smile, snapping her eyes back to him, like he could disappear at any moment. “I missed you.”

She missed him.

She loves him.

I can’t do this to her. I can’t kiss him or sleep with him or do any of the things I want to do with Mal. Because I’m leaving, and she is staying. Because she seems lovely, and even if she isn’t lovely, she’s still my sister.

I tiptoe my way to the kitchen without making it apparent that their seemingly friendly conversation is making something in my chest collapse, brick by brick.

“Stay,” Mal snaps behind my back. He doesn’t sound so nice anymore.

I halt, but don’t turn. Kathleen’s obviously got it hard for him, and I want to show her I’m not a threat.

“You guys are…” I start.

“Nothing,” Mal clarifies. “We’re just friends, right, Kathleen?”

She clears her throat, smoothing her dress. My heart is dust in the wind. Poor her.

“Of course.”

What an asshole. Before I know what’s happening, Mal is at my side, plastering his hand at the small of my back. He ushers me into the kitchen, leaving Kathleen behind. I turn my head to her as I go, and she flashes me a tired smile, waving us to move along.

“I’ll just go wash my face,” she mumbles. “Turn the heater off, maybe. I’m feeling a bit flustered.”

I take a seat at the dining table and study the family pictures hanging on the walls with hungry eyes. But there’s no one who looks like he could be Glen. Just Kathleen and her mom, Kathleen and the family dogs, Kathleen kissing young Mal’s cheek while he looks horrified and disgusted to the core, as boys do at that age. Even toddler Mal gives me butterflies. What the hell is wrong with me?

Everything, apparently. He’s just like your dad.

My half-sister serves us tea and shortbread as she tries to make conversation. She explains to me that she studies veterinary medicine and jokes about Mal hiring her when he eventually takes over his family farm.

“Actually, it was Mal who told me I should become a vet. Remember, Mal? The day I tried to save that pigeon? I think it was the Christmas we turned eleven.”

Mal stares at me. “Yeah. Sure.”

He doesn’t remember. Kathleen’s eager smile doesn’t collapse.

“He’s just being modest. You just wait till I graduate, Mal. You have plenty of sheep and cows. You can do so much with them, if you only put your mind to it. Renting out the land to other farmers is a bad investment. I could help.”

“I’m a musician.” He pours half a carton of milk into his tea, staring intently at his cup. “I’ve no interest in farming.”

“You still help the Boyles here and there, though.”

He shrugs. “When they need help, yeah. I also take shits. Doesn’t necessarily mean I want to be a plumber.”

I almost spray the tea in my mouth all over the table. Almost.

“How are you a musician, Mal? You don’t want to be a singer, and you don’t sell your songs to anyone, even when they make you an offer.” Her eyelashes flutter, her cheeks staining pink.

There’s more back-and-forth on that front, then Mal stops Kathleen’s stream of questions and arguments and says, “We were wondering if you could share some memories of Glen with Rory. Since she never really met him. Surely you don’t mind?”

“Oh, of course. I didn’t want to point out the elephant in the room.” She smiles, angling toward me in her seat. “Of course, Rory, anything. What would you like to know?”

“Hmm.” I tap my knee under the table. “What was he like?”

Did he ever talk about me?

Did he miss me?

Did he care?

“He was the best, Rory. We had a great relationship. He had a wicked sense of humor and a massive musical talent. In fact, the only guy I know who’s more talented than him is Mal. Da used to call me McNugget, because I was small and a bit pudgy when I was a kid. Remember that, Mal? I was so offended for the longest time.”

She reaches and squeezes Mal’s shoulder. He is still looking at me. Kathleen’s words sound detached, but I chalk it up to her being upset over Mal showing up here with me.

“Did he have a lot of freckles, like us?” I ask, the question sounding dumber than it was in my head.

Thing is, I’ve never seen my dad. Ever. My mom told me he had dark hair and light eyes and three chins. Forever a poet, this woman.

“No.” Kathleen chuckles. “His face was pale and smooth. I got mine from Ma.”

I guess I got mine from my mom, too.

“Do you have a picture of him?” I fidget with my fingers under the table.

“I don’t believe I do.” She scrunches her nose. “Have you not seen him?”

I shake my head, swallowing the ball of tears settling in my throat. Maybe it was a mistake to come here and see the real family he left behind.

“Surely you have a picture or two of Glen, Kiki.” Mal frowns at Kathleen.

She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Mam did a massive cleanup a few weeks ago and moved everything to the attic. She’s got the key for it, I suppose, but she’s out. I wish I could have known you were coming, Rory. I’d have asked her to leave it here.”

“Did he ever mention me?” I ask into my cup of tea, not wanting to see the pity in her face when she answers.

Even staring down, I can see Kathleen in my periphery putting down her cup of tea and sighing heavily. Almost theatrically. I don’t know why I do this to myself. Each question puts another nail into my self-esteem’s coffin.

“Oh, Rory, I really am so sorry.”

I lift the cup and bring it to my lips. The scorching liquid burns a path from my tongue down my throat, but I’m practically chugging it, longing to feel anything—even pain—to distract myself from what’s going on inside my head. Mal eventually lowers my hand with the cup.

“I’m sure he did here and there. He’d have loved you!” Kathleen tries desperately. “Da loved everyone, didn’t he, Mal? Even that stook, Jared, who sold knockoff Burberry on the street corner every Sunday.”

Mal gives her a weird look I can’t decipher, then stares at me in a way that makes me feel naked of clothes, skin, and bones. Like he’s looking into my soul, dissecting it with a knife and a fork.

He snaps out of it, stretching in his seat. “Excuse me, ladies. Nature’s calling, and it has a three-gallon piss for me to depart in the jacks.”

He stands up and saunters to the bathroom. I realize he knows this house by heart—been here probably dozens of times. He and Kath share history, chemistry. I should feel happy that Kathleen might end up with a guy like Mal, if she ever manages to tame him. Funny and charming and handsome.

But for some reason, I don’t.

As soon as Mal is out of earshot, I shake my head and smile. “He’s a wild card, huh?”

Kathleen’s sweet smile drops. She plucks a tube of lip gloss from her handbag on the table and squeezes a generous amount onto her pinched lips.

“What he is and what he’s not shouldn’t matter to you. He’s mine.” Her warm voice is now a cold, pointy blade running along my neck.

“Excuse me?” I slant my head back.

She smacks her lips, lifts her teacup—pinky in the air—and takes a slow sip. “The problem with Malachy is he has a weakness for strays. No matter how dirty, no matter how rabid.” She narrows her eyes at me. “No matter how dangerous.”

I study the way her face twists in revulsion, my mouth parting in shock.

Fake.

It was all fake.

My sister is not nice or timid or disoriented. She is the devil.

She hates me. She’s always hated me. That’s why Father Doherty wanted me to stay away. That’s why he directed me to his sweet grandson. Kath just puts on a mask for Mal.

“You know, Da said he’d made a terrible mistake when he came from Paris and it became known he’d impregnated the American slag. But personally, I’ve always wanted to meet my wee half-sister. Until he died and it became clear you’d go after his money. I didn’t want to believe it. I truly didn’t. I even wanted to write to you.”

“Yet you didn’t.” I grit my teeth, holding her gaze now. “How convenient of you to say you wanted to reach out, but never did.”

I feel cold again. I want Mal to come back, to soak the room with his warmth.

She flashes a mocking smile.

“Fancy seeing you here a second after he drops dead.”

My nostrils flare, and my heart kicks up. Whatever she’s insinuating is complete BS and far removed from the truth.

“I’m not here for his money,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes and hoping to God I look as menacing as I feel. “I’m here to see his grave, where he lived and grew up. To take some pictures, so I can look back at them and tell myself I came here and connected to my roots. There’s half of me I don’t even know. I’m carrying a stranger’s genes in my body, for crying out loud.”

“Why not sooner, then?” She rolls her eyes on a sarcastic smile.

“I wasn’t of legal age to make that decision!”

“Is that why your mam sent a letter to my grandparents asking to see the will? So you can connect not only with your heritage, but also a nice Gucci bag?”

It’s a surprise my jaw doesn’t hit the floor. I want to kill Mom. Or at least I think I should. I don’t know what I’m entitled to or not. I don’t care. I’m not gonna use his stupid money. This is not what this trip is about.

“Listen, I—” I start, but she cuts me off.

She leans forward, clutching my hand in hers across the table. Kathleen squeezes painfully, crushing my bones, her plastic smile making an unexpected comeback. Now I know that when she hugged me at the door, she really did mean to hurt me. She looks like the kind of girl who’d drown her old dog to get her parents to buy her a puppy.

“No, you listen to me. You’re not going to see a penny from Da’s money. He left everything to me, and for good reason. I’m his legitimate child. You and the other poor sod who kicked the bucket, on the other hand, are nothing but mere unfortunate accidents. Also, you can shag Mal all you want for however long you’re here, but it is me who will marry him. So just remember that when you’re writhing underneath him and letting him use you. He’ll fuck you, because he can, but it’s me who will warm his bed forever. And that’s you in a nutshell, Aurora. A cheap version of me. In Da’s life. In Mal’s.”

Her grip tightens even more around my hand. I pull away, but she is strong, and I’m too stunned to move. Her lips twitch and widen. “And please don’t embarrass yourself by trying to pull your mother’s trick and get knocked up. Surely you know he won’t follow you to America, and if you expect to dump your spawn at my door, you’re in for a terrible disappointment.”

I stare at her, wondering how I could be genetically linked to this cardigan-wearing, fire-spitting green-eyed monster.

“You’ve got it all wrong.” I try to yank my hand away again, but she tugs harder, digging her manicured, neutrally colored nails in.

Usually, I’m a take-no-crap kind of person, but right now, the shock of being in a foreign land and hearing this from my only living relative besides Mom freezes me to the spot. Turns out, I’m not a fight, nor a flight type of person. I’m a let’s-sit-here-like-a-log-and-see-how-it-pans-out chick.

“Stay away from Mal. He is mine. The money’s mine. Everything you see here, everyone you meet, belongs to me. Leave.”

“You think I’m after the money? Your crush?” I spit the last word.

Moments ago, I’d have died before laying a finger on Mal. But right now? I would likely hump him on her dining table, preferably as she eats her dinner in front of us.

“I think you’re a gold-digging whore like your mother. She ruined my father and everything I knew and loved. You’re the reason I lost him for a while.”

A while?What does she mean by that? Pointless to ask, as she seems less than cooperative with me.

“You’re a bitch,” I retort.

Not the most eloquent of comebacks, but one that comes from the heart.

She smiles. “Well, I’m the bitch who owns everything you want, so I’ll happily take the title. Now, now, don’t look so riled up. Mal loves me more than life itself. If you tell him I said any of those things, he’ll kick you to the streets.”

Mal reappears at the kitchen door with perfect timing, plopping back on his chair. He notices Kathleen’s hand on mine. She pats the back of my hand in a motherly way and straightens her spine.

“Bonding. I like it.” He looks between us, yawning. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing important,” she purrs, blinking in my direction with a sugary, meaningful smirk. “I just brought Rory up to speed.”