In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen

One year later

Rory

Alittle hand grabs mine, pulling me toward the throng, her tiny feet secured in shiny, red Dorothy-style shoes.

“Pu-leeeeeease. You said five minutes. Surely at least a thousand have passed!”

“It’s been barely two.” I laugh, lowering my camera.

I give the subject of my photo shoot, an engaged couple, a helpless shrug. They don’t seem mad. Maybe because they haven’t paid me.

When I officially resigned from Blue Hill, I promised myself no matter what I do, I will always leave room to have one photo shoot a month that’s completely pro bono. Chicken soup for my inspiration, if you will. Last month it was the 100th birthday party of a woman named Joselyn O’Leary in North Dublin. I came to her retirement home and took pictures of her dancing with her new beau, Finn, who at the tender age of eighty-five, is fifteen years her junior.

Today, it’s a couple of teenagers—nineteen, I believe—who fell pregnant and decided to make it official. They don’t have a budget to speak of for their wedding. They’re going to use the bride’s mother’s living room for the party next month, and the dress and ring were bought at a secondhand store. They wrote me a touching letter asking if I’d be willing to take a few pictures of them, so here I am.

Their wedding will be held at a local council flat, and not only have I been invited, but I promised to come, too.

“Two or a thousand, it is time to go.” Tamsin pouts adorably, the way she does when she’s trying to get me to give her chocolate.

The couple laugh and shake their heads.

“Your daughter is just precious,” the girl tells me, adjusting the polka-dot dress that’s a little too tight on her swollen midriff.

I don’t tell her Tamsin is not my daughter, because frankly, it feels like she is. I move my hand along Tamsin’s ponytail, brushing flyaways behind her ear and smile down at her. I’ve found bringing her when I take pictures brings brighter smiles to everyone’s faces, and my photos have never been better.

“We’ll see you at the wedding, then? Next month?”

“You bet!” the soon-to-be-husband says. “Hopefully she’ll like us more when there are snacks and drinks around, aye?”

Tamsin and I walk hand in hand down Drury Street and toward the growing crowd in front of Mal.

It doesn’t matter that Mal is a millionaire. He will always busk, and I will always love him for that just a little more than I did the day before, because his passion and integrity for his art inspire me.

It also doesn’t matter that we are in the midst of refurbishing the cottage completely, gutting it from within, and are currently staying with Elaine, Lara, and Father Doherty while we’re waiting for our home to be ready.

It took a while, but Elaine and Lara warmed up to me. Father Doherty did his best to bridge the gap, but I think what did it was my relationship with Tam. They could hate me all they wanted, but the truth of the matter was—is—I am the one who fixes her hair every morning, does 2,000-piece puzzles with her, helps her with her homework, and binge-watch vintage Sabrina the Teenage Witch. It was also helpful that I turned out to be just as frugal and unaffected by money as Mal is, so they can see I’m not here for an inheritance or some other sort of free ride.

“May I have chocolate milk? And apple candy? And this dress? And these boots? Rory, can I? Oh, and can you do my hair tomorrow for school? Brantley McCay likes me. Mia thinks so, anyway.” Tamsin stops by a little boutique shop for kids, pointing at a mannequin of a girl her age.

“Tomorrow is Sunday.” Laughter rolls out of my mouth, bouncing on the ground ahead of us. “But yes, I’ll French braid your hair on Monday. And you can have one thing out of the three, preferably the boots, because they are super cute, and also because your grandmothers will maim me if I feed you junk before dinner.” I answer all of her questions at once, and we make a stop at the little store and get her glittery, leopard boots I’m sure she will flaunt for my mother during their next weekly Skype session.

When we get to the crowd, I work my way past onlookers to the only available spot from which I can see Mal and place Tamsin before me, putting my hands on her shoulders. She bobs her head and smiles, and it’s only when I know she is secure and not going to be pushed around by the dozens of people standing around Mal that I allow myself to drown in his voice, his music, his words.

They said that love was beautiful,

I asked them if they were high,

Because when you barged into my life, you made me taste the sky,

But then you left me here, and the ashes on my tongue turned blue,

Darlin’, what more can I say? It ain’t easy loving you.

I know we said forever, a promise born a lie,

Though I really want to do it the right way before I die.

Marry me right, and true, and in all the colors you injected into my life.

My Disney princess, my shiny savior, my sharp, bleeding knife.

Mesmerized by his lyrics, it takes me a moment to realize he’s put down his guitar and is now approaching me with his unnerving swagger and foolhardy smirk that burns panties in its wake, leaving a trail of tattered hopes and dreams of something more.

I cover my mouth with both hands, not knowing what to make of it.

We are married. In the last year, we’ve acted it more than most married couples I know. And yet, here he is…

On one knee.

Squinting up at me like I’m the sun, Tamsin between us as I hug his daughter from behind.

“I got you something a little more impressive than the ring from Larnaca this time, Princess Aurora of New Jersey.”

He fishes in his back pocket for a black, velvety box and pops it open in front of me. I feel Tamsin squealing and giggling under my palms, her shoulders shaking in delight.

Everyone around us sucks in a breath as I stare back at a huge diamond sparkling in front of me in different shades of pale gold. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“Yes.” I choke on my own laughter.

Mal’s face changes from delighted to confused as he grabs my left hand from Tamsin’s shoulder—kissing his daughter’s cheek first—and slides the ring onto my finger, securing my original wedding band.

“Oh, darlin’, that wasn’t a question.”

Everyone around us laughs, Tamsin included.

“Then why are you on your knees?” I wipe tears of joy from the corners of my eyes.

“Great angle to check out your t-i-t-s,” he retorts.

“Daddy!” Tamsin hoots, holding her little belly. “I know how to spell! I got second place in the spelling bee at school, remember?”

“Why, how could I forget, little TimTam? It was a test, and you passed with flying colors.”

He pulls her into a hug, and she drowns between his muscular arms, a ball of giggly happiness.

This past year, I’ve had the pleasure of watching Mal be a father to Tamsin. It was enough to confirm I want to have approximately five hundred babies with him. And an indefinite number of pets. We started out with two dogs named Jim and Morrison. Both rescued. It wasn’t even a discussion. We knew where we’d get them: the shelter.

Mal and I came a long way with the people we hurt and who’ve hurt us. Mom and I are working things out. She comes over every Christmas. I send her elaborate gifts from Sephora on Thanksgiving. And yes, that includes hairspray.

Mal apologized to Sean and Maeve. He actually went as far as helping them open their new business—The Tolka Inn. No matter how much they despised him, in time, and with a lot of groveling, they’ve tentatively allowed him back into their lives.

As for Tamsin? She has been the missing link I didn’t know I needed in my life. The reason why my snow globe was beautiful from the inside, tranquil, but also so incredibly still and boring. She shook it up and makes it snow like every day is Christmas.

Mal gets up, grabs me by my waist, and pulls me close, Tamsin slipping to the side coolly. She’s made it an art to escape our make-out sessions by now.

“Hello, stranger.” He grins at me.

“King Malachy of Tolka,” I answer, producing the fifty-euro note Father Doherty gave me almost a decade ago and sliding it to his waistband, as if he’s a stripper.

“You’re the four seasons, Rory. And I promise to be your shelter in the winter. To bask in you in the summer. To crash into love with you in spring like it’s the first time we’ve met. And when you fall? I promise to always pick you up.”

Everyone erupts in claps and whistles, and goosebumps dance all over my skin. I feel loved. Cherished. Invincible.

“Play me a song?” I ask.

“What would you like to hear, Ms. Rothschild?”

“Surprise me.” I bite down on my lip, not surprised in the least that he remembers our entire conversation from when we were practically kids.

He jogs back to his place, just like he did almost a decade ago.

Lowers his head and gives me a sideways I’m-going-to-fuck-you-tonight smile, which I believe now, exactly as I did nine years ago.

He opens his mouth and starts singing my father’s song, “Belle’s Bells.”

And for the first time since I heard it and knew Glen wrote it, I feel nothing but contentment and peace.

No pain. No shame. No need for closure.

Because no matter who Glen O’Connell was, he led me to the love of my life. To my new home. To the place where I matter. Where I take pictures of babies for a living and don’t chase coked-up, glitzy starlets and dodgy, sexually harassing bosses. Where I go up to Northern Ireland from time to time to hang out with my half-brother, Taron, putting fresh flowers on his grave and telling him all the stories I couldn’t have when I still lived in the US.

I visit Kath, too.

I even visit Dad—and yes, it helps that they were buried in the same graveyard.

Kathleen might’ve said she’d never accept a child of mine back when Mal slipped into the bathroom, but I am lucky enough to raise a child of hers, and that’s all that matters.

And when Mal’s eyes meet mine, and people shout and whistle and laugh, because it is so stupidly clear what he’s thinking about while he’s singing this completely innocent Christmas song, Tamsin cringes and waves the bag with her brand new boots in the air. She says the words I never thought I’d hear her say.

“Ma, Da, get a room!”

In this moment, I’m not burning.

Not ice cold.

Just…perfectly warm.

Fifteen years later

Mal

I will not strangle my child today.

I will not strangle my child today.

I will not…

“Da! Kiki said I’m not tall enough to be a basketball player.” Grayson elbows his sister, Kathleen, in the backseat. I loosen my bowtie (bowtie!) as I maneuver my Volvo SUV from our plush cottage (yup, you heard that right, too) toward Dublin, where I am going to watch my daughter, Tamsin, get married.

“Well, your sister is right,” Rory interjects, kneading my thigh to calm me down.

Look, I like the lad Tamsin is marrying fine. He doesn’t appear to be a serial killer/wife beater/Manchester City supporter. I’m just uncomfortable with handing my baby over to someone else.

And I don’t mean that in the literal way, of course. Tamsin can take care of me better than I do her. But there’s something so final about letting go, about not being the main man in your daughter’s life anymore.

“That is slanger!” Grayson throws his hands in the air.

“It’s slander, you eejit, and it’s not,” Kiki huffs.

Grayson’s name is close enough to Glen, but also far enough that we all feel comfortable about it. Kathleen, however, was named after my first wife and Rory’s sister to honor her legacy. They’re the most infuriating twelve year olds in the universe. Not even my brothers, sister, and mother can handle their lip. After Rory and I said I do (again), we decided to try for a sibling for Tamsin. Good thing we already knew life was not a smooth ride. After two years of trying unsuccessfully, we turned to IVF. And surprise, surprise, now Tamsin has two siblings, and they’re both hellraisers.

“You let her get away with everything. It’s so unfair.”

“Your face is unfair,” Kiki retorts.

“At least it’s not ugly,” Grayson deadpans.

“But it’s very unwitty.” Kiki crosses her arms over her chest, flashing a taunting smile.

“She wins.” I shrug, tapping the wheel and feeling my beautiful wife squeeze my thigh harder in warning. “What? She had the better comeback. I do appreciate a good taunt.”

When we arrive, I allow the valet to park our vehicle, and Rory rushes into the hotel where Tamsin is getting ready for the ceremony. I’m at her heels, and the twins are somewhere behind, probably arguing about what shade of yellow the sun is and who’ll walk through the door first.

My phone is buzzing in my pocket, and I stop and motion for the twins to join their mother down the hall, to help their sister get ready. I plug one finger into my free ear.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Doherty?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Michael Corr. Real estate agent. We spoke on the phone a week ago. You put a bid on the Tolka house on Henrietta Street.”

The house closest to our cottage. The Smiths own it. Well, their children, now that Mrs. Smith is baking cakes in heaven.

“That’s right.”

“Just wanted to congratulate you. They accepted the offer and are happy to go through with the sale.”

I let out a sigh of relief. The past few years, Rory’s mother hasn’t been doing so grand. Thing is, Debbie found a boyfriend six years ago, and she is bloody gaga for him. There’s no chance in hell she’d agree to move in with us, even though we have plenty of space. So I purchased her a house close to ours, so Rory can keep an eye on her. And as for her old-new boyfriend, Antonio Romano? I’m sure he’ll appreciate the proximity to Italy.

Another plus: they’ll be living right across from Tamsin and her husband, James. Which means another set of eyes on my baby. (Yes, this will never get old.)

“Thank you,” I drawl. “You just made a fantastic day even better.”

I kill the call and advance toward the slightly open door of my daughter’s hotel room. I peek inside, letting my heart fill with warm, unfiltered joy.

Grayson and Kiki are on the couch. She is trying to tame his impossible hair, which he got from me, and for once in their lives, they aren’t fighting.

My older daughter is sitting in front of a vanity, a makeup artist and hair stylist fussing around her, holding my wife’s hand.

My beautiful, gorgeous wife’s hand.

“Just remember, you’ll always be my little girl, even when you’re eighty,” Rory says.

Tamsin looks up and smiles at her. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“What for?” Rory smiles.

“Making a family out of Dad and me. Giving me the only thing I truly wanted. Filling a void that couldn’t possibly be filled by anyone but you.”

It’s crazy, but I feel the exact same way about Rory.

I’ve never told my wife what her father said to me when I was a wee lad. I didn’t want to blend her tarnished memory of him with something so pure as our love. But one day, when he was teaching me how to play guitar, he turned around and said, “You know something, Mally-boy? I think one day you’ll be my son-in-law.”

“I’m not going to marry Kiki.” I scrunched my nose.

I didn’t like her that way—that much I knew, even when I was about ten.

“No, not Kathleen. I’m talking about Aurora.”

“I don’t even know her.”

“Not yet.”

“She lives in America.”

“Love is bigger than this planet, son. Much, much bigger.”

We were destined, Rory and I.

I knew that with each flickering light when we were together that first time she came to Ireland.

Each slammed door.

The spontaneous drizzle.

Unexpected snowflakes.

For years, I knew Glen was up there, eventually with Kiki by his side, playing matchmaker.

I look up toward the ceiling and smile at the old bastard. He couldn’t take care of his child while he was living, so he atoned for it after he died.

“Thank you.”