In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen

Eight years ago

Rory

“Know what’s ironic?” Mal asks when we exit Kathleen’s house.

I’m still shaken and nauseous from our visit. When I told Mal I’d had enough of our friendly chat, Kathleen altruistically volunteered to drive me back to Dublin. She really is a saint. Not. Mal, who has been blessed with the diplomacy skills of a soiled diaper, informed her that we were planning to spend the rest of the night together.

It was the first—and I hope the last—time in my life that I took pleasure in someone else’s misery. She could burn in hell at this point and I wouldn’t even hand her sunscreen.

The sky is a blue and orange velvet blanket. The scent of fresh earth rises from the concrete and trees, enhanced by the rain.

My head is still reeling from the hateful words Kathleen threw in my face like grenades.

Gold-digger.

Stray.

Whore.

“Earth to Rory.” Mal grabs a lamppost and spins around it like in the movies, jumping into a puddle and splashing me. “What’s eating you? Can’t be me, or you’d have a smile on your face.”

“You’re not funny,” I snap, still walking.

He catches my wrist and spins me to face him. We’re in front of his car. I don’t feel like driving. Or talking. Or breathing. I just want to go home, to America, with my tail between my legs, licking my wounds. I don’t have a family in Jersey other than Mom, and I sure as hell don’t have one here. At least I have Summer.

“What’s wrong? Did Kathleen say something to upset you?” Mal frowns, placing a hand on my shoulder.

A little voice inside my head tells me to keep my mouth shut about Kathleen’s Don Corleone speech—not because I want the best for her, but because I want the best for Mal, and he doesn’t deserve to know his childhood friend is a bitch. I have a twenty-four-hour shelf life in Ireland. I’m merely a smear of ink in the elaborate painting called his life. Why disrupt their relationship—if he’d even believe me? Besides, I saw how he looked at her. There’s no attraction there. Amusement, yes, but he’ll never be with her.

In a moment of sheer madness, I do something I’ve never done before. I slant my eyes toward her house, making sure she’s at her window, watching us.

She is.

Kathleen is messing with the top button of her cardigan. Button, unbutton. Button, unbutton. Her lips pressed together, her hawk-like eyes watching my every move.

Slowly, I raise onto my toes.

“Everything is mine. Nothing is yours.”

We’ll see about that, sister dearest.

I press my lips to Mal’s. Tentatively. Shyly. Uncertainly. I’ve never kissed a boy before. It was always the other way around. But I’m not here to enjoy the kiss. I’m here to prove a point.

His mouth, warm and soft, latches on mine delicately. He wasn’t expecting to be kissed. But he is molding into the shape of my body so we’re pushed against each other everywhere. Seconds pass. I watch Kathleen watching us kiss, my eyes wide open while Mal’s are closed. I drink from the well of Kathleen’s misery for long seconds before I sink down to the pavement, disconnecting from him. I peek behind his shoulder again. She is red, her lips so thin, they’re non-existent.

“No,” I hear Mal grunt.

I look up at his face, and something about it sucks the air out of my lungs like a vacuum. A black cloud passed over his features while I gave him that kiss. No part of him is playful or cute anymore. He looks like a demon, out for blood—thick eyebrows pulled together, eyes crackling with thunder, mouth twisted and sharp, like an icy storm.

“No?” I whisper.

“No. This is not a fecking kiss, and this is certainly not our first kiss.”

Before I know what’s happening, he pulls me at the waist and slams my back against his car. I arch and moan when his hands find my cheeks, my neck, my hair; they’re everywhere. He’s an octopus, wrapping himself around me, no longer molding, but conquering, and it’s crazy, but the rain stops abruptly, the sun peeking through the clouds.

The rays pierce my cold skin, and Mal does the rest of the job, pouring heat that swirls and dances in my stomach.

When our lips connect again, they don’t meet, they crash. He shoves his tongue into my mouth, growling. Our tongues twist together, roaming, exploring, fighting. He’s an animal, acting on a carnal instinct, devouring me like a beast. We kiss and we kiss and we kiss and boy, does he know how to kiss. He smells amazing, he tastes divine, and when his head drops to suck on my neck, my eyes widen as I remember Kathleen is still there.

She watches us through the window, tears rolling down her cheeks as her palm presses against the glass, ghost-white from the pressure she puts on it. I can feel the pressure of her touch like my skin is the glass.

Mal and I are no longer kissing. We are full-blown making out in the middle of the street, his lips closing around my tongue and sucking it into his mouth.

“Christ,” he mutters, moving his mouth to the sensitive flesh of my shoulder, dragging it up my chin and back to my lips again, still oblivious to our audience. “You burn under my fingertips, Rory. How do I give you up?”

Burn, I think. Strange choice of words, seeing how I’m always cold. But I feel it, too. The pull. The ache. It is not necessarily sweet or nice or called for. I’m aflame at the stake, a redheaded witch, watching his fire consume me.

I rip my mouth from his and mumble, “We can’t do this here.”

He kisses my mouth again. Then my nose. Then my forehead. He can’t stop. No part of him is in control.

“Let’s check you out of that money-sucking hotel and head back home. I want to spend every waking moment in you until you leave.”

“What?”

“With you. Get your mind out of the gutter, lass.”

“You put it there!” I laugh.

“You say carjacking, I say borrowing. Why are we still here discussing it?”

Dazed, I slip into the passenger seat of his car, fastening my seatbelt. Mal gets behind the wheel, revving the engine. He drank quite a bit of Guinness a few hours ago, yet he looks oddly sober. I look up one last time, catching Kathleen’s gaze. Her eyes are puffy and wet. It’s not in my nature to be a bitch, but it’s not in my nature not to fight back, either.

Mal doesn’t look back and doesn’t appear to notice Kathleen as he rolls down the road, taking a U-turn back to Dublin. Our hands touch, and there’s a moment I can’t explain. It feels like more than just our flesh links us. I tell myself it’s nothing, that I’m the only one feeling it, but then I slip my hand back between my thighs and we both shudder in unison, like someone unplugged us from an electric outlet.

To burn under your fingertips, I think, is to come alive.

During the drive, I realize what Father Doherty was talking about. I’m a gray squirrel‚ an unwanted pest who steals from the locals. The cunning, street-smart, diseased, rat-like thing. But villains are just misunderstood heroes. I learned that the day I realized my mother’s archnemesis—Glen—was the protagonist I wanted to meet the most.

I sit back and let Mal reach over, grab my hand, and lace his fingers through mine over the gearshift.

Life is too short not to kiss the one you want.

Midway into Dublin, I remember something. “Mal?”

“Princess?” he answers naturally, like we’re well-versed in conversations with each other.

“You said something was ironic, but never got to tell me what it was.”

“Did I?” He feigns innocence.

“Tell me.”

“Even if it’s no longer true?”

“Especially so.”

“Well, my name, Malachy, means angel, but Kath used to tell me I was the devil when we were teenagers, that I’d be the very thing to kill her one day. She was eighty-percent joking, I’m sure. I was always up to one shenanigan or the other. Climbing trees, lighting homemade torches, attempting to ride the cattle…”

There’s a twitch in his mouth that tells me he’s trying to school his face, that he’s tasting a calamity that’s yet to happen.

“But twenty percent of it, I felt she truly believed. Which is why I’ve always kept my distance from her. A subconscious part of me has always been worried I’ll hurt her.”

I squeeze his bicep. “It is ironic that the angel is someone’s devil.”

“The second part of my name—Doherty—means unlucky. Yet, Mam claims the luck of the Irish is with me.”

“So why is this part not ironic anymore?” I ask.

“Because I don’t feel so unlucky right now.” He moves his eyes from the road, his gaze finding mine.

My throat closes on a declaration. I like you, Malachy Doherty. More than I should. Definitely more than my half-sister allows me to.

I turn toward the window, clearing my throat. “Do you like her? Is that why you’re afraid of hurting her?”

“Sure. I like her fine.”

“You’re playing with her feelings.”

“She enjoys it.”

“She enjoys having her heart broken?” I blink, incredulous.

I’m concerned about what it says about him that he’s using Kathleen as blood sport. No matter what I feel about my half-sister, she doesn’t deserve it.

He stares back at the road, rolling his bottom lip with his teeth. “Between being ignored and being toyed with, Kathleen would prefer the latter, which is why she’s at my door twice a week. Look, I tried telling her it isn’t going to happen. She cried. She broke things. She even slept outside my door one winter night. This is what she wants. A sliver of hope to hold on to. I think Kath is a grand lass, but I don’t fear her capabilities over me. Isn’t that the essence of love? Find someone worth killing for? Someone with the power to ruin you?”

Silence stretches between us. I always thought of love as something sweet, fun—not melancholic, dark, and all-consuming. Then again, I’ve never imagined I’d fall in love.

“You, on the other hand…” He taps the steering wheel. “You can slay me any day of the week.”

“So, you can kill Kathleen, and I can kill you?” I ask, watching the landscape zip by. “That’s a morbid way to look at things.”

The fields sprawl like bed sheets under the darkening sky. Tomorrow I’ll see them in full daylight, and then I’ll never see them again. I have nothing to look for here. Ireland turned out to be a sweet, unfulfilled promise.

“Life’s morbid. Spoiler alert—we all die at the end.” Malachy shrugs.

“Well, I’m a pacifist, so don’t worry about me. I’ll never kill you.” I turn back to face him.

He smiles a sad smile I haven’t seen on him before, takes my hand, and kisses my knuckles, his eyes still on the road. The energy I felt earlier when our hands touched returns, and I can’t put a name to it, but it’s electric. Tangible. It even has a taste.

“You already have.”

Mal carries my suitcase to his car, then proceeds to spend the next hour arguing with the hotel’s receptionist, trying to get them to let me go without paying for the night I’ve booked. The receptionist looks to be in her mid-fifties, baggy-eyed, with no patience to spare. They each ping-pong the merits of their argument. I take Mal’s hand and tug, pleading for him to drop it. I’ll pay. I don’t care about the money. (Actually, I do, but I care more about not wasting the few hours I still have in Ireland watching them argue over my bill.)

Mal shakes me off and continues bickering with the woman. He tells her to climb inside my skin and walk in it, referencing—I shit you not—To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to simultaneously hide under a rock and kiss him silly.

“This girl right here came all the way from New Jersey to mourn the father she never met.” He points at me. “Her hostel reservations got cocked up, and she checked in here only to have somewhere to put her suitcase.”

“Sir, I understand, but we have policies in place…” she argues.

Mal lets out an exasperated sigh and takes his wallet out of his back pocket. He throws a stack of bills onto the counter.

“You win. I hope this makes you very happy and pays for your boss’ Ibiza villa and three illegitimate children with his secretary.”

The woman looks down at the notes scattered between them. “Actually, sir, it’s three hundred euros per night.”

“Holy F…forks.” He sucks in a breath, throwing more notes at her, plus a few gum wrappers, a handful of coins, and what looks like a fortune from a cookie. He turns around and grabs my hand.

We gallop out to the chilly street. My heart is pounding in my chest.

“You didn’t have to do that. I’ll pay you back.”

“Like hell you will, darlin’.”

He turns to me, and to my amazement, he is all smiles. In fact, he looks like nothing happened. Totally over it.

“Aren’t you mad?” I blink.

“What about?”

“Uh…spending all the money you’ve earned this week for a room we won’t be using, for one thing.”

He waves me off, laughing now. “That was a minute ago. It’s time to move on. Don’t let the little things in life bother you, yeah?”

Crazy as it sounds, I get what he means. Life is too short to get caught up in the small things.

We get into his car and drive back to the village. When we pass Kathleen’s house on the way to his farm, I can’t help but sneak a peek at her window. She’s not there.

We get to his Tudor-style cottage, which is white with black logs running across it, a dark roof, and a heavy oak door that’s thoroughly chipped. It looks small, but in a charming, quaint way, at least in the dark. We fight bushes and overgrown grass that lash at our ankles as we make our way to the door.

“Mam’s in Kilkenny visiting my big brother, Desmond, so it’s just you and me,” he says.

“That’s cool that you have an older brother.” I watch the back of his head as he pushes the old door with his shoulder, applying force. It whines open, and we pour into his living room. Wide-plank floors, wrought-iron lighting, and salvaged wood everywhere tell me I’m no longer in America. Save for the tattered orange-yellow couch and flat TV, this place could pass as a Regency household.

“Six,” he says, dumping his keys into a vase by the door before turning around and pulling me into his arms.

I melt in his hands. “You have six brothers?” I burrow into his heat, torn between astonished and jealous.

He shrugs. “Six siblings. Five brothers and one sister. Catholic family, you see. Dez is the oldest. I’ve also got five nieces and four nephews. Don’t get me started about the pets.”

I clear my throat. “And your dad?”

“Kicked the bucket young. Heart attack at forty. I was a wee boy when he died. Joke’s on him because I don’t remember him enough to miss him.”

“I’m sorry,” I say anyway.

He takes my hand and leads me to the narrow, old kitchen with a yellow, decaying breakfast nook. He pushes another door open, and we spill into his backyard, which I can see is huge, even in the dark. There are a few divided paddocks where they must keep the cattle.

I can’t imagine Mal as a farmer. Clearly, he can’t imagine himself one, either, because he prefers to perform on the street for a living. He leads me to a patch of grass and tells me to stall the ball. He disappears into his house and comes back with blankets, a bottle of whiskey, and an orange pack of something called Hobnobs. We lie on the grass next to each other, staring at the stars as they fade into the clouds.

“Do you believe in God?” I munch on a chocolate-covered cookie. It’s so much easier to ask weird questions when darkness engulfs you. I can see a glorious Mal-smile cracking in my periphery.

“When it suits me.”

“When does it suit you?”

“When I need to have a word with Him or when Ireland needs a prayer during the World Cup games. My turn to ask a question.”

I already roll my eyes, psychic that I am.

“Why don’t you like your scar?”

Birthmark, I itch to correct. “How do you know I don’t like it?”

“You didn’t want to talk about it,” he says.

I sigh. “There’s nothing to like about it. It’s ugly. It stands out.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing about you. It makes you more than a generically beautiful face,” he says.

I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it. “My turn. Do you sometimes feel like we’re all just burning alone?”

“All the time,” he croaks. “Less so when I’m with you, though. My turn—have you ever climaxed with a guy?”

I choke on crumbs from my cookie, twisting my head to him with a frown. He still stares at the stars, completely serene.

“What the hell, Mal?”

“I’m sorry, is that more intimate than asking if I believe in God? ‘Sides, you’re never going to see me again, remember? Who will I tell? My arsehole sheep?”

He’s right. Our little world has an expiration date.

“No. I mean, I’m not a virgin. I just…anyway, no. I think I’m too inside my head when I’m intimate with a dude. My turn,” I say quickly.

I hate that he’s smiling. I hate that his smile makes every inch of my flesh tingle. But most of all, I hate that he illuminates all my senses, like a drug, and soon, I’ll have to quit him.

“Do you really hate money?” I ask.

“Loathe it,” he confirms. “I’ll never make large sums of it. Knowingly, anyway.”

“So, Kathleen was right? You can sell your songs and don’t?”

He tilts his head toward me, cupping my cheek. Fire licks at the inside of my belly. “Not needing money makes you rich in another way, Rory. A better way. The less you depend on it, the less it limits you. My turn—do you think you’ll marry a rich, boiled-balled man when you’re older?”

“Boiled-balled?” I laugh.

He takes a swig from the whiskey, but still stares at me, dead serious. “Yeah. Rich men like taking flying classes. It boils their balls, and then they blame their wives for not being able to conceive when actually their sperm count is in the shitter. I’ve read about it at the dentist’s while I was waiting to get my teeth cleaned.”

“Thanks for the anecdote.” I try to stifle a giggle. “No, I’ve no plans to marry a rich guy. Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to, and you have that something that drives men crazy.”

“What’s that?” I eyeball him.

He shrugs, taking my hand in his and kissing my open palm. “You’re cool.”

“Have you ever been in love?” I lick my lips.

“Ask me that question tomorrow before you go. My turn. Ever had an orgasm from a kiss?”

“Excuse me?” My eyebrows shoot up to my forehead.

His face cracks with a mischievous grin that lights up the entire backyard. It shines right into me, keeping me warm. “You heard me.”

“No,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him. Is he for real? I just told him I hadn’t orgasmed with a guy.

Mal leans down and thumbs my cheek, the rest of his fingers curling around the back of my neck. He feathers his lips against mine. I let him, my eyes still open, guarded and waiting. He darts his tongue out and licks the tip of my nose unexpectedly.

I snort out a laugh, letting my guard down. “That’s not gonna do anythi—”

Mal slams his mouth against mine, and before I know what’s happening, he’s on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head in the damp, cold grass. I groan into his mouth as I feel his body cover mine completely in all the places that matter, because he is hard and hot everywhere, the opposite of my cold, soft self. It’s like we aren’t even made out of the same material.

His tongue finds mine, and somehow—somehow—they dance together sensually and in perfect unison, like we’ve practiced it before. He is an excellent kisser, pulling me into a swirl of passion that makes me blind with need. I feel my panties becoming damp and sticking to my body. This kiss, this kiss is everywhere, down to my curled toes, and just when I’m starting to believe in his orgasm-from-a-kiss silent promise, he lets go of my wrists and pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You didn’t make me come,” I rasp through swollen, numb lips. It’s more of an accusation than a taunt. Almost a whine.

“Are we going to sleep together tonight, Rory?” he asks seriously, looking away.

“It…it’s not your turn to ask a question,” I stutter.

He is the most direct person I’ve ever met, and I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll owe you one. Now answer.”

This time, he turns to look at me, and our eyes meet in the dark. The grass is crisp and dewy, even under the blanket. It’s chilly, but for once, that’s not the reason goosebumps blossom all over my skin. My breath catches in my throat. Jesus.

“I want to,” I confess.

The muscles of his neck move when he swallows.

“But we shouldn’t, should we?” I whisper. “Not when we already like each other so much.”

“I don’t know,” he rasps. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what you feel like.”

His hand drags down to my neck, wrapping around it, and he leans forward, kissing me so softly, I shudder from the delicacy of his touch. His tongue slides into my mouth, and he rolls on top of me, his hands caressing every inch of my body—my arms, my shoulders, my waist, my stomach…my breasts. He bunches my jacket and hoodie up and flicks a puckered nipple through my shirt. I’m wearing a sports bra, but the chill and the moment make everything in my body impossibly tense and erect and needy.

We groan at the same time, so he flicks it again. Then he moves back up to kiss me, and we smile into each other’s mouths. I don’t know how it happens, but all my upper layers—jacket, hoodie, top—find themselves thrown beside us. He unclasps my bra with one hand, while shoving the other into my corduroys.

“Anyone ever touched you there?” he asks, brushing his middle finger along my slit. I jolt in pleasure, clenching everywhere.

“Yeah.” My mouth waters.

“And like this?” He dips his finger into me, and we can hear how wet I am. I turn maroon between his arms.

“Hmm-mm. My ex-boyfriend, Taylor.”

“Did Taylor do this, too?” He drags his wet finger to my clit, massaging it in slow circles.

I throw my head back, closing my eyes. It’s not that Taylor didn’t know where to touch me. I’ve just always felt too removed from the moment to fully enjoy it. Like I was putting on a sexy act. This? I feel this. Everywhere. I’m delirious, hot and wet underneath him. Mal takes my left nipple into his mouth and sucks. Stars explode behind my eyelids like fireworks. Everything tightens with delight. I like that he thinks about me first. I like that he is still fully clothed. I like that he knows exactly what he’s doing—even if that means he’s practiced on other girls. On many girls, no doubt.

“God,” I moan.

“Partial about him, remember?” Mal jokes, kissing his way up from my breasts to my shoulders and neck, biting and teasing me as I begin to buck my hips forward and ride his hand that’s shoved inside my pants. He rubs my clit back and forth faster, and I prepare to explode. He dips two fingers into me and lets out a groan. Then, when my climax hits me from my toes to the top of my head, he reaches into my bag with one hand, takes the camera out, and snaps a picture of my face as I come.

He captures me in such a vulnerable moment, I want to scream at him, but when he dumps the camera on the quilt next to us and looks down, I let it go. He doesn’t look smug or happy or offhanded about it. He looks…tortured.

“Rory.”

“Hmm?”

“I made you come.”

I blink, looking down at my wrinkled corduroys pushed halfway down my thighs.

“And you’re going to make me come now,” he says. “Hopefully after I put my dick inside you. Feck, I can’t stop staring at you. You’re beautiful.”

He unbuckles his belt, lowers his pants, flips his wallet open, and begins sheathing himself with a condom. I kick my corduroys down, refusing to dwell on the fact that he has condoms ready at any given moment.

I don’t get a good look at his penis, purposefully avoiding eye-to-dick contact. Penises freak me out. Especially uncircumcised ones. They look like sweater sleeves curled inwards after a wild ride in the washing machine.

When he’s all wrapped up, he looks down at me, his arms braced on either side of my head.

I blush, covering my face. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“With a grin that says you pissed in the Jacuzzi everyone’s chilling in and got away with it. You gave me an orgasm; you didn’t discover the cure for cancer.”

“Night’s still young,” he jokes, dropping a kiss at the crown of my head. “Ready?” he asks, angling himself between my legs.

God, yes. I nod.

He thrusts into me, our eyes lock, and when he starts to move inside me, almost shyly—and definitely not as smoothly and skillfully as I’d imagined—we find out Taylor didn’t really do a stellar job taking my virginity after all.

I squirm. Mal gasps. He kisses me with so much passion, I can feel his kiss twisting my stomach in delicious, messy knots.

Without warning, he presses a hand to my left breast, frowning and looking skyward, still inside me.

“What…?” I trail off before realizing what he’s doing.

I told him I’d sleep with him tonight over my dead body. I can’t help but giggle underneath him.

“Still breathing,” he confirms, diving down for another ravenous kiss. “And oh, how alive you are against my fingertips.”

“It hurts,” I moan into his open, welcoming mouth, clinging to his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Princess Aurora,” he growls, hot and velvety and alive against my skin. “I’ll make sure to rock your castle if it’s the last thing I do.”

2:00 am

I stir awake in Mal’s bed. The room is so dark—no light from lampposts or passing cars or electronic devices—there’s no difference between opening my eyes and closing them. I feel his hot, wet tongue between my thighs, lashing hungrily as it swirls deeper between my legs.

“What are you doing?” I moan.

“Tasting you.” He dips his tongue into my folds, and I squirm with pleasure. “Christ on a cracker, Rory. You taste like heaven.”

“Mal, what are you…”

But then his tongue brushes my clit, and his lips clamp down on it, sucking. I squeeze my thighs against his face and grab his hair, arching against the pillow and moaning as I press his head into me.

“You’ll wake England, darlin’.” He dips a finger into me, flicking my nub with his tongue at the same time.

“What do you care? You have a beef with them.”

He laughs as he French kisses my clit, his fingers curling to find my G-spot as my toes coil deliciously.

I come again, his name on my lips.

3:00 am

“It’s more about enthusiasm than technique,” Mal explains, his penis staring back at me.

It’s thicker and longer than Taylor’s. Angry-looking and purplish. I finally found something about him that’s less than perfect, even though it does feel good inside me.

“Just give it your best go. Honestly, I’ll probably come after twenty seconds, anyway. You’re a ride, Rory.”

I wrap my lips around his shaft, then realize he was right when he pushes me back not fifteen seconds later, coming on my chest. We fall from the bed to the floor, limbs tangled, laughing hysterically.

“Rory!” he thunders. “I pre-ejaculated. Now I must kill you to keep my secret safe.”

“Relax. I’m not going to tell on you.” I roll on the floor, mid-yawn, hitting the door. I can still taste his salty flesh. My mouth feels full of him. “Besides, we’ll have an ocean separating us, remember? Who will I tell? My pet fish?”

“You have fish?” He looks startled, like it hurts that he doesn’t know everything about me.

“I’ll get some to make you feel good about yourself.”

“Just admit that I can kill you, too,” he says from across the room now, both of us lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“Why?”

“Because you’re stealing my breath, so you’re already halfway there with the killing part.”

I shake my head, zipping my mouth with my fingers.

He grabs a guitar pick from the floor and throws it at me. “I’ll let you hold on to your heart for a little longer. Just don’t get attached.”

I laugh, but then he stops and looks at me, and I swear there’s regret etched on his face.

“Forgive me?” he asks.

“For what?” I scrunch my nose.

He looks away, swallowing. “Good question. For not giving you what you came here for, I suppose.”

4:00 am

“Sometimes you make music. Sometimes the music makes you,” Mal explains. We sit on his bed, sharing a pack of something he calls candy rolls, drinking milk from the carton. “And when it makes you, it changes you, and when it changes you, you never know how you’re going to come out of it.”

“Same with photography.” I nod. “I feel like a director, showing you what I want you to see. I can make the field behind your house gorgeous or creepy, sad or happy. It’s all in the angles, and filters, and composition.”

“I don’t want to sing. Attention doesn’t get my dick hard.”

“I know.” I smile. “That’s why I hide behind a camera, too. It doesn’t…make me wet, I suppose, either.” I blush.

“So you understand.” He smiles, relieved. “I won’t sell my songs. They’re mine.”

“Do what makes you happy. The world will understand. If it doesn’t, it’s the world’s problem, not yours.”

Silence.

“Marry me, Rory.” He turns to me. “Let’s just stay here and feck and make music and take pictures.”

I laugh and pop another candy into my mouth. But he seems serious, waiting for an answer.

“Mal…” I say.

Jesus. He’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“I have school. I’m going to college in a few weeks.”

“We have colleges here.”

“I’ve already enrolled. Paid. I have a dorm room. My best friend, Summer, is coming with me.”

“I have some savings,” he insists. “I’m good at what I do. I can provide for us.”

“You’re insane.”

“I never claimed not to be.” He scowls, and by the edge in his voice, I can tell he’s finding it hard to keep himself calm. Then he shakes his head, smiles, rolls on top of me, and covers my face with hot, wet kisses.

He taps the nightstand, trying to find another condom. There aren’t any. We ran out. He lifts his face from mine, wordlessly asking for permission. I can feel the weight of this decision pressing against every bone in my body. Especially considering how I came into this world. This is where I become my mother. Where I let my need and lust override my logic.

I give him a little nod. “Pull out, please. It’d be hard to take care of a baby during finals.”

“Feck you, Rory.”

“Please do, Mal.”

In the morning, I insist on treating him to breakfast before we head to the airport. He paid for my hotel and my meals since I got here. It’s the least I can do.

We end up at The Boar’s Head, which is apparently the only place locals eat. Tourists from all over the world come to Tolka for the small town, Irish experience, to work the land and tour the local brewery. I’ve learned this place is also known for its butter. The pub is jam-packed when we walk in, but a beautiful, blonde bartender finds us a table when she spots Mal.

“Missed you, rascal.” She winks at him.

It’s pretty easy to see they share a history.

Mal flicks the back of her ear. “Been a minute.”

“Call me this weekend?”

“Depends on a certain bell,” he says. Bell means a ring, a booty call, a one-night stand. But Belle is my name, too. Not that he knows that.

My whole body is sore from having sex with Mal five times last night, not to mention the extracurricular activities we did in addition. We don’t discuss the one time without the condom, because he did pull out. I tell myself nothing bad will happen, but just to make sure, I’ll buy a morning-after pill at the airport’s Boots pharmacy.

After placing our order at the bar, I wince as I sit down. Mal grabs my hand and presses it against his lips.

“Let’s try this again in broad daylight.” He clears his throat. “Stay.”

I tear open a pack of chips and throw one into my mouth, chewing to buy some time.

“As I said, I’m starting college in two weeks.”

“Feck college.”

“What about my mom?”

“Don’t feck her. That’s the kind of kinky I’m not quite into. But you hate her, Rory. Besides, we’ll send her hairspray every month. And plane tickets every Christmas. Easter, too, if you insist.” He reaches for his Guinness—yes, in the morning—taking a generous sip. “Stay, Rory. It’s kismet. Tell me you didn’t notice the rain stopped when we kissed yesterday.”

I open my mouth to say it means nothing, but then the power goes out. It’s daylight, but it still freaks me out when the hanging TVs go dead, the Lord of the Dance music stops, and the humming of industrial fridges ceases.

The silence stretches between us. Everyone seems to have gone quiet. I’m not sure, but I think some people are staring at us. They must’ve heard the last part of the conversation when the music died, and are waiting for my answer.

Do they know Mal proposed?I swallow, staring at my hands on the table.

“Rory?” he asks.

“I don’t believe in kismet,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes trained on the open bag of chips. “You’re twenty-two, and I’m eighteen. We both know it won’t last.”

Am I working against my own fate?

The electricity comes back on. This serendipity crap is borderline paranormal. Annoyed, I take comfort in the fact that the football playing on the TVs and the music will drown our conversation, and the rest of the locals go back to their chitchat.

Mal says nothing. His face falls, like he just realized I’m right. I pinch the hoop in my nose and slide it back and forth.

“Hey, what about doing a long-distance thing? I’m planning on getting a job while I study, so I can probably visit you next summer. Maybe even Christmas, depending on the ticket prices.”

As I say this, I try to convince myself it really can work. I’ll only need to pay for the tickets. Mal has a car and a house.

But he shakes his head, sitting back and balancing his chair on its two back legs. “I’m an all-or-nothing type of lad, Rory. There’s no way in hell I can manage long distance.”

His answer angers me a little. So he wants me, but only on his conditions? That’s shitty. If someone isn’t willing to wait for you, they don’t really deserve you.

I can’t tell him to uproot himself and come to the States, to leave six siblings, his nephews and nieces, a mother, an elderly adoptive grandfather, and a mourning childhood friend who is pining for him and probably wants to wear my skin.

And after the offhand way he treated me when I brought up long distance, I won’t even try.

“We could stay friends on Facebook or MySpace—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“And watch as you move on with other guys? Nah, thank you. I try to keep my self-hatred below suicidal level. And we both know watching each other fecking other people would be dazzlingly stupid.”

I give him a hard stare, folding my arms. “Fine. Then we go cold turkey.”

“I can’t go cold turkey,” he says.

God, he is difficult. “You leave no room for much else,” I grit out.

“False,” he retorts.

“What do you suggest?”

“A contract.” He lets his chair slam on the floor as he leans forward. “You Yanks love legally binding shite, yeah?” He reaches for my bag next to me, flipping it open. He takes out my camera and a pen, sprinkles the utensils out of a folded napkin, and straightens it on the table.

“It’s not the right time to be together, I agree. But if we meet again, under any circumstances, any time in the future, we’re making this work, Rory. Feck spouses. Feck boyfriends and girlfriends. Feck the world. If kismet happens, we are letting it happen, no matter what, you hear?”

I stare at him like he just fell from the sky. What is he smoking and how do we make sure it never falls into the hands of our youth?

“The chances of us meeting again are less than zero.”

“Bzzz. Wrong again. They are slightly more than zero. I would put it at zero point fifteen percent,” he says cheerfully.

I don’t know how he can be so nonchalant about it, but I guess I can’t complain. He proposed to me, and I’m almost sure he was serious. I turned him down. Publicly, too.

“What if one of us seeks the other person out?” I ask.

“That’s cheating.” Mal shakes his head. “It needs to happen organically. We can’t look for each other.”

“But what if someone does?” I have a feeling this someone is going to be me.

“Then the contract is terminated, and you don’t have to marry me.”

“I have to marry you if we meet again?” My eyes flare, but I’m smiling.

He shrugs. “High stakes make good stories, Princess Aurora of New Jersey.”

“So much for me having the power to kill you. You won’t even give me your phone number,” I mumble, sipping my Diet Coke.

“I’m not giving you my number because I don’t want this to kill me,” he grinds out, his eyes darkening.

I’m trying not to hate him right now, because I know everything he says is right and true. We can’t be together, and keeping in touch would leave both of us craving more. Mal jots the terms of the contract on the napkin. Then he signs it and slides it toward me.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I read it first.

In the unlikely event.

He knows it. I know it. Still, you can’t make someone be with you. You can’t force them to commit to something doomed. I have no plans of moving to Ireland after I graduate, and Mal’s entire life is here.

I amend my name to Aurora Belle Jenkins, so he’ll know it—I already want him to cheat—and sign. I consider only briefly the fact that I never told him my middle name, and he’s referred to it. He takes a picture of the napkin and passes me my camera. “Your copy of the agreement, for safekeeping.”

Mal tucks the napkin into his back pocket and takes a sip of his Guinness.

“I mean it.” He shrugs. “I’m getting this notarized and apostilled.”

“I know.” I throw another chip into my mouth, trying to act nonchalant.

“Let’s just hope I don’t die from heartbreak first.” He downs the rest of his Guinness.

I think about Kathleen’s open arms and the herd of girls who follow him everywhere.

“Oh, I think you’ll survive.”

A NOTE FROM THE NAPKIN

Look, I don’t have high hopes for this spur-of-the-moment contract. You think it’s my first rodeo? I’m recycled, bitch. I’ve been around the block—long enough to know how this works. They will keep their promise for a few weeks. Maybe a month, if they’re really into each other. Then I’ll start to wrinkle, stink, and fall apart, or his mother will find me and throw me away, muttering profanity at her untidy son, who, of course, by that time will be balls deep in someone else and not actually present.

I’m just the victim of their knee-jerk decision. I should have died gracefully, in a recycling bin, tucked comfortably among other napkins, plastic bottles, and stray leftovers the workers here are too lazy to scrape off to the other bin.

Also, and not on a completely unrelated note, I have a ketchup stain the size of a pea on the word casualties, and it itches like hell.

This has mess written all over it.

When we reach Dublin Airport, I fling my backpack over one shoulder, grab my suitcase from Mal’s trunk, and insist he doesn’t come in with me. He double parks, rounding the car on a jog.

“I hate airport scenes in movies. They’re morbidly tacky. We’re better than that, Mal.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, chuckling at my feet.

Truth is, I’m already crushed, and if we share any more intimate moments, I might spend the entire trip home crying, which would be beyond embarrassing.

He rubs his thumb over my lower lip, smiling. “Safe travels.”

“Thanks.” But I’m still standing here like an idiot. Waiting for…what, exactly?

I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you.

I remember something important. I unzip my suitcase, rummaging for my Polaroid camera. When I find it, I jump up and take a picture of us together. I hand it to him.

“It’s not fair that I’ll have all these pictures of us, and you’ll have nothing.”

“I won’t have nothing,” he amends, smiling. “I’ll have the memory.”

“And our contract.” I squeeze his shoulder, but I can already feel our bodies growing apart. Like we’re strangers again. “You’ll have that, too.”

He rolls his eyes. “Let’s hope I don’t wank on it to death the first week you’re gone.”

I laugh and glance at the napkin in question, relieved that it’s an inanimate object, but it’s a mirthless kind of laugh.

He takes my face in his hands and kisses me so deeply I lose balance. His heart is beating so fast and hard, it sounds like it could tear his chest open. Maybe, I think desperately, it should. I want to snatch it and take it with me—somewhere Kathleen won’t be able to get to it.

We disconnect slowly, like we’re glued together.

“Don’t be with Kathleen.” I look up at his face, whispering, “She doesn’t kill you.”

That Bukowski quote pops into my head: “Find what you love and let it kill you.” I think I just did.

“I won’t. Don’t be with a stupid, shiny guy with boiled balls. You were born for greatness, Princess.”

“I won’t.” I smile.

He lifts my chin with his finger so our eyes lock and says, “Ask me again.”

I don’t need clarification on this. I know. I know because I feel it, too, and it cracks my resolve. I press my palm against his chest, monitoring his heartbeat.

“Have you ever been in love?” I can’t swallow the emotions lodging in my throat.

He grins down at me. “Goodbye, Rory.”

My eyes flare, but I grin. “Bastard!”

“What?” He laughs.

I laugh, too. This time it’s a real laugh. We both needed this, I realize. An icebreaker.

“Why did you tell me to ask you this if the answer is no?”

“I didn’t say the answer is no.” He runs his hands along my arms. “But if I admitted it to you, I’d admit it to myself. Then I’d have to look for you, and that’d be a breach of contract. You have to understand, Rory, next time I see you, I’ll have you. I won’t care if you have a boyfriend, or a husband, or a harem of men vying for your love. If you have children, I’ll raise them as mine. So, I guess an apology is in order.”

“For what?” I blink.

He turns to leave. I’m not ready to say goodbye, but I know I never will be.

“For no doubt disrupting your life and tearing it apart next time I meet you. All’s fair in love and war, yeah?”

But he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He gets into his car and drives off, leaving me standing there, with his pulse still beating in my palm.