In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen

Present

Mal

Out on the balcony, Aurora stares at me like I took a shite in her soup.

To be fair, after everything that’s gone down in the last eight years, I would have, if the opportunity had presented itself. As it happens, it didn’t. So who knows exactly why she’s filled with such surprise and terror.

Nevertheless, the years we’ve spent apart have treated her well, unlike the way they’ve treated me. She still has funky hair that would look lovely wrapped around my fist, a nose hoop I’m sure she still messes with all the time, legs for miles clad in torn fishnet stockings, and the wardrobe of a fifteen year old crushing hard on Yungblud and 5 Seconds of Summer. She has a Marilyn Monroe-like beauty mark above her upper lip, that prominent, crescent scar I bet she still doesn’t know the story of, and lashes so thick, they shadow her cheeks when she looks down.

Positively lovely. The same way many women are.

Many women I haven’t thrown my life away for.

The idea that I’ve been sick with guilt over everything I hadn’t told her, everything I couldn’t say—promised not to tell her—makes me want to laugh now.

Yes, I kept things from Aurora.

But she went the extra mile and ripped things from me.

Ask me what drew me to her in the first place that fateful day on Drury Street, and I still won’t be able to pinpoint it. She’s a fine thing, but too in love with the idea of herself, like all pseudo-artistic pretty girls who can operate a camera and their mouths around a rich guy’s cock.

I cut myself some slack. Ages sixteen to twenty-two had been a blur of getting sloshed and treating myself to periodic blackouts. A girl like Aurora had slipped easily into my hopelessly optimistic heart.

Age thirty, however, brings with it a heart that’s frosted like a winter garden. Also, I stopped taking destructive lasses into my bed and promising them forever a while ago.

Lesson learned, and Rory was an excellent teacher.

Yeah, Aurora Belle Jenkins hasn’t changed.

Me, on the other hand? A completely different fella.

She turns to face me, going for an awkward, hesitant hug. I swivel, also, but with my hands clasped behind my back. When she sees a warm greeting is not in the cards for us, I reach out and use my thumb to lift her jaw, closing her slacked mouth.

“You’re here,” she murmurs.

“Aurora, always observant and quick-witted.” I throw her an impatient smile. My coat is over her shoulders, because I remember she is always cold. What I never got the chance to tell her is that I’m always so unbearably hot.

We really were quite good together. At least for twenty-four hours.

She takes a step back, looking wary, wide-eyed—a frightened animal who just heard the deadly click of a trigger. She shouldn’t be. I would never hurt her. Physically, anyway. Wasn’t I the only muppet to give her the time of the day when she was in Ireland? Yes, yes, I was.

There’s an elephant in the room, and if she thinks I’ll take mercy on her by addressing it, she’s about to discover New Mal is nothing like the one she left behind.

“Why…how…what are you doing here?” She blinks.

Seeing her like this, confused and disoriented, is not giving me the instant gratification I’d imagined getting all those years, in case we ever met again. And knowing Aurora, it’s not going to last long. She’ll find her footing soon.

I had the luxury of spotting her as soon as I walked through the doors this evening. I needn’t a single glance to recognize her. She is, after all, tattooed in my mind, permanent and painful.

“Work,” I say. “You?”

“Same.” She clears her throat, straightening her back, gaining her composure. “You’re a singer now? That’s great, Mal.”

“I write songs,” I correct, taking a sip of my whiskey. I can tell she’s shocked and hurt by the fact that I’m not hurling myself at her with love declarations. That makes both of us, if you ask twenty-two-year-old Mal.

“You?” I jut my chin in her direction.

“Photographer for Blue Hill Records.” She smiles, trying to break the ice. “Gosh, Mal. I never thought I’d see you again. But I see we’re still as predictable as the places we come from.”

“Speak for yourself.” I run my eyes down her body, making a point not to stop anywhere of previous interest. “You might be predictable. I have a few new tricks up my sleeve.”

Her smile falls. She opens her mouth to say something. Argue, probably—Aurora’s always been feisty, and I doubt that’s changed—when the balcony doors open and Jeff Ryner stumbles out.

Jeff Ryner is what happens when every cliché in the fecking book meets a man with zero personality, deep pockets, and an impressive heritage. It’s like he was Frankensteined in the basements of some low-budget Hollywood studio. The washed-up, coked-up, slimy, record Suit.

He inherited Blue Hill, a small record label, from his father some years ago and has felt inclined to ruin it. His recent conquests include signing Ashton Richards, a solo artist who is about as talented as a half-empty bottle of lube. Richards looks like an unfortunate cross between a male model, a hobo, and a One Direction dropout. He can carry a note like I can carry a fecking pyramid on my back. Saddled with the vocal range of a battered whale, he relies on auto-tune and his baby blue eyes.

Which brings me to Jeff Ryner’s second conquest—yours truly. I’m supposed to write songs for Richards’ next album, for the modest sum of one million euros. I say modest, because there’s no price for my dignity. Yet, here I am, stripping myself of poise for the greater good. Another thing she is responsible for.

Thanks for that, Aurora.

“Jenkins! I see you’ve met the man of the hour.” Ryner slow-claps as he zigzags his way to us, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looks like Humpty Dumpty in a Technicolor suit, his sweaty upper lip glistening like garbage juice. “This is Malachy Doherty. Mal, this is Rory, our junior photographer. Mal, Rory shot the cover for Fiona in Wonderland’s new album.” He waves in her direction.

That cover was brilliant. The pop princess wore a gas mask and a full-blown wedding dress, standing in an open field.

I wonder briefly if it was Aurora’s concept before deciding I don’t care. So, the traitorous lass turned out to be decent at what she does. Call the fecking press.

“Rory, Mal is one of the biggest poets of our time. He’s sold some of the best songs on the billboard, including ‘Finding you, Losing Me’, ‘On Drury Street’, ‘Underneath the Stars’, and ‘Princess from New Jersey’.”

If she connects the painfully obvious dots together, she doesn’t let it show, and for that, I’m grateful. Dumb or heartless? My bet is on the latter, based on what I know about her.

“Pleasure,” she clips sarcastically, her eyes boring into my skull, trying to make a dent.

She adapts well to the shifting atmosphere. I can tell no part of her is glad to see me again. That’s all right. I don’t want her to be a willing participant in the game. I just want her to partake in it. It will make everything so much messier, and messy is fun.

“I called you here because I have a good opportunity for you, Rory. Jake, our senior photographer, is with Cold Blaze on their last leg. Once he’s done, he’s going to stick around in New York for a while—his girlfriend’s having a baby. So we need a photographer for this next project.”

“I’m your person.” Aurora turns to him, nodding.

I pinch my lips, refusing to let my satisfied smirk loose. Ryner saunters over to stand between us, then turns around and leans on the edge of the balcony, looking back and forth at us.

“It’s a big one, Jenkins.”

She nods, her attention on him now.

She is still deadly beautiful. That’s the thing that bothers me most. But it shouldn’t. That just means it won’t be a terrible inconvenience to shag her, which I fully plan on, before discarding her back to her motherland, this time with no affection and zero promises.

“Deets, Ryner. Give them to me.” Aurora starts playing with the hoop in her nose.

You silly, predictable girl.

“Two months in a village just outside Dublin. Tokyo, is it?” He throws me a puzzled look.

“Tolka.” I shove my balled fists into my pockets.

“I was close.” He laughs.

Sure. You only got the city, country, and continent wrong, arsehole.

“Doherty will be writing the songs, and Richards will be recording them in his home studio—the acoustic version, anyway. Kinda like an artistic workshop, old-school style. Then Richards will come back to New York in March and record it from scratch.”

What Ryner means is the singer will come back and have professionals distort his voice to sound like something that doesn’t break glass, concrete, and people’s spirits. I watch Aurora’s face transform from annoyed to terrified in a span of seconds. Her lips are still pursed.

“That means two months in Ireland, Jenkins, all costs taken care of. You’re welcome.” He winks.

“Wait.” Aurora holds up a hand. “Why do I need to stay in Ireland? I can just take pictures for a week or so and then get out of their hair.”

Ryner shakes his head. “It’s for a documentary of sorts. We need hours of material. Hundreds of pictures. Our marketing campaign is huge. We’re bleeding money out of our asses after a butchered colonoscopy exam. We need as much material as possible.”

“You can’t expect me to live in Ireland for the next couple months,” Aurora says through a tight smile.

I know what she did to make me hate her, but I wonder what I did to warrant such sour behavior. Other than being a cunt just now.

Come to think of it, that’s probably all it took.

Then, of course, there’s the matter of the boyfriend.

The rich, shiny boyfriend she said she’d never date, yet I saw her in the ballroom, clinging to his Brioni-clad arm like bad breath on a fecking alcoholic.

What disappointments we are to each other, Princess.

“I can fly in and out of Ireland,” she suggests, munching on her lower lip. “It’s no trouble, and I bet you’ll need me here, too.”

Ryner shakes his head, his patience dissipating, just like mine. “Richards’ schedule is all over the place now that he’s dating that new second-cousin-to-the-royals chick in London. I don’t know when he plans to come and go. You need to be there at all times.”

“In a hotel?” she asks hopefully.

This time, a smile curls on my face. What can I say? Even I’m not completely unaffected by a good arse-to-mouth situation where Aurora has to taste just how hard I fucked her.

“What would be the point of that? We need you there, with them, under the same roof. Are we having a problem here, Jenkins?” Ryner tapers his eyes at her. “Should I give this assignment to someone else? Someone more experienced, maybe?”

Aurora frowns at him, then shakes her head. Nah, she’s not one to back down from a challenge.

“I’ll make this assignment my bitch,” she breathes.

“I have no doubt, kiddo.”

Puke, meet bucket. He didn’t ask her to save the world, just take a few pictures of that eejit, Richards, pretending to be hard at work.

Aurora turns her attention to me. I’m ready for her, with the shit-eating grin of someone who not only pissed in her Jacuzzi, but also drowned her boyfriend in it for good measure.

“Mal.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Aurora.”

“Just so you know, I have a boyfriend,” she says matter-of-factly, peeling my pea coat from her shoulders and throwing it my way.

I catch it, and as I do, raise my left hand in the air, palm facing me, so she can see the gold band on my ring finger.

“Good for you, sweetheart,” I deadpan, twisting the ring around. “Reached first base yet? Carved your initials on a tree? Maybe you gave each other purity rings,” I ponder, then shake my head. “Nah. Too late for that.”

I don’t think she listened to any of my monologue, though. She is solely focused on the wedding band, following my movements with her eyes. I can see the question behind them, and, of course, charitable bastard that I am, I volunteer the information.

“Kathleen.” I shove my hand into my pocket, noticing the way—even though her face pales and her fingers clutch the bannister—she doesn’t collapse. “Shortly after you left. Beautiful ceremony, performed by Father Doherty. My sincere apologies for not sending you an invitation.”

Aurora’s throat works, and it reminds me how delicate it was under my fingers. She elevates her chin, refusing to break.

Night’s still young, darlin’.

“Selling songs and marrying Kathleen?” Her face turns to stone, completely void of emotion now. “You’re right, Mal. I really don’t have the faintest clue who you are anymore.”

Ryner looks between us, trying to assess the situation. He knows we know each other, because I told him as much, but I presented us as old friends, not as complete fiends, which is closer to the truth.

“Do you guys need a second?” He sniffs his beaky nose, finishing off his cigarette and putting it out in a plant.

Christ, he’s a waste of oxygen. His mother needs to plant a tree for every day he lives.

“Yes,” Aurora says.

“No,” I snap at the same time.

There’s silence for a few seconds before I give Ryner half a shrug and make a show of turning back to the railing, parking my elbows on it, ignoring her.

“All right, then, lovebirds.” Ryner rubs his chin.

I can see him in my periphery, moonwalking backward to the doors, like the moron he is.

Aurora drops her voice once we’re alone. “In the contract, you said you wouldn’t care if we had significant others or spous—”

I cut her off immediately. “You mean eight years ago, when we were both fresh out of diapers? Come on now, Aurora. We were in love with the concept, not each other.”

Why is she even bringing this up, after everything she’s done and said? It’s like being wary of a blood test when both your limbs are cut off and your head is chopped, floating somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.

Ship’s sailed, sweetheart.

I don’t bother looking at her. Instead, I stare at the ugly, soulless skyscrapers of Manhattan, reminding myself how much she loves them. And that just like all the ditzy girls I rolled between my sheets before and after her, she’s saddled with Instagram-inspired ideas and Photoshopped dreams. She lives a Pinterest-perfect life, and there’s no filter to make my life suitable enough for her reality.

“Okay…” she drawls, processing. “Just making sure you know I’m not going to honor that contract.”

“Excuse me while I go dry my tears with the one million euros I’m here for.” I finish my drink in one gulp and place the glass on the wide marble railing. When I turn to her, I have a pleasant, plastic smile on my face. I’d hate for her to think I actually care whether she comes or not.

“Won’t Kathleen mind me being there?” She plays with the hoop in her nose. “Considering our history and all.”

“Kathleen won’t mind.”

“Glad to see at least one of you grew up during this decade.” She twists the hoop in her nose some more. “And I would ask that Callum could come and go as he pleases while I stay at your house. We’ll be good guests and stay out of your way as much as possible, of course.”

“That’s fine,” I snap.

She’s staring at me; I’m staring at the view again. I’m not making it any easier for her. Why should I? She’s the one who threw everything down the shitter and flushed it a thousand times.

“You still live in your cottage?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Is there a—”

“Do I look like a steak?” I cut into her words again.

She shakes her head, looking at me with even more confusion and revulsion than before.

“Then stop grilling me.” I twist my head to stare her down.

By the way her face screws in pain, I can tell she got the not-so-subtle reference to the time she asked about her da. I remind myself what I’ve had to endure in recent years thanks to her and push the guilt aside. To think that every minute spent with her, I was tearing myself apart for not giving her the truth.

About her.

About her father.

Whatever I plan to do to Aurora will only cause short-term damage. She’ll land back on her feet. Eventually. Me? I’m fucked into the next life, and possibly the one after it, too.

“Look.” I sigh. “Ryner is set on sending you to Ireland, and considering the paycheck, and the fact that you mean very little to me, I’m not sure why I should fight him on this. You’ll come, you’ll do the job, and you’ll leave. If you want to bring your shiny boyfriend along, be my guest. We don’t have to become best buds again.” I sign quotation marks with my fingers, sprinkling the insult with a fake, whiny American accent just to walk the extra cunt mile. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

“Why are you so mad?” she hisses, more shocked than hurt now.

“Mad?” I blink at her like she’s crazy. “I’m just not interested in making this more than it is. It’s been eight years, and a lot has happened in them.”

But not enough for me to spell out the words she wants to hear: I’m taken. You’re taken. It’s just a business transaction.

I won’t try to steal you.

I won’t try to sabotage your relationship.

I won’t try to seek revenge.

Those are all things I don’t say. Things I leave out. The things she should be demanding right now.

Luckily, Aurora seems too flustered to read the unwritten fine print of this conversation. She’s forever the hotheaded redhead.

“I see.” Her jaw squares, and so do her shoulders. “If that’s the way you want it to be, then I’ll respect that.” She nods, taking a step away from me.

I want to throttle her. To tell her it is not, in fact, the way I want it to be, but she made it that way. She moved on, and I got stuck. Now I’m angry, and vengeful, and definitely in the mood to inflict some damage myself.

“When do I start?” She parks her hands on her waist.

“Sometime after Christmas, before New Year’s. Richards is throwing a party at my house, and Ryner mentioned something about it.” I scratch the beginning of my stubble. “Work out the details with him.”

“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” She blinks at me.

Poor lass is still trying. Is she bipolar? She was quite clear about where I stood with her after we parted ways, so this doesn’t make a lot of sense.

“You’re doing it again,” I point out.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make pleasant conversation. Being pleasant to you is not on my agenda, Aurora.”

She turns around and walks to the door. I decide I’m not done hurting her.

“Kathleen’s,” I say to her back. “I’m spending Christmas at Kathleen’s.”

She stops, but she doesn’t say anything. I get a good view of her little, round bum.

“And you?” I can’t help myself. “Christmas with the future in-laws in England?”

She turns and gives me a serene smile.

“I, too, have no interest in being pleasant with you, Malachy Doherty. The difference between us? Unlike you, I stay true to my word.”

I lean back on the bannister and smile, watching her go.

All is fair in love and war, and I’m certainly prepared for battle.

A NOTE FROM JEFF RYNER

History and hysteria have more than a few letters in common.

These two? They definitely share a history, and what I saw on the balcony was nothing short of hysterical.

I’ve watched it happen time after time in this industry.

Exes working together, thinking they are mature, and moved on, and capable of being friends.

B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T.

I could’ve told them it would only get uglier from here on out. Warn them not to bother. That the money isn’t worth it, and babysitting an asshole like Ashton Richards is only going to put them under more pressure, break more rules, and push them over the edge.

I could…

But let’s be real. I’m a forty-something cokehead with a sex addiction, and I have absolutely zero doubt that’s how they view me and what they think of me. Seeing other people screwing up their lives is not painful at this point. It is even—dare I say it?—therapeutic. Like knitting.

Knitting a disaster.

That’s why people gossip, right? To get a kick out of other people’s problems. And when other people don’t have problems they can see or taste or judge, they create problems for them. Analyze their every move to try to make themselves feel better. Well, this has catastrophe written all over it. How could I prevent it from happening?

Plus, I’m genuinely interested to see how it pans out. Knowing Malachy Doherty’s story, I don’t know how he can bang up his miserable life more than he already has. Guy is so deep in shit, anything else thrown at him, even a scandal, would frankly be an upgrade.

I pop two pills of whatever my dealer gave me and make my way back to the party, knowing I look like a Eurovision set and not giving a fuck.

Because I don’t.

I really don’t.

Let people judge. They’re not much better. The only difference between us is that I know what Malachy and Rory think about me. They don’t know what I think about them.