In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen

Rory

“You’re home early.” Summer pokes her head up from behind the fluffy cushions of the couch before turning back to the TV and shoving another spoonful of Chunky Monkey into her mouth. Pretty Woman is playing.

She waggles the spoon at the TV, yelling at the screen, “I freaking loathe rom-coms. Falling in love with a billionaire and ending up marrying him is bullshit with a capital B, especially when you’re a working girl. You’re more likely to get murdered by him. You know, since working girls are often without relatives. This should have been Pretty Dead Woman: A Cautionary Tale.”

“Don’t wait for a call from Hollywood.”

I hang my coat by the door and kick my Toms off as I make a stop at the kitchen counter, which is actually inside our tiny living room, pouring both of us large glasses of cheap wine.

Callum wanted me to stay over, but I have an early morning tomorrow, and privately, I can admit that seeing Mal shook me to the core.

“Why the ice cream?” I place the empty wine bottle in the sink, my back to her. I’m trying to act nonchalant, mainly so I can convince myself I’m not having a mental breakdown of epic proportions. Which I’m not. Feeling my pulse pounding against my eyelids is totally normal, I’m sure.

“I was just thinking about the love of my life.” Summer lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Shouldn’t that be a good thing?” I quirk an eyebrow, turning around and plopping next to her. I hand her a glass of white wine.

“No, considering the fact I haven’t met him yet, and it’s very likely he’s sleeping with someone else as we speak, Rory. It’s Saturday evening, and the whole world is drunk and stumbling out of office Christmas parties. How could he do this to me?” Summer sniffs. “He’s probably screwing another girl right now. The hot girl from HR. Dirty bastard.”

I bite down on a smile, working out a way to explain her backward logic in my head. Summer’s sunshine blonde hair is tied up in a huge, messy bun, and she’s still wearing yesterday’s eyeliner. She’s clad in gray sweatpants and a black hoodie, a far cry from her usual glamorous, off-Broadway actress persona. Summer is in between projects now, rehearsing for her next show, which is due to start running mid-February. This was supposed to be our time together, but now I have to go to freaking Ireland and work alongside Mal, who had a personality transplant sometime in the last decade and died on the operating table, only to resurrect himself as Satan.

Summer turns the volume down, swiveling on the couch to face me. “What’s up, Ror? You look like you sucked off Lucifer and he filled your mouth with ashes and lava.”

“No, but close.” I put my glass down.

Summer has been my best friend since we were toddlers. We went to grade school and college together. We share an apartment. She knows everything about me.

“I saw Mal at the ball tonight.”

She blinks at me. “Mal…?”

“Irish Mal.”

Her eyes widen, and she slaps the back of her hand over her forehead dramatically. Summer can be scandalized more easily than a seventeenth century duchess in a brothel.

“Say it ain’t so.”

I nod. “It’s so, and it’s worse than anything you might imagine.”

“I don’t know how it possibly could be, unless he’s Callum’s lover and is after his ass, not yours. You finally have your shit together, Rory. You’ve been hung up on him for years.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this life, it’s that you should find friends who love seeing you win and will support you when you lose. Summer is both.

“He’s married,” I say.

“Ouch.”

“To my sister, Kathleen.”

“The bastard!” She jumps up on the couch, quilt dropping to the floor, and shakes her fist in the air. “I’m going to kill him.”

“The worst part is not even that everything Kathleen said turns out to be true. It’s the fact that Mal can’t stand the sight of me for some reason. He’s mad at me, and he won’t tell me why.” I grab a throw pillow, hugging it to my chest.

“Who cares why he’s an asshole? Just be glad you dodged that bullet. Look how he treated your half-sister. The jerk played her around when you were there. I’m going to go out on a limb and bet their marriage is a clusterfuck of massive proportions.”

Summer plops down, grabs my wine glass, and puts it to my lips, urging me to take a sip like it’s medicine.

“Besides, you have Callum now, and he is uber hot and doesn’t hate money or standing or…you know, life in general.”

“Mal doesn’t hate life. He loves it.”

That’s the entire reason he is who he is. Because he loves life so passionately. But I’m thinking about Young Mal. The current version seems about as jolly as a KKK meeting.

Summer huffs. “What was he doing there, anyway?”

“He’s working with Jeff Ryner now.” I put the pillow behind my head and throw myself over it. “We’re about to work together. In Ireland. For two months. I’m going to live with him.” I swallow hard. “And his wife.”

Summer looks at me like I’ve just announced my intention to join the circus, where I will be performing a one-hour show doing gymnastics on the back of an elephant in nothing but leopard thongs. Blindfolded.

“What in the fuck went through your head when you said yes?”

“The job opportunity. Plus, the Mal thing happened eight years ago and clearly means nothing.”

“Means nothing?” Summer shoots to her feet, pacing back and forth in our tiny living room, arms linked behind her back. “Means nothing?! You obsessed over his ass like he was the only male with a functioning dick in the entire universe. It took you years—not weeks, not months, years!—to finally move on with Callum. You dreamed about him. You woke me up crying. You thought you saw him on street corners and in festivals and at airports. Remember that time you ran after that poor Asian lady because you thought she was him?”

Do I ever. She hit me with her bag trying to shoo me away.

“She was tall and had the same blue-black hair,” I mumble into my drink.

“Point is, he haunted you. We had to take turns in college watching you so you didn’t break your stupid napkin contract and look for him on the internet. That’s not nothing, Rory. That’s everything.”

I rub my eyes, taking a gulp of air. She’s right. Stupid Mal and stupid Kathleen ended up together and somehow reached the convenient (and also stupid) conclusion that I’m the reason for their problems, but I never stopped pining for him.

“You can’t go.” Summer stops pacing, stomping her foot. “I won’t allow it.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

I stare at the TV to avoid her glare. Julia Roberts and Richard Gere are bickering. I think about Callum’s reaction when I came back from the balcony and explained everything. He shook Whitney off immediately, then stood up and ushered me to a little bar. There, he told me I should do it. That I daren’t pass up a blazing, new opportunity because of an old flame.

He said who knew how long I would keep this job anyway. Once he proposes, he will need me at his disposal, helping with the wedding arrangements, managing our social calendar.

I kind of blocked everything out past the “go for it” part, though. I have no plans of becoming a housewife, but that wasn’t the time to broach the subject.

“You’re going to screw your brother-in-law.” Summer crosses her arms in my periphery. “Let that sink for a second, Lewdy McGrosson. Still wanna go?”

“I’m not going to screw anyone there. Well, maybe Callum.” Definitely Callum. And unquestionably extra-loud. “Mal’s happily married and made that very clear. Here’s another thing he made clear: he hates my guts.”

“There’s a fine line between hate and love, and you two are about to dry-hump on top of it before rolling over to the love side and shitting all over your partners. Mark my words.” Summer shakes her finger in my face, collapsing next to me on the couch.

“What does Callum say about all this, anyway?”

Summer was #TeamCallum before I even agreed to go on a date with him—something about him being wholesome, with a well-paying job, and sane. I decide to omit the snow falling on us the minute Mal came out to the balcony. She would laugh at me.

“He’s great with it, actually.” I perk up.

Well, kind of. His exact words were, “Look at it as a last hurrah. You’ll be needing to make some tough decisions about working at a bar and running around with your camera all day. This could be a great time to clear your head and think about our future together.”

“Is he?”

I swear, she eyes me like I’m a cat about to hiccup a feather.

“England is a short flight away, and he’ll be visiting his family for Christmas and the new year. He’s excited. Besides, two months is nothing.”

“Two months is one month and twenty-nine days more than you had last time with Mal, and if I recall correctly, you promised to drop your boyfriend, panties, and hypothetical family to be with him at any point.”

“If I recall correctly…” I finish my glass of wine and slam it on the coffee table. “I was also eighteen, grieving, and believed in orgasms just a little less than I believed in the Tooth Fairy. I grew up.”

Summer throws me a skeptical glance.

“Look, I want the promotion,” I say, trying another tactic. “Things are going really well. This project could open so many doors for me. Callum is skeptical about my career, and this could prove to him that I make my own money. I need you to support this.”

She takes a deep breath, narrowing her eyes. “Do you really want the promotion, or do you think you should want it?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Your happiness is the difference.”

“I want the promotion,” I snap.

“Don’t ruin it with Callum, Rory.”

“I won’t. If anything, I’ll probably have Callum over all the time to get rid of the weirdness. I want to see Kathleen again just a little less than I want to have dinner with Hitler, Stalin, and Vlad the Impaler.”

“Hey, don’t bunch Vlad in with those assholes. He was just misconstrued and loyal to his country.” Summer sniffs.

I bump her shoulder with mine. “Point is, I’m dreading every moment of being there. Nothing will happen between married Mal and me.”

“Call me every day.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“And whenever you want to pork him—remember he also screws your sister, and that’s just too Jerry Springer for me to ever be associated with you again.”

“I wouldn’t risk our friendship like that,” I agree.

“Letting him double-dip his wiener into the family sauce again is…gut-wrenching.”

“Thanks for the culinary analogy,” I mutter. “You really made your point now.”

Her eyes on me don’t waver. “Promise me, Rory.”

“Jeez, Louise. Promise.”

She watches me for a long beat, moving her jaw back and forth. On TV, Richard and Julia are wrapping it up. Something about how love conquers all, yada yada. I never much enjoyed Pretty Woman.

Then I remember my conversation with Mal all those years ago—about women having to drive men somewhere for it to be a classic romance flick. Julia Roberts did that. I bet Mal likes this movie.

Don’t think about Mal. Mal is a bastard.

Summer shoves the spoon into the ice cream and scoops out half the tub, waving it in my face. “Carb up, girl. If that’s not a good excuse, I don’t know what is.”

One week later

Rory

The cab driver deposits Callum and me in front of Mal’s cottage and U-turns away, leaving mud splashes in his wake.

It’s surreal to see the cottage again after eight years of fixating on what happened between its walls. It looks like the place has been neglected beyond belief. The exterior has turned from charmingly old to decayed ancient. The roof is tattered, falling apart, and the grass is still overgrown, with patches of mud everywhere. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a woman’s touch from Kathleen, the cardigan-loving, proper-talking demoness? Alas, the place looks like it needs a good scrub, a lawnmower, and a hug. At least from the outside.

“Bloody hell,” Callum mutters behind me.

We were supposed to go to England to see his family—the first time I would have met his parents—and instead, he decided to accompany me here for a day to help me settle. He’ll have to catch a flight tomorrow morning to England, and I’m already dreading his departure.

“I could get us a room at an inn on the main street,” he suggests, his nice way of saying this place is unlivable for anyone who isn’t a ghostbuster.

“Ryner said I needed to stay here,” I say soothingly, walking up the cobbled path to the chipped, wooden door.

My heart is beating so fast I want to throw up. I’m going to come face to face with Malachy and Kathleen as a couple. They’re going to be all loved-up in my face, and I will be working under their roof.

I knock on the door.

“Do they know we’re coming?” Callum asks behind me.

“Yeah. Whitney said she sent Mal an email with our flight schedule.”

Not that Mal cares, I assume. A knot is forming in my stomach. Is he going to make my life hell here?

“You should text your mum,” Callum points out.

I don’t turn around to face him. “Uh-huh.”

“She’s heartbroken over the fact you didn’t stop to say goodbye.”

“We celebrated Christmas with her,” I grumble.

I wasn’t in the mood to listen to more of her begging me to cover my birthmark with more makeup, pleading with me not to go to Ireland—her most loathed country in the universe—and generally making me listen to her gossip about people I don’t know.

There’s no answer, so I knock again, this time harder. It’s freezing outside. Callum is shifting from foot to foot next to me. He’s wearing a pea coat and a powder blue dress shirt.

He snakes his arm around me, rubbing my shoulder. “Relax, love. It’s going to be fine. It’s been eight years, he’s married, and then there’s the matter of you being madly in love.”

He says that as a joke, but I can hear the question in his voice. Before I officially signed the contract for this project, I told Callum about what happened with Mal eight years ago, hoping to hell he’d make the decision easy for me and express how uncomfortable he felt about it. I’m not much of a Mary Sue who likes to be told what to do, but it would’ve been a much-needed nudge in the right direction if Callum wasn’t so smugly confident he’s the shit.

Okay, so also, maybe I wasn’t one-hundred-percent honest.

I left one thing out. A teeny-tiny thing. So tiny, in fact, you could fit it in your back pocket. More specifically, the napkin. The contract. But for a good reason: it doesn’t matter. Mal clearly hasn’t kept it. He’s happily married. Plus, it’s just flat-out embarrassing.

I knock on the door a few more times, but it’s clear no one is home. How fitting of Mal not to be here just to spite me. Of course, Kathleen played along. I decide two (or rather, three) can play this game. I will not be standing outside getting pneumonia just because he has some illogical vendetta against me. The main street is far enough that we’ll have to call a cab to take us there if we want to warm up in a pub or an inn, waiting for his highness to arrive, and by the time a taxi gets here, we’ll be freezing.

I press my shoulder against the door and take a deep breath.

“Rory?” Callum asks behind me, his voice laced with worry.

“Promise not to judge me, Cal?”

“Promise.”

With a shove, I push the door, knowing damn well it isn’t locked, because last time—eight years ago—it wasn’t, either.

We spill into the house, which also looks a thousand times worse inside than it did before. Callum’s lips purse as he walks around, observing the old, ragged furniture and strewn-about newspapers, CDs, and vinyl records. There are poetry books and half-rolled, wrinkly notebooks on the couch and a coffee table and breakfast nook buried under piles upon piles of junk, dust and dirt everywhere.

I look around in shock, trying to spot one inch on the floor that’s not suspiciously sticky or covered with something.

I turn around to Cal, and his throat bobs, but he says nothing.

“I’m sorry you have to sleep here tonight.” I bite my lower lip.

It is a dump. Not because it’s small or old, but because it’s messy and filthy. It looks like no one has lived here in a while. Cobwebs adorn every corner of the room. Doesn’t matter that it’s freezing outside, I still find myself cracking a window just to get rid of the stale scent of a thousand takeout boxes left to rot somewhere in this place.

“It’s fine.” Callum tries to sound calm and collected, even though I know he pays his cleaners extra to come in every day and make sure everything is spotless in his Manhattan penthouse. “Quaint and charming. Besides, a roof is a roof. The people under it are what matters. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”

We spend the next twenty minutes touring the house. We start with the kitchen, where we find the root to the rancid smell: an unattended garbage bag sitting under the sink, a cloud of buzzing flies above it. Even though I don’t want to clean these two’s pigsty on principle, I also don’t want to puke, so I throw it out.

I walk through the narrow hallway afterwards. The master bedroom, which was his mother’s before Kathleen moved in, is completely empty, save for the king-sized bed that’s unmade. The pillows are a suspicious shade of dirty yellow, and the blanket could use a wash. I move to the bathroom, which has also seen better days, finally stopping at Mal’s then-room, and our guest room, I suppose. It has one made-up, single bed and a little closet. I turn around to Callum, but he just grins.

“Less room means more spooning. Not a bad Sunday.”

I should love this man.

I should.

And right now, I’m getting damn close to that elusive feeling.

“No part of this is your fault,” he adds. “So don’t you dare apologize.”

We move to the last room down the hallway, and it is locked—possibly the studio Ryner was talking about. That might explain the deadbolt, padlock, and STAY OUT sign on the door.

Callum gets right to business, wheeling my suitcase into our room, while I open the rusty door leading to the backyard to see if the sheep and cows are out and about.

There are no more sheep.

No more cows.

There’s no more…anything, really.

I take a step out, and something crunches under my shoe. I look down, frown, and pick up an earring. Just the one. Must be Kathleen’s. A drop-shaped pink diamond earring. It looks fake, but then again, so is she. Maybe they’re hard up for cash. No other reason for Mal to take this writing gig. I look up, staring at the green hills.

A voice behind me rustles, “Breaking and entering is illegal in Ireland.”

I jump, turning around. Mal is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his acid-washed jeans, one Blundstone boot crossed in front of the other. His beauty arrests me for exactly five seconds before I school my face.

“Nice crib.”

He pushes off the doorframe, descending the two steps to his backyard and ambling toward me. “Trashed it especially for you.”

“And I suppose Kathleen was eager to help. Anything to make me feel unwelcome.”

Mal flashes me a breezy smile, tying a red bandana on his forehead like he’s getting ready for something. He reminds me of old Mal again—adventurous and boyish, impossible to resist.

“Where is she, anyway?” I look around.

I want to get the initial slap-in-the-face reaction of seeing them together out of the way so I can breathe regularly again.

“Dublin.”

“When is she going to grace us with her presence?”

He whistles, then lets out a gruff chuckle. Of course, Kathleen has conveniently removed herself from the situation. I don’t know why she’s hiding. She’s just the type to parade her gorgeous husband like it’s a dog show. Obviously, Mal is not going to answer my question.

I gesture toward the nothingness.

“Where’s the cattle?”

“Sold it.”

“Father Doherty? Is he doing okay?”

He squats down, patting away a patch of mud on the front of his boot. “He’s alive.”

“How about your mother?”

He stops messing with his boots, looks up, and blinks at me like I stopped speaking English. “I’m not a steak, Aurora,” he snarls.

“You need to open the studio. I want to take some photos of it before Richards arrives.”

“There’s no studio,” he says, watching my reaction intently.

Then what the hell is that room?Of course, I don’t ask.

“Then how are you going to record the songs?”

“We’re not. We’re just going to write them.”

“Ryner lied,” I mumble.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. I wouldn’t trust that man to give me the time in a room full of clocks.

Mal shrugs.

“You should really clean this place. Richards won’t live in this condition in a million years and counting. He’s used to pretty, nice things.”

“That makes two of you, Princess.”

I want to ask him what the hell he means by that, but I’m not supposed to care. I haven’t done anything wrong. I respected our contract, pined for him for years, and tried to move on. What did he expect? For me to sit around and wait for fate to take control while he wedded my sister?

He shakes his head on a dark chuckle, seeming to take my silence as admittance. He turns around and stalks back inside, leaving me to stand here.

It is crazy how eight years ago, I could feel his pulse against my palm for days and weeks after we parted ways.

Right now, I’d like to rip his heart out of his chest, just to see if it beats anymore.

If it’s still there.

And if it’s black, like my mother warned me.

Mal

On my way back into the house, Aurora’s shiny boyfriend stands up from the sofa and stretches his hand toward me, flashing me his slimy banker smile.

I saunter past him to my room and slam the door. I fling myself onto the dirty bed, staring at the ceiling, ignoring the buzzing of my phone.

Maybe it’s one of my regular bells.

Maybe it’s my agent.

Maybe it’s Richards.

Maybe it’s Ryner.

Don’t know, don’t care.

Aurora. Aurora. Aurora. What am I going to do with you, Aurora?

Not fuck you. Not right now. You’re not ready for it yet, and besides, there’s the whole boyfriend thing to tackle. He’s leaving in a day. I know, because I’ve read the email Ryner’s barely literate assistant sent me, though, of course, I didn’t answer it.

Perhaps I should start by educating you as to how badly you’ve ruined things for me?

No. Too early for that.

Explain how I tried to protect you all those years ago by keeping the truth from you and what you did in return is kill my soul, then feed it to the wolves? Hmm. There’s still time for that, too.

The house looks like a kip. It’s not always like this, but I wanted her to feel bad. I’m trying to dig into her soul with a spoon and see if she still has a conscience.

I close my eyes, letting another phone call go to voicemail.

“Love?”

I hear the English version of American Psycho calling to Aurora behind the door.

“Mal went to lie down. Would you like me to call a cab so we could go buy some toiletries? I haven’t seen any here.”

First of all, Mal? I’m not one of his masturbating-in-a-circle Eton mates. Malachy for you, thankyouverymuch.

Second, was he expecting The Ritz? I don’t owe him anything.

Third…there isn’t a third, but I’m positive I’ll find something else to get pissy about by the end of his visit.

See, Kiki? You always said I should be more positive.

A few minutes later, I hear a soft knock on the door. I don’t want to recognize the sound of her knuckles hitting wood, unless that wood is attached to my crotch. Still, I know it’s her.

“Mal?” she asks.

“Leave.”

“We’re heading out.”

I don’t say anything, because that’s exactly what I said she should do. Go away.

“Can we grab you something? Food? Milk? Bleach? Manners?”

I smirk to the ceiling, my hands tucked behind my head. It’s on. She’s here, and she is angry, and she is funny, and she is all mine. Sweet and thoughtful and feisty—the perfect combination. Shiny Boyfriend can do nothing about it but sit back and watch.

“No,” I growl.

“When are you planning to start working?”

“When the muse strikes me.”

“Can you be more specific? I need to know when to unpack my equipment.”

“I need to feel inspired to write,” I say in a patronizing tone I just adopted out of nowhere. “Anyone can click a camera. I actually produce, with words and everything. It takes a bit more than having a finger.”

Low blow, but that’s where she aimed when she made potpourri out of my heart and skipped back to America, throwing it everywhere in her wake. There’s a beat of silence on the other side of the door.

“I can email Whitney, Ryner’s assistant, to send someone over to clean the house before Richards—”

“Who died and made you Joanna Gaines? Why don’t you mind your own business instead of criticizing other people’s houses?”

A part of me prays her shiny boyfriend will take offense to the way I speak to his mot, storm in, and punch me. I’m in the mood for a good fight. Alas, Mr. Banker is not planning on ruining his manicure anytime soon, based on the depressing silence coming from outside the door.

“How do you know who Joanna Gaines is?” she asks after a moment of silence, a smile in her voice.

Kathleen’s Ma, Elaine, watches her and her husband’s show all the time. Sometimes she cries. I’d cry, too, if I had to spend an hour watching people choosing wallpaper for a house that’s not even theirs.

“Yeah. Okay. Gotcha.” Aurora bangs her palm against the door.

Two minutes later, I hear the front door slam. I close my eyes. My phone starts ringing again. I crack one eyelid open, just to make sure it’s not Kathleen’s number. When I see it’s a US phone number, I turn the phone to silent and take a nap.

By the time I wake up, the crickets are singing. I take my time adjusting to the darkness and stretch—I have nothing waiting for me—then sit up on the edge of my bed, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes.

A sudden thud comes from the living room. Then the front door whines open. I flip my phone over and check the time. Midnight. They weren’t solely shopping for tampons and shampoo, that’s for sure.

Aurora giggles, her shiny boyfriend grunts, and then they both whisper.

Someone bumps into a piece of furniture. Aurora laughs breathlessly. I hate her laugh. It’s throaty and low and fuck, which part of me thought this was a good idea, the masochist or the drunk?

Getting revenge by having her come here and spend time with me is like getting laid by wrapping your crotch in sandpaper and joining a monastery.

I hear wet, sloppy kisses. Grunting and chuckling and oof-ing. Her muppet boyfriend kisses like a fecking greyhound by the sound of it. So. Much. Tongue. But she likes it. I know, because she whimpers like she did when I did things to her.

He moans.

She sighs.

He groans.

She giggles.

My chewed-up nails are digging into the flesh inside my palms. A nice, sane way to prevent myself from strangling both of them.

“What about our host?” Shiny Boyfriend murmurs.

His host is about to pull a gun from under his wooden floor and blow his fecking head off. The only hole in that plan is that I don’t own a gun. And the floor is carpeted. Never mind. This plan clearly cannot work.

“Asleep, probably. His door is closed,” she replies.

I listen as they make their way to their room, which I never bothered showing them, bumping into every single object on their way. They sound more sauced than an enchilada. Their door clicks shut, but there’s only one, thin wall separating us, and you can hear everything through it.

The kissing stops, but something far worse starts. She’s moaning now, and I can tell she’s not faking it, because I know what she sounds like when she comes.

“Love,” Shiny Boyfriend rasps.

I hear a zipper rolling down. I dig my fingers into my skin until I draw blood. It feels like every inch of my body is wrapped in thorns.

“Bite down on your dress. He’s going to hear us.”

He’s already hearing you, you oxygen-wasting pillock.

I jump to my feet like the bed is on fire, throw my door open, and take the two steps to their door. Rather than knock, like a normal human being, I push it open like the manner-less cunt Aurora is starting to become familiar with.

I fold my arms over my chest at the door, watching them lazily. Aurora is plastered against the wall, and Shiny Boyfriend is on his knees, carpet-munching. She is naked save for a black lace bra, and he is licking the outline of her bare pussy—perfectly, beautifully shaved—when I clear my throat and make myself comfortable against the doorframe. They both crack their eyes open.

Aurora lets out a yelp, but he remains angled right next to her pussy, protecting her modesty.

Don’t bother, mate. I’ve seen it so close I can recognize it in a lineup.

“She likes it when you suck her clit and use your fingers at the same time.” I shove my fists into my pockets, yawning the sleep away. “But quite partial to clit-pinching. Go figure.”

Rather than appreciating my helpful pointers, Aurora leans down, picks up one of her shoes, and hurls it in my direction with a Celtic roar. I dodge it, yawning again for good measure. I hope she takes photos better than she aims, or Ryner is going to have a problem.

“Had a good night?” I look around.

Really, I should do something with this room. Maybe burn it to the ground so they won’t have any privacy.

“Get the hell out!” she screams.

She is so red, her white scar shines bright like the moon. Her spineless boyfriend scurries up, hands her a dress, and rearranges his boner in his trousers.

“I think you should go.” The genius advances toward me, but I can tell he’s the type to file a lawsuit before he throws a punch.

“Aurora.” I ignore him, staring at her with icy boredom.

She puts her black dress on quickly, mumbling something under a breath, doubtful words of praise as to my hospitality thus far.

“I am ready.”

“Ready for what? The hard facts of life? Here’s one: you’re an asshole, Mal. Here’s another: there’s not one part of you I still even remotely like.”

My chest constricts, but it’s probably because I haven’t had a drink since New York. And before New York, in months. Years. I’ve cut back on the alcohol significantly since The Night That Ruined Everything. I didn’t want to become Aurora’s father, Glen.

“To work.” I pick up her shoe and toss it into her hands. She catches it, her brows diving in confusion.

“Mal, it’s midnight.”

“She reads the clock; you read social situations.” I give Shiny Boyfriend an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Together, you’re a rare force of intelligence and capability.”

“I’m serious.” She scowls.

“Inspiration hits me at weird hours.” I shrug.

“Can it hit you in the face into another fit of sleep? At least until tomorrow morning?” she inquires, her cheeks pink.

She’s putting her shoes on, though, like I knew she would. That’s the thing about true artists, they cannot deny their art, even—and especially—when they’re hurting.

Shiny Boyfriend glances between us, obviously unfamiliar with the full rainbow of human emotions. It looks like this is the first time he’s witnessing a fight. He is a bit taller than me and definitely has that Brad Pitt circa 1990, this-is-your-life-and-it’s-ending-one-minute-at-a-time look down to a T. Unlike Tyler Durden, though, I can search with a magnifying glass and still won’t be able to find one alpha bone in his body. There are likely more pheromones in a tutu.

Underwhelmed by my competition, I turn to Aurora and snap my fingers.

“In this lifetime, please. And bring a jacket. I write outside, and you’re notoriously more frigid than the iceberg that killed the Titanic.”

Aurora stomps toward the door.

“Don’t blame the iceberg. Blame the Irish people who built the ship…” she murmurs.

“It was fecking working when it left here for Southampton. We will not be blamed for shoddy workmanship.”

I bite down on a smile. Secretly, I can admit to myself that Aurora is not a total bore.

“Besides, what are you, exactly? Last time I checked, your father wasn’t a Viking.”

She opens her mouth, no doubt getting ready to verbally knee my balls, when the muppet interrupts us.

“Love?” Shiny Boyfriend calls behind her.

I positively loathe that nickname. Love. Something about uttering this word so offhandedly makes me want to jam his head into a bucket full of bleach.

Aurora turns around.

He hands her the camera on the nightstand. “Might want to take this with you.” He winks.

If possible, her blush darkens even further. Mortified and trembling, she snatches it from his hand.

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and you dropped the napkin you were so insistent on taking from the pub.” He crouches down, picking up a Boar’s Head napkin and holding it out to her.

Look, I have a reaction. Of course, I do—a hot-blooded, red, break-up-with-your-boyfriend-now-because-I’m-bored reaction.

I’m human, after all, even though I haven’t been feeling like one lately.

But I keep my face schooled, even as she takes the napkin, balls it in her fist, and throws it into the bin under the nightstand.

“That’s an odd thing to take from a pub.” I tap my lower lip, oh-so-interested in this unusual turn of events. “Did you catch the flu on the plane? I have tissues and Advil in the bathroom cabinet.”

“No, no.” Shiny Boyfriend chuckles, obviously delighted with my abrupt shift, playing right into my hands. “Rory is somewhat of a napkin connoisseur. She collects napkins everywhere she goes. It’s rather silly, really.”

“Rather,” I mimic his posh accent.

I still can’t believe she fecks this guy, who thinks collecting sentimental stuff is silly. That she hasn’t told him about our deal. Actually, that I can believe. She’s always been a lying mess.

“Care to elaborate about her fixation with napkins?”

She grabs my wrist, pulling me out the door. “Stop messing around. Let’s get it over with.”

“Oof, I don’t remember her that feisty. What’re ya feeding her?” I shake off her touch, smiling at Callum.

He laughs. He thinks we’re friends. Jesus Christ, the man doesn’t possess one functioning brain cell.

In the corridor, my resolve to be a cunt blunders. I slip and plaster her against the wall. She shoves me back, but her impact is non-existent. Our bodies are pressed together, close, rolling heat and hormones and history Princess Aurora cannot erase, no matter how many frogs she kisses.

I pin my chest to her shoulder and whisper in her ear, “Busted.”

Outside, I perch on the grass, my notebook open in front of me, pretending to write. The chance of me writing songs tonight is lower than my chance of becoming a blind, Italian nun. But if Rory is going to have sex under this roof, she is going to have it with me. Or not at all.

No gray area, I’m afraid.

“It’s dark.” She rubs her leather jacket-clad arms, her eyes roaming my backyard.

“You really are on top of your investigative game. Have you considered joining the CIA? A sharp mind like yours shouldn’t go to waste.” I place the pen behind my ear and frown at the blank page, not looking at her.

Doesn’t matter if I draw a dick with a bowtie on the notebook. It’s pitch black and neither she nor I will be able to see it.

“Suí síos le do thoil.” Sit down in Gaelic.

She ignores my party-pooper comment. “Sorry, I don’t speak dead languages. Wait here, please.”

Aurora dashes into the house and comes back with a plastic bag. She takes out two flashlights, loads of little candles, and a box of matches. I scan her coolly as candles drop from her delicate hands. She is flustered and struggles to keep it all together.

“Are you trying to summon your long-lost, non-existent soul through séance?” I wonder aloud.

She lets out a breathless chuckle. “I just remember how dark the night was in your backyard from when…” She turns the two flashlights on, placing one behind me and one in front of me, then shakes her head.

From when I unknowingly took your virginity because your ex-boyfriend couldn’t finish the job and in exchange gave you multiple orgasms. Yeah.

“Anyway, I’m going to drag some of your furniture out here so I’ll have somewhere to light these candles. I can’t take a decent picture with no light.”

“Cheers, Captain Obvious.” I watch her face, looking for crumbs of emotion.

Aurora doesn’t respond. When she enters the house again, I follow her. No matter how much I’m trying to be a dick—and, in my humble opinion, my efforts don’t go unnoticed—I’m slightly above watching her drag heavy furniture outside in the middle of the night by herself.

I carry the coffee table she pointed at and put it outside. She lines it with candles and lights them. I go back to my spot between the flashlights, plucking the pen from behind my ear. I scowl at the notebook again. In my periphery, Aurora is plugging the tube adapter into her camera.

She squats down on one leg and takes a picture of me. I clench my jaw, remembering what she did with the original pictures she took of me. Her cruel confessions. Her pretty, glacier heart.

But then she collects napkins and asks me if I want something from the store and asks about Mam and Father Doherty. Something doesn’t add up.

“Napkins.” I look up, musing. One word. Five tons of history crammed into it.

“Weren’t you the one who enacted the no-mingling rule?” She bats her eyelashes, feigning innocence and taking another picture of me.

She stands up and changes the position of the flashlights, now aiming them at my face. I don’t squint. Sitting around in a garden with a notebook is emasculating enough.

“It’s a statement, not an olive branch.”

“In that case, I choose not to address the statement and tramp all over the un-extended olive branch,” she snaps.

I get sick pleasure from knowing I hit a nerve. Hate is the closest thing to love you can squeeze out of the unattainable.

I hurt her back!

I look up, and our eyes meet, just like they did all those years ago on Drury Street. Even then I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this girl was put in my life to change it. I didn’t know at the time she’d choose to derail it and lead it on a collision course with everyone I cared about.

“Sooner or later, we’ll both have to play nice. Shiny Boyfriend is leaving tomorrow,” I hiss.

“He has a name.” She lowers her camera, her eyes narrowing.

Ken. I bet it’s Ken.

“I don’t care for it.” I press the pen against the page in my notebook until it bleeds, my eyes still trained on her.

“Callum.” She lowers her camera. “His name is Callum Brooks.”

I hitch one shoulder up. “All I heard is Shiny Boyfriend.”

I scribble something in the notebook.

Can you please stop being so beautiful and real and alive all over my house like you own it or something?

Can she?

Can she kindly enlighten me as to what went through my mind when I came up with this plan? What I was hoping to achieve, other than dragging her down the miserable road I have walked one too many miles on?

Rory takes a few more pictures. I chew the tip of the pen. I don’t know how authors do it, how they bleed words onto the clinical, plastic keyboard. Seems cold and impersonal. I can barely write on a page. I bet Rory could be an author. I bet she could write on a MacBook, the mother of all fancy-schmancy technological diseases. I’m making myself sick just thinking about it.

Also, since when did I stop calling her Aurora in my mind and go back to Rory?

“Do you have a MacBook?” I blurt.

She shakes her head, but doesn’t look at me like I’m a weirdo. I’ve always loved that about her. “Why?”

“Never mind. So, napkins,” I repeat the word.

She sighs. “It means nothing.”

“Nothing means nothing; otherwise it wouldn’t exist.”

“Some people collect coasters, postcards, stamps. I collect napkins. It’s not a big deal.”

Silence.

I look down at the notepad. Back up. “I just find it quite peculiar, since I was under the impression you hated me.”

She looks up from the pictures she’s scanning in her camera. Her eyebrows pull together. “Why would I hate you?”

Why indeed.

Why?

I’ve asked myself the very same question a million times, wondering if I should buy a ticket to America, if I should send her one to Ireland, if I should rip out my heart and dump it at her door.

“I didn’t hate you then,” she whispers. “But I’m starting to now.”

Her eyes are on my face, reminding me why I couldn’t let go, even when my entire world crumbled. Some people raise you up, and some people pull you down. And Rory? She pulls me in every possible direction and angle, leaving me tattered.

I remind myself of Kathleen.

Of our families.

Of my top commitment right now, which shouldn’t be Rory.

I rip the paper and ball it in my fist.

“Wait, let me take a picture…” She advances toward me, but it’s too late. I throw it into my mouth and swallow. She stops, her eyes flaring, the orange glow of the many candles making her look like a medieval witch.

“You’re insane,” she whispers.

I know.

I write down another sentence.

There’s life everywhere you look. Even in objects. But there is death, too.

“Come take a picture of this.”

“Your Photoshopped thoughts?” She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

Aurora Belle Jenkins hates me.

But hate is a verb.

And I’m about to prove I hate her more.