In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen

Present

Rory

Ididn’t leave my room the entire day yesterday, determined to avoid Mal.

Actually, that’s not true. I left it one time, when I heard Mal’s old car barking exhaust smoke down the road and knew he had gone. Where, I have no idea. I went out then, slipped into my Toms, and marched the entire, rain-soaked way to Main Street, stomping on puddles and flipping the bird to sheep and cows on my way. I stocked up on granola bars and bottled water, then treated myself to a cup of coffee, a chocolate chip cookie the size of my head, and a nice, internal meltdown in a local coffee shop.

By the time I got back to the cottage, Mal’s car was parked by the front door. The Lord of the Dumpster was in his room. Hearing whispering behind the closed door, I realized there was someone with him, a woman.

My rubber-ball heart bounced in my chest. Kathleen. I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear to it. I deciphered some of the words and realized it couldn’t be Kathleen. First of all, she sounded nothing like my half-sister. Second, she had a strong, northern English accent, not Irish, and third, this is what I got from their conversation:

Mal: “It’s just for a few months.”

Woman: “Then what?”

Mal: “Then I take her and we’re leaving. She likes the beach, so maybe we’ll go somewhere with a lot of sun. Greece or Spain. South of France, maybe.”

Woman: “Isn’t she mad at you for having her here?”

Didn’t take a genius to figure out I was her, and I was also about as welcome as gonorrhea.

Mal: “She has no idea about Rory, and I plan on keeping it that way. Makes things simple. I like simple.”

Woman: “I could be simple for you, Mal.”

Mal: “Certainly you can, and you are.”

Whoever she was didn’t pick up on the insult. Shame. A punch in the nuts was just what the doctor ordered for Mal.

Then the noises started. The tongues and thrusts and skin slapping skin. My thighs squeezed, and the hollow place between them ached. I thought of interrupting him, too—you know, an eye for an eye and so forth—but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I heard.

That I cared.

No.

I moved to my room, threw myself onto the bed, flung an arm over my eyes, and shook my head.

Down, girl.

But it was too much, and I was too weak. I shoved my hand into my jeans and played with myself to the sound of Mal having sex with another woman.

It’s not cheating, I told myself the entire time. I’m not touching him. I never will.Callum and I just didn’t get to finish what we’d started the night before.

I decided not to leave my room unless Mal called me for work. It was stupid to think we could patch things up. He was a different person, and I needed to stop making excuses for him in my mind.

I texted Callum a string of messages telling him I missed him, turned my laptop on, and worked into the night. My mom called a couple times, but I sent her to voicemail. Mal and the woman ended up doing the very same thing Cal and I had been about to do the night before, and extra loudly, no doubt so I could hear.

What kind of merciless, ruthless, immoral monster cheats on his wife and also hides the fact that her half-sister and his once-upon-a-time crush is living with him for two months?

Listening to him drilling into a woman who wasn’t his wife put the stamp of disapproval on Mal, and that is very good news.

I am no longer jealous of Kathleen, or interested in being civilized with her husband.

Anyway, that was yesterday, and today I woke up to the faint sound of music and the strong scent of food: bacon, eggs, freshly brewed coffee, and banana bread.

My mouth waters, and I struggle to swallow my saliva. I’d kill for a good cup of coffee. Besides, seeing as I have nothing but negative feelings toward Mal, it shouldn’t be too hard to face him.

I crack my door open and step into the living room barefoot, my red plaid pajamas barely covering my legs and messy hair tangled like wild branches around my face. I halt in the cove between the living room and corridor, my heart slowing along with my step.

Ashton Richards (yes, the Ashton Richards) is sitting in Mal’s living room, smoking a joint and wearing a golden robe with his initials printed on the breast pocket, along with sunglasses indoors. He sips his coffee and reads through something in Mal’s notebook, while his staff runs around in the background, cleaning and cooking like magical cartoon animals helping Cinderella get ready for the ball.

I can’t help but notice that Richards, despite his many apparent flaws if you believe what the media says, is undeniably gorgeous. He looks like a really hot version of Jesus—a long-lost Hemsworth brother with long hair.

Mal sits across from him in a recliner, his legs crossed over his coffee table, chewing on an unlit clove cigarette and throwing a rugby ball at the ceiling. “Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure is playing from a portable radio, and I will not let the fact that Mal kept his cassettes or his old-school radio endear him to me. He is not a romantic.

There are platters everywhere in the open kitchen, breakfast nook, and on the table. They hold pastries, fruit, a full English breakfast, and coke.

Hold on. Coke?

My eyes widen as I zoom in on the silver platter with white lines running across it. Richards lifts his head from the notebook he’s reading and waves in my general direction.

“Someone hand the chick an NDA. I’m trying to work here.”

A blonde girl who looks eerily similar to Ryner’s PA, Whitney, jogs toward me with a thick stack of papers and a pen.

Mal ignores my existence. His cheekbones are ruddy, tinted pink, and I wonder if it’s from the cold or from last night’s orgasms. He has that lost Peter Pan look—charismatic and unassuming, yet so easily destructive. I can’t even hate him all the way, no matter how hard I try.

“Who’s the hottie?” Richards nudges Mal’s leg with his own, tilting his chin to me.

“My sex slave,” Mal deadpans, catching the ball and spinning it on his finger like a pro, his eyes still hard on the ceiling.

Is there anything this man can’t do?

Yes, stay faithful.

“For real?” Ashton rips his sunglasses from his face and leans forward, checking me over more closely.

I fold my hands across my chest, aware that my nipples are puckered from the cold.

“Isn’t she a little…underdressed?” He raises a thick eyebrow over his crystal blue, Caribbean Sea eye.

I’m going to kill Mal.

Straight-up choke him. Not even in his sleep. I want him to be fully present when it happens.

Mal follows Richards’ gaze until his eyes land on mine. I’m still silent because I’m waiting to see how far he’s going to take his weird story.

“She has a hobo fetish, so I turn a blind eye to her fashion choices,” Mal explains, resuming his ball spinning. “I humor her, but I draw the line at pissing in public and flashing randoms.”

I nod, sending a sugary smile to Ashton Richards. The blonde girl hands me a contract and a pen, and I sign it without even looking, my gaze still on her boss.

“Mal is just being humble,” I begin. “He’s the one with the hobo fantasies. In fact, he loooooves trash. Just look at this place.” I hand the girl the pen and motion around us. “Sometimes I think he won’t rest until this place is a dumpster. I once caught him making love to an empty can of baked beans.”

“Tomato soup, actually,” Mal amends, straight-faced, but his purple eyes are twinkling with mischief. “And that can has a name. Laura.”

Ashton is looking between us now, laughing so hard tears are rolling down his cheeks—a young, hot version of The Big Lebowski.

“Young love. Fucking inspiring. What’s your name, honey pie?” He grins at me.

“Rory,” I say at the same time Mal volunteers my full name.

“Aurora Belle Jenkins. Her ma’s entire cultural education obviously stems from Disney. Personally, I think Cruella de Vil suits her better.”

“Personally, I think men who cheat on their wives and keep secrets from them should be stoned to death by a herd of baseball pitchers,” I retort, heading toward the kitchen and treating myself to a cup of coffee from the new machine that’s been installed since yesterday.

I snag a pastry from a huge platter in the breakfast nook and tear off a piece of it with my teeth.

“You should move to Saudi Arabia,” Mal suggests. “Adulterers get the death penalty. Of course, that’d put you at risk, too.”

“I’ve never cheated,” I growl.

“Yet,” he says flatly.

Bastard.

“Why didn’t you tell me you guys were working?” I ask with my mouth full, ignoring Mal’s third-grade taunting.

Richards is currently trying to count something with his fingers, or perhaps he’s counting his fingers, and looks completely out of it. It’s obvious he and the coke are on intimate terms, and that he’s under the influence of multiple other substances.

So help me God, I live in a house where Mal is the responsible adult.

“Because there’s enough drugs in here to sedate the entire country of China,” Mal clips, looking at me incredulously. “Thought it might be smart not to document it.”

“I have a job to do,” I say through gritted teeth.

Mal’s eyes light up. “Really? You mean a real one, other than walking around with a camera, looking pouty and thoughtful and silly?”

We’re locked in a stare down, and I want to snap.

To snap because he screwed someone in the room next door.

Because he is being the meanest version of himself, and then some.

Because he is a cheater and a tool and a liar.

But most of all, to snap because he is ruining this opportunity for me by not letting me do my work.

“We need to talk.” I manage not to lurch forward and strangle him. Barely.

“I’ve tried talking to you plenty of times, and the answer has always been no. Welcome to your own medicine, Rory. Tastes like a year-old used condom, does it not?”

What is he talking about?He tried to talk to me? When? Where? I’ve been here all along. I’d know if he tried knocking on my door. The guy is unhinged. Maybe he had a few sniffs of the good stuff, too.

“Man, your sex slave has a mouth on her.” Richards sprawls on Mal’s couch, snatching a dildo-shaped bong and lighting it up, his eyes crossing as he stares at it. “I hope you’re not paying her.” He coughs out a cloud of smoke.

“Only in compliments,” Mal deadpans.

“Still overpriced for how cheeky she is,” Ashton mutters, throwing me a look. “She is dickable, though. Are you sharing?”

Mal shrugs, chewing on the bottom of a lighter. “Certain holes.”

“Thanks, I’ll make sure to note this on your accolades when I file the sexual harassment suit,” I say cheerfully.

That makes Ashton cough and lean forward. He is finally snapping out of it.

“Come on now, Sex Slave. Don’t be so uptight.” He giggles to himself. “I just said the word tight.”

I need to get out of here.

I have to. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail, and they just might bring me to the point of double murder. There are too many witnesses around. No, thank you.

I storm back to my room, get dressed, grab my backpack and camera, and head out into the bitter cold of late December. They’re still where I left them on the couch and recliner when I move out into moss and green hills and naked trees, making my way down the stony path from Mal’s cottage to Main Street.

I put my earbuds in and let the words of “Drunken Lullabies” by Flogging Molly seep into me. I kick empty bags of chips and crushed cans of soda along my way down to the village. I hate this place. I should just buy a ticket and join Cal in England.

That thought makes the noose around my rubber-ball heart looser. Now that’s a promising prospect. Staying in Callum’s parents’ house. They live in Virginia Water, Surrey. I’ve seen pictures of their estate, and it makes Buckingham Palace look like a studio in Williamsburg. Though being there does nothing for my career.

I’ve spoken to his mother on the phone. To his sister, Lottie, too. They all seem nice and kind and cheerful and sane.

Sane. That’s what Summer meant when she pushed me into Callum’s arms. I make a mental note to talk to her. I promised to call every day, and so far I’ve only managed to text her a few times. I’m already breaking my promise.

I would give up a lot to have someone to talk to right now, but I don’t want to worry Callum over nothing. I need to calm down, chug more coffee, then go back and take pictures of these clowns (Photoshopping out any evidence of Richards’ drug use).

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out, only to see my mother’s name flashing. I tuck it back into my jacket with a sigh. Clearly, I’m okay. I sent her two emails reporting as much. Can she really blame me for not wanting to talk to her? All she does is make me feel guilty about coming here.

When I get to the village, I buy a pack of gum from a newsagent. As I reach into my pocket to dispose of the change, I hear chattering behind me—two chicks who sound around my age, maybe slightly older. I don’t turn around, even when one of them clearly has a Northern English accent. Liverpool is my guess, though I’m hardly an expert.

“…can’t be her.”

“Look at her scar, Maeve. It is her.”

“She’s supposed to be American.”

“I heard an American accent.”

“Stop being ridiculous! Why would she…”

I steal a quick glance—barely noticeable, just to see what they look like.

Maybe they’re friends of Kathleen’s. Perhaps they know me through Mal, who told people about my birthmark, even though he knows how self-conscious I am about it. Either way, it’s in poor taste, and at least one of them—the leggy blonde with the familiar English accent—is in no position to judge me, seeing as she sleeps with a married man.

I grab a napkin from the register, stuff it into my pocket, turn around, and flash them a smile.

“Let me give you a direct answer: yes, I am her. What did you hear? That I stole Mal from Kathleen? That my mom is a bitch? That my late dad is a no-show drunk? Been there, heard that, so let me add another rumor into the mix. This one is also true, so listen carefully—I’m living with Malachy for the next two months. Under the same roof. But I won’t be screwing around with your friend’s husband. I want nothing to do with either of them, so feel free to pass your message to Kathleen.”

And by the look of it, anyone else in this village. It’s official, I’m the pariah of this godforsaken town, thanks to my lovely host.

Astonishment drips from their faces, their mouths limp, their eyes comically wide. The blonde is wearing tight, white jeans and a huge pink faux-fur coat. Her friend is a petite, curvy brunette, with farmer’s boots and a neon green bomber jacket. They’re both nursing steaming cups of coffee.

“How dare you talk about Kathleen like that!” The blonde gasps theatrically, snapping out of her shock.

Never mind the fact that she’s sleeping with Kathleen’s husband.

“Let me guess, you’re here for your inheritance from your father?”

What?Why would I come here eight years after he died?

“I’m not interested in my late father’s money,” I clip out.

I wish he’d been broke, so people would stop accusing me of going after his fortune. No wonder Mal hates money so much. It’s everything people think about.

“Right,” the blonde snorts. The brunette shakes her head, elbowing her friend.

“Stop it, Maeve. I think she really doesn’t know. I’m Heather, and this is Maeve.”

Reluctantly, I shake both their hands. Maeve still looks upset by my existence, and I’m trying really hard not to out her sordid doings yesterday in front of her friend.

“I’m Rory.”

“We know,” they say in unison.

“I didn’t think she’d be that pretty. Kath said she was just okay,” Maeve grumbles, then bites her lip, realizing she said that aloud.

“Do you live around here?” I look between them, trying to break the ice.

Heather nods. “Just down the street. On Christchurch Grove. Ours are the blue and red houses facing each other. We’re married to the O’Leary twins, you see. She’s married to Sean, and I’m married to Daniel.”

This is way more information than I asked for. I smile and step away, toward the street.

“What are you doing living with Mal if you two aren’t a thing?” Maeve narrows her eyes at me.

Everything in her face is squeezed in concentration, like her life depends on my next words.

“We work together. I thought he married Kath.”

“He did.” Heather sighs, as if everyone knows how that turned out.

Well, I don’t.I’d kill for an answer. Well, maybe not kill, but seriously injure someone. Preferably Mal himself.

“Did they get a divorce?” I’m starting to think I’ve gone mad. Either Mal and Kathleen have a super-open relationship or I’m missing something crucial here.

“Mal would never.” Maeve’s bitter tone does not escape me. “He’s loyal to a fault.”

Yeah. Loyal. So, so loyal.

“Kath left him, then?”

Their eyes grow so big, I’m afraid they’re going to roll out of their sockets. Realizing this is a dead-end conversation, I mutter a goodbye and start backing away, turning around and taking off.

I need to talk to someone, all right. Father Doherty. Yeah, he’ll be able to tell me what the hell this entire inheritance obsession is about, and maybe shed light on the Mal-and-Kathleen situation. God knows Mal is not helpful in this regard.

I know Father Doherty lives in this village. It’s just a matter of finding him. I’ll go door to door if I must.

I tromp my way back toward Mal’s cottage and take the long way up, the one between fields of barley and wheat. The air is fresh, and the wheat is brown and beaten by the cold, whooshing back and forth in the wind like silk. By the time I see the cottage, my heart rate is back to normal.

I push the door open and find Mal sitting in the backyard, which has been fully furnished with loungers, a dining table, two fire tables, and a fancy grill. The entire house looks different. Uncluttered, yet full of new, shiny things. I watch Mal sit back at one of the tables outside through the living room window. He’s flirting with two American girls from Richards’ staff. He is nice, Old Mal again. The one I fell for. I shake my head, roll my eyes, and head to my room, stepping over the threshold.

I blink.

Turn around.

Stalk back to the corridor.

Check it really is my room—it is—then re-enter, looking around.

What. In. The. Name. Of. Jesus. And. His. Holy. Crew?

Someone has removed the bed I’ve been sleeping on and replaced it with a gigantic, plush, king-sized mattress on an upholstered white bedframe with the initials AR. There are two nightstands, a central sound system, a TV, every game device under the sun, and a clothes rack with robes, fancy coats, and colorful blazers.

I shoot out to the backyard, feeling like my feet are hovering over the floor. I’m not mad. No. I’m raging. I can feel my pulse everywhere, including my eyelids and toes. A feral scream lodges in my throat.

I throw the back door open, and it slaps against the wall from impact.

“How dare you?” I fling my arms at Mal. He looks up from something one of the American girls is showing him on her phone—her ass is perched on the edge of the table his feet are on—and all three are staring at me now.

He watches me with quiet amusement. “Care to be more specific? I quit my mind-reading job last week.”

The girls snicker, exchanging looks.

“My room! My things! Everything is gone.”

I’m finding it hard not to stomp my foot and throw a fit, and Mal knows it, because the more flustered I am, the calmer he looks. He yawns provocatively, leaning back in his chair.

“About that. We had a bit of a space problem with Richards moving in, so I had to put your things in my room. Hey, roomie.” He winks, his eyes light and full of mischief.

The girls sigh audibly next to him. I’m about to throw up.

“I’m not rooming with you.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Looks like you are from where I’m sitting. Then again, you’re awfully short. Sometimes you don’t see the whole picture.”

No, he didn’t.

“You sit on a throne of delusions if you think I’m sharing a bed with you.”

“No one said anything about sharing a bed, silly. I rolled you out a sleeping bag on the floor. Chivalry is not dead, Rory. I’m living proof of that.”

“You want me to sleep on the floor?”

He shrugs. “You can stay awake on the floor, if you like. What you do with your spare time—on the floor—is not my concern.”

More laughter.

He’d better be kidding me.

“Get up,” I grit out.

The women exchange bitch-is-crazy looks. They aren’t wrong. Not now, anyway.

Mal gives them a meaningful, see-what-I-have-to-deal-with? look. He gets up, swaggering over to me as lazily as he possibly can without standing still. When he’s within reach, I grab the collar of his shirt and jerk him indoors. Everyone other than the girls is gone, the house fully prepared for Richards, but I don’t take any chances we’ll be heard. Richards is probably touring the village, trying out the local beer, butter, and babes. I shove Mal into the bathroom and lock the door. He leans back on the vanity, smirking down at me like I’m adorable.

“Mal,” I start, taking a cleansing breath. “We can’t sleep in the same room. I have a boyfriend. You have a wife. You care about what she thinks. I know you do.”

I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him, or myself. “I heard you talking to that English lady yesterday…”

At the mention, Mal’s lips curl in satisfaction. Of course, I was meant to hear him nailing Maeve through the mattress, floor, and lower sections of hell, giving her four orgasms and three praises for Jesus, God, Mary, and every saint in the Bible.

“You said you want to take Kath somewhere sunny after this is all over. Maybe you two are going through a hard time—”

“We are,” he interjects. “Horrible, really.”

I nod, eager to make my point.

“Yes. All couples do. I get it. And maybe you’re on a break, and that’s why you were with someone else. I’m not judging. But if we share a room, Kathleen will never, ever forgive you, and we both know it. And I will never be able to mend my relationship with my sister.”

Not that I particularly want that…but still. It would be nice to have the choice.

He pokes his lower lip out and tugs at it, his purple eyes raking my face. He is so painfully, unfairly beautiful. I want to lash out at him for abusing the power of his looks by being so impossible. He licks his lips, his eyes dropping to my mouth. I know what he’s thinking, and the blood that’s buzzing with anger in my veins is now full-blown humming with something that feels deadly close to anticipation. The familiar chill turns hot again, and I know he is my lighter. Ready to set me on fire with a flick of his fingers.

I take a step back, clearing my throat.

“There’s also another option,” I say.

“You can’t go to a hotel. New Year’s is around the corner and everything’s booked.”

“No.” I lift my eyes to his. “There’s another room at the end of the hall.”

I don’t mention that I’m dying to know why the room is locked. I simply watch as his expression morphs from easy to very frighteningly dead. His thick eyebrows furrow, his eyes dim, and his jaw squares. I don’t need him to open his mouth to know it was a mistake to bring it up, but to leave no doubt, he pushes off the vanity and crowds me, his limbs easy and long and forbidding.

I swallow, but don’t cower. I tilt my chin up, not even blinking—not even when he reaches to cup the side of my neck, tilting his head sideways as his gaze scorches a path into my soul and rummages through it like it’s a stack of secondhand clothes at a charity shop.

“Let’s get one thing straight: you are not to talk about, refer to, or think about that room. You are, in fact, the very reason why that room exists. You will sleep in the sleeping bag, or you will not sleep at all. Take the sofa if you’re really into pneumonia. There’s no central heating, though, and the only heaters working are in mine and Ashton’s rooms. After that little stunt in the living room earlier, I doubt he’d let you warm his bed. And just to make things perfectly clear, you’re not welcome in mine.”

I open my mouth, about to tell him to go screw himself, when there’s pounding on the door. I jump in surprise, and he takes a step back, running his hand through his inky hair. I drop my gaze and see that he is hard. Rock hard, fully tented, and turned on. I flush pink, reaching for the door handle, desperate to get out.

Mal puts his hand on mine to stop me. Our eyes lock.

Flick. And just like that, I’m burning.

“Mal! We’re off. Make sure to wake Ashton up in about thirty minutes, okay? He has a call with Ryner booked for six pm your time. See you tomorrow. Or earlier, if you want. You have my number.” One of the girls giggles. “Ciao, handsome!”

The front door slams. Mal is the first to move. He opens the door, and we both slip out and disappear into different rooms. I go into Mal’s room to take my stuff to the living room—lack of heating be damned—and Mal goes into my former room to wake up Ashton.

I’m tucking linens into the sides of the sofa pillow when Mal walks into the front room, his face ashen. I don’t ask him what’s wrong, because frankly, I don’t care anymore.

“Richards is gone,” he tells me. “He’s not in his room.”

Our gazes connect, and we both say in unison, “Fuck.”

A NOTE FROM MAEVE

Hullo! It’s me, Maeve.

Just one little thing before you go back to your daily schedule.

To be perfectly clear: when Mal called me out of the blue, after years of radio silence, I very much wanted to ignore him. I did. He’s been horrible to me the past few years, you see.

Left me heartbroken and shattered when he said goodbye out of nowhere, without giving me a sufficient reason.

Yet I couldn’t stay away. A part of me—a small, stupid part of me—thought he might’ve changed his mind, that perhaps he saw the light and realized I was more than just a shag. That we were soulmates or something.

He proved me wrong as soon as I got to his bedroom. I swear, he was busier making me scream and the bed creak than anything else. It was obviously a revenge shag, and lucky me, I was in the middle of it, while she was listening next door.

I know she was, because she was gasping and moaning, too.

Which only made him fuck me with more stamina and speed than ever.

I felt a lot like a condom—like I was the only thing separating them from one another. It wasn’t really me he was sleeping with. It was her. And she, she imagined him, too.

Which reminded me why I’d gone and cheated on my husband every single time Mal gave me a ring, even though I’m no silly girl. I knew—know—why Mal started sleeping with me: to hurt my husband.

And why he did it last night: to hurt Aurora.

’Tis the truth that sleeping with another man when you have a family of your own is a villainous thing to do. But what about me? What about my feelings? My existence?

Shall I live my entire life washing and cleaning and feeding and cooking?

Loveless and lonely and slaving to kids who don’t care and a husband who won’t even look at me?

I didn’t mean to hurt my family.

To put what I have in jeopardy.

I didn’t mean to fall for the unattainable.

To ruin so many things along the way.

Now my Sean knows, but we are not getting a divorce.

No. He is better than that. Better than me. He just told me if I ever see Mal again in private, he would take the kids away.

I know he wants to kill Mal.

I want to kill Mal, too.

But for a different reason. I just saw the girl he fell in love with and realize I don’t stand a chance.

There’s a reason why fairytales end right after the prince saves the princess. No one likes to see her nursing postpartum depression and a drunken husband, all whilst folding the laundry.

And Mal? He was the prince who blazed by on a horse, heading in a different direction.