In the Unlikely Event

by L.J. Shen

My life is contained in a round, beautiful snow globe. The kind no one has bothered to pick up from the dusty shelf in years. Unshaken. Quiet and still. From the outside, my manicured Swiss village looks perfect. And it is. Kind of. At twenty-six, it appears I have my life together. Perfect job. Perfect apartment. Perfect roommate. Perfect boyfriend. Perfect lies.

Well, they’re not lies, per se. All my accomplishments are real. I worked hard for them. Problem is, I promised eight years ago to give them all away in the blink of an eye if I bumped into him again. But back then, I wasn’t the same person I am today. I was lost. Grieving. Broken. Confused. Not that it matters, because that was then, and this is now, and it’s not him I’m staring at. Nope. There’s no way. It’s not. …Then why can’t I tear my eyes from the mysterious stranger who glides through the doors of The Beerchman Hotel’s ballroom, turning every head along the way?

All eyes at the ball are on this enigmatic man, mine included. Stop it, Rory. It’s not him. If only I could see his eyes. Then I’d be able to put this to rest, to know for sure. No one else has those eyes. A rare shade of violet, like crushed crystal candy. “Lack of melanin mixed with light reflecting off red blood vessels,” Mal explained the night he took my innocence, heart, and panties all in the same breath.

Mal would die before making a deal with a bigwig like my boss. Set himself on fire before attending a glamorous gala. Drink cyanide straight from the bottle before associating himself with the likes of Jeff Ryner. Mal is not cold, or arrogant, or high-browed. He cuts his own hair and high-fives strangers and thinks brown sauce is the cure for all of the world’s problems. Mal hates lavish events, entertainment journals, mainstream record labels, and elegant food. He loves his mammy, having the craic, getting shit-faced, and songwriting while lying under the flawless night sky in his backyard.

But that was eight years ago, a little voice inside me points out. For a period of twenty-four hours. What do I know about today’s Malachy Doherty? What did I ever know about him at all? “There she is.”

Callum’s arms wrap around my waist. I jump in surprise, his posh, English accent startling me for a second.

“You look gorgeous, love.” Callum captures my chin with the back of his thumb, tilting my head up. Do I, though? I’m the opposite of what a man like Callum would usually go for. I have pale, borderline-sickly skin, big green eyes always framed by an industrial amount of eyeliner, a nose hoop, and an undying love for everything punk rock, which is probably getting a little old at my ripe age of soon-to-be twenty-seven.

Sometimes I suspect that’s what drew Callum to me in the first place. That eccentric, vibrant shell that could elevate his status more than any plastic trophy wife could. “Look how open-minded and hip Callum is, with his hipster, artistic, holds-on-to-an-actual-job girlfriend. Her breasts are unenhanced, and she is not on a first-name basis with the saleswomen at Neiman Marcus.” “I look like something from the cast of Beetlejuice.” I laugh, kissing his neck. His low rumble vibrates against my body.

“I like Beetlejuice.” He’s never watched it. He told me so on our first date, but correcting him seems redundant,

“You know who else I like?” He dips his head down for another kiss. “You, in that Tiffany’s necklace I bought you.” Eh, yeah. The one he gave me, along with a sensible dress, because I’m cool, but not always cool enough to look the way I do next to his friends. “Careful. I’m turning twenty-seven in a couple months. You might give me ideas,” I tease. The words feel empty on my tongue, but I know how much pleasure he takes in hearing this. “My father told me not to threaten a whore with a dick. Do you know what that means, Aurora Belle Jenkins?” That’s my tall, stockbroker, Wolf of Wall Street boyfriend.

“I think you were put on this earth to destroy me.” I laughed, taking a step back. The conversation with Mal from all those years ago floated to the front of my mind, reminding me I’d heard those words before. Things Mal and I said to each other always lurked in the recesses of my thoughts. Mal had told me I could kill him. He didn’t know that in a way, he’d killed me, too. Every day I lived without him slugged by like a snail, leaving a trail of slimy goo in its wake. “Okay, fella. Time I call you a cab.” I tapped the back of Callum’s hand. That was before I knew he owned the penthouse upstairs. “I’m serious,”

He looks into my eyes. “I’m a serial monogamist, thirty-two, and have been dating you for almost a year. Commitment doesn’t scare me, Rory. If I have it my way, you’ll move in with me tomorrow morning.” I unbutton his blazer and loosen his tie, just to do something with my hands. I like Callum, too, but a year is still early in our relationship. It took you twenty-four hours to promise Mal your forever, says the voice in my head. I was also new to dick and non-self-induced orgasms. I proceed to make excuses for my eighteen-year-old self.

Mal’s extremely devoted to his family, his farm, his country. I knew that when I met him. That man wouldn’t move to America. Not even for a girl. Especially not for a girl. Definitely not this girl. As for money? He doesn’t care for it. Never did.

I tuck the napkin with the hotel logo into the pocket of my dress. Glancing back, I see Whitney sliding into my seat and casing her red-nailed claws on Callum’s shoulder, shooting him a sugary smile. Whitney would love nothing more than to prove she’s better than me. And she certainly is, if the criteria is best Desperate Housewives imposter from a plastic suburban neighborhood. The last thing I catch is her whispering something intimate to Callum. He frowns and shakes his head, no. Whatever she told him, he seems upset by the suggestion.

Not only is it freezing, but I’m always cold. Ever since I was born, ever since I can remember, I wear sweaters and fluffy jackets everywhere. It’s like there’s an invisible layer of ice coating my skin at all times. I look up, blinking back at the stars, admiring their beauty even in this weather.

Approaching footsteps clack on the floor behind me. Something heavy falls on my shoulders. A rich wool coat, still warm from body heat. It smells masculine and expensive: clean earth, pine, smoke, and the type of cologne that’s too pricey for mass retail. A shadow looms by my side. He puts a glass of whiskey on the wide marble bannister, his elbow next to mine, almost touching, but not quite. I twist my head, expecting to see Ryner, and come face to face with…Mal. My Mal. It is him after all. Malachy Doherty, with the lilac eyes. With the hypnotic smile. With the contract I signed on the napkin. With the piece of my heart he never gave back. Only he is not smiling anymore. It doesn’t look like he’s happy to see me. He said if we ever met again, he’d marry me, no matter what. But that was almost a decade ago—under the influence of alcohol and lust and youth. Of possibility. Mal opens his mouth. “Hello, darlin’.”

The first flakes of snow fall around us. On my nose. Eyelashes. Shoulders. A storm is brewing inside my snow globe.

“Father…?” I eye the giant cross on his chest. “Doherty,” he provides. “Father Doherty, did he ever say anything about me?”

Two things hit me in that moment as I regard Father Doherty: The man’s eyes are mesmerizing—a weird shade of violet dipped in blue that instantly warms you up. I will meet him again, someday. Next time I do? He’ll change my life. Forever.

The song ends, and Malachy Doherty cracks his eyes open and stares directly at me, like he knew I’d be here. Like he watched me watching him through closed eyes. Disoriented—and for some reason wanting to do something, anything—I throw a bill into his guitar case and look away, realizing to my horror that I threw the fifty euros his grandpa gave me. Everyone around me murmurs and whistles. They think it was intentional. I can feel my face flaming red. I bet he thinks I want to sleep with him. Do I? Probably. But should he know that? Hell no.

“I’m not keen on girls who don’t know what they want.” He quirks a dark, thick eyebrow. “But I’ve a feeling you’re here to change that.”

Weakness, hate, desire, How I’d love to light your soul on fire, In a room full of pretty lost girls and bad broken boys, You will find me, dip me in ice, and drown all the white noise, I want to see the world through your eyes and fall in love, But most of all, I am frightened you don’t really exist, Because then my fairytale has no beauty, Just a sad, lonely beast.

Everyone is so quiet, I begin to doubt this moment is real. I stop swaying and open my eyes. To my astonishment, I find the entire street staring at him. Even waitresses stand on the thresholds of restaurants and at café doors, admiring his voice. And Malachy? He is staring at me.

When he finishes the song, he takes a little bow and waits for the claps and shouts to die down. He wiggles his brows at me with a grin that tells me he’s going to sleep with me, which is stupid, because I’m eighteen, and not the sleeping-around type. I’ve only slept with one person in my life: Taylor Kirshner, senior year, because we’d dated for a while and both of us didn’t want to leave for college saddled with our awkward virginity. But I believe Malachy. We will. I believe him because he is that guy. Someone like my dad must’ve been. A completely unhinged, typhoon-souled, damaged Romeo who would break your bed, heart, and resolve if you let him.

“Only if she sends me a copy of that picture.” He juts his chin to my backpack, flashing me a lazy grin. “Whatever for?” He thumbs the strap of his guitar case as he saunters over. Stops when we can breathe each other in. “So I’ll have her address.” “Who’s being clingy now?” I fold my arms over my chest. “Me.”

“Aren’t you going to ask what that is before you let me in?” I frown. He raises his aviators and flashes me a smile that can hold up the entire universe with its magnitude. “What’s the point? I’ll give it to you, anyway. Be it money, a snog, a shag, a kidney, a liver. God, I hope it’s not my liver you’re after. Unfortunately, mine has seen some mileage. Come on now, Aurora.” “Rory.” “Rory,” he amends, dragging his straight teeth over his bottom lip. “Much more fitting. You don’t look like a princess at all.”

“Oh, she is blushing.” He raises a fist in the air through the window. “All is not lost. I still have a chance.” “Actually, you don’t.” I douse his enthusiasm in cold water. It makes him laugh harder, because he already knows. The bastard knows he is winning me over. “I won’t have a one-night stand with you,” I say. “Of course, you won’t,” he agrees easily. Freely. Not believing a word. “I mean it,” I warn. “Over my dead body.” Laughing harder, he taps the passenger door. “Chop-chop now, Princess.”

“Anyway, I can’t stay. I have a hotel booked in Dublin.” “I’ll drive you back to check out.” He snaps out of his weird trance. “You’ll be staying with me tonight.” “I’m not going to sleep with you. Over my dead body, remember?” He cups my cheeks in his hands. They’re rough and confident, an artist’s hands, and my heart thunders with newly found pity for my mom. Now I get why she slept with my dad. Not all Casanovas are slimy. Mal isn’t. “Don’t let your feelings get in the way of facts.” “Meaning?” I frown. “Just because you don’t like the fact that you’re going to sleep with me doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen.”

“And just because we’ve only met doesn’t mean we’re strangers. Do we feel like strangers?” he asks, jerking me to his body.

I gulp, but say nothing. “Exactly. Now, you’re cocking up our perfect meet-cute. Geena Davis is rolling in her grave.” “Geena Davis is not dead, Mal!” “Come, Madame Semantics. Let me feed you.”

“I came to Drury Street on your granddad’s advice. He knew I was Glen O’Connell’s daughter. He said you’d be able to tell me more about him.” I study his face carefully. He takes my hand, flips it, and trails the lines on the inside with his finger. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I used to go to Granddad’s church every Sunday when I was a kid. Glen lived behind it. He’d let me listen to his records. He taught me a few notes and helped me string a sentence together when I started writing songs. Taught me how to bleed onto a page. So, yes, we knew each other quite well. Well enough for him to tell me he’d kill me if I ever touched his daughter.” Huh? “The other one.”

“Not you. God, Glen would have died on the spot had he met you in person. He would’ve appointed an army to protect your virtue.” “From you?” “And the rest of Europe.” He smirks. Is that his weird, Mal way of telling me I’m pretty?

attempt to make me feel better. “My age.” Mal still studies my hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Twenty-two,” he adds. “You must know her well.” “We grew up together.” He clanks his empty glass on the sticky wooden table. “Why he would direct you to me and not to her, I wonder.” “He said she was in a state and didn’t want to see anyone.” “Bollocks. Kathleen’s more social than a penguin.”

Kathleen swats Mal’s shoulder and keeps her hand on him, possessively. Sighing like it’s a job, he captures her wrist, turning her around and pinning her against the hallway wall in one swift movement. I halt, watching the situation unfold. He holds her like a farmer holds cattle, rough and without passion, but she is breathing hard. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dripping lust, daring him to make another move. She lets out a little moan, flinching at her own lack of control and turning bright red. He looks down at her like she’s a chewed toy. The familiar, old type that is too nostalgic to throw away, but no one wants to play with anymore. “How’s school, Kiki?” he asks with a pang of regret in his voice, like he hates to do that—string her along. Then why does he? He knows exactly what he’s doing to her, and that bothers me, because I can see just how much

he oozes control. She is locked in the moment, but he’s an observer, the gatekeeper keeping her in a foolish dream, the key far from her reach. “Grand.” Her voice shakes. “I…I tried to call you a few times. Dropped by on Sundays after mass. Your mam said you’ve been busy.” “I have.” “Not too busy for Aurora, apparently.” She turns scarlet again. There’s nothing mean about her tone. Just desperate. My loyalties are torn between the boy she loves, who is trying to help me, and the sister who’s falling apart because of him. “She prefers the name Rory.” Mal removes a lock of hair from Kathleen’s face, tucking it behind her ear. I want to punch him in the balls on her behalf, then kick him in the knee on mine. “Sorry, Rory.” She flashes me a nervous smile, snapping her eyes back to him, like he could disappear at any moment. “I missed you.” She missed him. She loves him.

Because I’m leaving, and she is staying. Because she seems lovely, and even if she isn’t lovely, she’s still my sister. I tiptoe my way to the kitchen without making it apparent that their seemingly friendly conversation is making something in my chest collapse, brick by brick. “Stay,” Mal snaps behind my back. He doesn’t sound so nice anymore. I halt, but don’t turn. Kathleen’s obviously got it hard for him, and I want to show her I’m not a threat. “You guys are…” I start. “Nothing,” Mal clarifies. “We’re just friends, right, Kathleen?” She clears her throat, smoothing her dress. My heart is dust in the wind. Poor her. “Of course.” What an asshole. Before I know what’s happening, Mal is at my side, plastering his hand at the small of my back.

“Actually, it was Mal who told me I should become a vet. Remember, Mal? The day I tried to save that pigeon? I think it was the Christmas we turned eleven.” Mal stares at me. “Yeah. Sure.” He doesn’t remember. Kathleen’s eager smile doesn’t collapse.

Mal gives her a weird look I can’t decipher, then stares at me in a way that makes me feel naked of clothes, skin, and bones. Like he’s looking into my soul, dissecting it with a knife and a fork. He snaps out of it, stretching in his seat. “Excuse me, ladies. Nature’s calling, and it has a three-gallon piss for me to depart in the jacks.”

As soon as Mal is out of earshot, I shake my head and smile. “He’s a wild card, huh?” Kathleen’s sweet smile drops. She plucks a tube of lip gloss from her handbag on the table and squeezes a generous amount onto her pinched lips. “What he is and what he’s not shouldn’t matter to you. He’s mine.” Her warm voice is now a cold, pointy blade running along my neck. “Excuse me?” I slant my head back. She smacks her lips, lifts her teacup—pinky in the air—and takes a slow sip. “The problem with Malachy is he has a weakness for strays. No matter how dirty, no matter how rabid.” She narrows her eyes at me. “No matter how dangerous.” I study the way her face twists in revulsion, my mouth parting in shock. Fake. It was all fake.

My sister is not nice or timid or disoriented. She is the devil. She hates me. She’s always hated me. That’s why Father Doherty wanted me to stay away. That’s why he directed me to his sweet grandson. Kath just puts on a mask for Mal. “You know, Da said he’d made a terrible mistake when he came from Paris and it became known he’d impregnated the American slag. But personally, I’ve always wanted to meet my wee half-sister. Until he died and it became clear you’d go after his money. I didn’t want to believe it. I truly didn’t. I even wanted to write to you.” “Yet you didn’t.” I grit my teeth, holding her gaze now. “How convenient of you to say you wanted to reach out, but never did.” I feel cold again. I want Mal to come back, to soak the room with his warmth. She flashes a mocking smile. “Fancy seeing you here a second after he drops dead.”

“No, you listen to me. You’re not going to see a penny from Da’s money. He left everything to me, and for good reason. I’m his legitimate child. You and the other poor sod who kicked the bucket, on the other hand, are nothing but mere unfortunate accidents. Also, you can shag Mal all you want for however long you’re here, but it is me who will marry him. So just remember that when you’re writhing underneath him and letting him use you. He’ll fuck you, because he can, but it’s me who will warm his bed forever. And that’s you in a nutshell, Aurora. A cheap version of me. In Da’s life. In Mal’s.” Her grip tightens even more around my hand. I pull away, but she is strong, and I’m too stunned to move. Her lips twitch and widen. “And please don’t embarrass yourself by trying to pull your mother’s trick and get knocked up. Surely you know he won’t follow you to America, and if you expect to dump your spawn at my door, you’re in for a terrible disappointment.”

“Stay away from Mal. He is mine. The money’s mine. Everything you see here, everyone you meet, belongs to me. Leave.” “You think I’m after the money? Your crush?” I spit the last word. Moments ago, I’d have died before laying a finger on Mal. But right now? I would likely hump him on her dining table, preferably as she eats her dinner in front of us. “I think you’re a gold-digging whore like your mother. She ruined my father and everything I

knew and loved. You’re the reason I lost him for a while.” A while? What does she mean by that? Pointless to ask, as she seems less than cooperative with me. “You’re a bitch,” I retort. Not the most eloquent of comebacks, but one that comes from the heart. She smiles. “Well, I’m the bitch who owns everything you want, so I’ll happily take the title. Now, now, don’t look so riled up. Mal loves me more than life itself. If you tell him I said any of those things, he’ll kick you to the streets.”

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...

“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?”

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.

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.

“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.