In the Unlikely Event

by L.J. Shen

“Mal.” I raise an eyebrow. “Aurora.” “Just so you know, I have a boyfriend,” she says matter-of-factly, peeling my pea coat from her shoulders and throwing it my way. I catch it, and as I do, raise my left hand in the air, palm facing me, so she can see the gold band on my ring finger. “Good for you, sweetheart,” I deadpan, twisting the ring around. “Reached first base yet? Carved your initials on a tree? Maybe you gave each other purity rings,” I ponder, then shake my head. “Nah. Too late for that.” I don’t think she listened to any of my monologue, though. She is solely focused on the wedding band, following my movements with her eyes. I can see the question behind them, and, of course, charitable bastard that I am, I volunteer the information. “Kathleen.” I shove my hand into my pocket, noticing the way—even though her face pales and her fingers clutch the bannister—she doesn’t collapse. “Shortly after you left. Beautiful ceremony, performed by Father Doherty. My sincere apologies for not sending you an invitation.” Aurora’s throat works, and it reminds me how delicate it was under my fingers. She elevates her chin, refusing to break. Night’s still young, darlin’. “Selling songs and marrying Kathleen?” Her face turns to stone, completely void of emotion now. “You’re right, Mal. I really don’t have the faintest clue who you are anymore.”

“Do you guys need a second?” He sniffs his beaky nose, finishing off his cigarette and putting it out in a plant. Christ, he’s a waste of oxygen. His mother needs to plant a tree for every day he lives. “Yes,” Aurora says. “No,” I snap at the same time.

Aurora drops her voice once we’re alone. “In the contract, you said you wouldn’t care if we had significant others or spous—” I cut her off immediately. “You mean eight years ago, when we were both fresh out of diapers? Come on now, Aurora. We were in love with the concept, not each other.” Why is she even bringing this up, after everything she’s done and said?

“Okay…” she drawls, processing. “Just making sure you know I’m not going to honor that contract.” “Excuse me while I go dry my tears with the one million euros I’m here for.” I finish my drink in one gulp and place the glass on the wide marble railing. When I turn to her, I have a pleasant, plastic smile on my face. I’d hate for her to think I actually care whether she comes or not. “Won’t Kathleen mind me being there?” She plays with the hoop in her nose. “Considering our history and all.” “Kathleen won’t mind.”

“Glad to see at least one of you grew up during this decade.” She twists the hoop in her nose some more. “And I would ask that Callum could come and go as he pleases while I stay at your house. We’ll be good guests and stay out of your way as much as possible, of course.” “That’s fine,” I snap. She’s staring at me; I’m staring at the view again. I’m not making it any easier for her. Why should I? She’s the one who threw everything down the shitter and flushed it a thousand times. “You still live in your cottage?” she asks. “Yes.” “Do you have any children?” “No.” “Is there a—” “Do I look like a steak?” I cut into her words again. She shakes her head, looking at me with even more confusion and revulsion than before. “Then stop grilling me.” I twist my head to stare her down.

I remind myself what I’ve

had to endure in recent years thanks to her and push the guilt aside. To think that every minute spent with her, I was tearing myself apart for not giving her the truth. About her. About her father. Whatever I plan to do to Aurora will only cause short-term damage. She’ll land back on her feet. Eventually. Me? I’m fucked into the next life, and possibly the one after it, too.

“Why are you so mad?” she hisses, more shocked than hurt now. “Mad?” I blink at her like she’s crazy. “I’m just not interested in making this more than it is.

It’s been eight years, and a lot has happened in them.” But not enough for me to spell out the words she wants to hear: I’m taken. You’re taken. It’s just a business transaction. I won’t try to steal you. I won’t try to sabotage your relationship. I won’t try to seek revenge. Those are all things I don’t say. Things I leave out. The things she should be demanding right now. Luckily, Aurora seems too flustered to read the unwritten fine print of this conversation. She’s forever the hotheaded redhead. “I see.” Her jaw squares, and so do her shoulders. “If that’s the way you want it to be, then I’ll respect that.” She nods, taking a step away from me. I want to throttle her. To tell her it is not, in fact, the way I want it to be, but she made it that way. She moved on, and I got stuck. Now I’m angry, and vengeful, and definitely in the mood to inflict some damage myself. “When do I start?” She parks her hands on her waist.

“Sometime after Christmas, before New Year’s. Richards is throwing a party at my house, and Ryner mentioned something about it.” I scratch the beginning of my stubble. “Work out the details with him.” “Do you have any plans for Christmas?” She blinks at me. Poor lass is still trying. Is she bipolar? She was quite clear about where I stood with her after we parted ways, so this doesn’t make a lot of sense. “You’re doing it again,” I point out. “Doing what?” “Trying to make pleasant conversation. Being pleasant to you is not on my agenda, Aurora.” She ...

“And you?” I can’t help myself. “Christmas with the future in-laws in England?” She turns and gives me a serene smile.

“I, too, have no interest in being pleasant with you, Malachy Doherty. The difference between us? Unlike you, I stay true to my word.” I lean back on the bannister and smile, watching her go. All is fair in love and war, and I’m certainly prepared for battle.

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

“I 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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

“You can’t go.” Summer stops pacing, stomping her foot. “I won’t allow it.” “I’ve made up my mind.”

“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.”

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,

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.

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,

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.

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 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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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.

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.”

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!

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?

“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?

“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.

Aurora Belle Jenkins hates me. But hate is a verb. And I’m about to prove I hate her more.

“Do you love him?” He ignores my question. My breath catches, my thumb halting on the camera ring. I take a deep breath, then walk over to him, ready to take a close-up. We are close enough I can feel his breath on my skin. It’s slow. Warm. Wild. “Do you love her?” I whisper back. “What I love,” he says slowly, “is basking in the knowledge that you will soon be on your knees for me, Aurora Jenkins.”

“You don’t love her,” I breathe out, closing my eyes. He is in a loveless marriage. He opens his mouth to say something when I hear a knock on the doorframe.

Callum tugs me toward the front door, holding my hand. Outside, his cab is already waiting, engine revved up. The driver gets out and flings Callum’s bag into his trunk. I rise on my tiptoes to kiss him again. I expect our usual peck goodbye, but to my surprise, Callum grabs the back of my neck, dips his head, and crashes his lips against mine. I open my mouth for his tongue and groan into the kiss, which deepens with each second and feels nothing like our usual kisses. I don’t know how much time passes before his lips desert mine, but the driver is honking his horn and throws an impatient arm out the window. When Callum finally breaks away, it’s not me he’s looking at. He’s staring behind my shoulder, an easy smile on his chiseled face. I turn, already dreading what I’m about to see. Mal.

He looks nonchalant and smug and delicious and…smiling? Why is he smiling back at Callum? Like the confession never happened. Like we didn’t share a moment. Like he knows something I don’t. My stomach clenches and twists. The knots grow like a rubber ball rolled in thorns. Mal fishes something from his pocket and motions for me to take it. “Here, wipe your mouth.” I don’t move. This could be a trick. He’s been hateful before. “Rory,” he coaxes. “Truce?” Rory. Are we back on good terms? I’m still not a fan of him bossing me around. I take a few steps toward him and grab whatever it is he holds out for me, my eyes narrowing into slits. His mouth quirks up in one corner, and it reminds me that before he was a jerk, he was the guy who captured an entire street with his guitar and charm.

Moral of the story: clutching something desperately doesn’t mean you’re going to keep it. You might just kill it.