In the Unlikely Event

There’s a twitch in his mouth that tells me he’s trying to school his face, that he’s tasting a calamity that’s yet to happen.

“But twenty percent of it, I felt she truly believed. Which is why I’ve always kept my distance from her. A subconscious part of me has always been worried I’ll hurt her.”

I squeeze his bicep. “It is ironic that the angel is someone’s devil.”

“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.

My throat closes on a declaration. I like you, Malachy Doherty. More than I should. Definitely more than my half-sister allows me to.

I turn toward the window, clearing my throat. “Do you like her? Is that why you’re afraid of hurting her?”

“Sure. I like her fine.”

“You’re playing with her feelings.”

“She enjoys it.”

“She enjoys having her heart broken?” I blink, incredulous.

I’m concerned about what it says about him that he’s using Kathleen as blood sport. No matter what I feel about my half-sister, she doesn’t deserve it.

He stares back at the road, rolling his bottom lip with his teeth. “Between being ignored and being toyed with, Kathleen would prefer the latter, which is why she’s at my door twice a week. Look, I tried telling her it isn’t going to happen. She cried. She broke things. She even slept outside my door one winter night. This is what she wants. A sliver of hope to hold on to. I think Kath is a grand lass, but I don’t fear her capabilities over me. Isn’t that the essence of love? Find someone worth killing for? Someone with the power to ruin you?”

Silence stretches between us. I always thought of love as something sweet, fun—not melancholic, dark, and all-consuming. Then again, I’ve never imagined I’d fall in love.

“You, on the other hand…” He taps the steering wheel. “You can slay me any day of the week.”

“So, you can kill Kathleen, and I can kill you?” I ask, watching the landscape zip by. “That’s a morbid way to look at things.”

The fields sprawl like bed sheets under the darkening sky. Tomorrow I’ll see them in full daylight, and then I’ll never see them again. I have nothing to look for here. Ireland turned out to be a sweet, unfulfilled promise.

“Life’s morbid. Spoiler alert—we all die at the end.” Malachy shrugs.

“Well, I’m a pacifist, so don’t worry about me. I’ll never kill you.” I turn back to face him.

He smiles a sad smile I haven’t seen on him before, takes my hand, and kisses my knuckles, his eyes still on the road. The energy I felt earlier when our hands touched returns, and I can’t put a name to it, but it’s electric. Tangible. It even has a taste.

“You already have.”

Mal carries my suitcase to his car, then proceeds to spend the next hour arguing with the hotel’s receptionist, trying to get them to let me go without paying for the night I’ve booked. The receptionist looks to be in her mid-fifties, baggy-eyed, with no patience to spare. They each ping-pong the merits of their argument. I take Mal’s hand and tug, pleading for him to drop it. I’ll pay. I don’t care about the money. (Actually, I do, but I care more about not wasting the few hours I still have in Ireland watching them argue over my bill.)

Mal shakes me off and continues bickering with the woman. He tells her to climb inside my skin and walk in it, referencing—I shit you not—To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to simultaneously hide under a rock and kiss him silly.

“This girl right here came all the way from New Jersey to mourn the father she never met.” He points at me. “Her hostel reservations got cocked up, and she checked in here only to have somewhere to put her suitcase.”

“Sir, I understand, but we have policies in place…” she argues.

Mal lets out an exasperated sigh and takes his wallet out of his back pocket. He throws a stack of bills onto the counter.

“You win. I hope this makes you very happy and pays for your boss’ Ibiza villa and three illegitimate children with his secretary.”

The woman looks down at the notes scattered between them. “Actually, sir, it’s three hundred euros per night.”

“Holy F…forks.” He sucks in a breath, throwing more notes at her, plus a few gum wrappers, a handful of coins, and what looks like a fortune from a cookie. He turns around and grabs my hand.

We gallop out to the chilly street. My heart is pounding in my chest.

“You didn’t have to do that. I’ll pay you back.”

“Like hell you will, darlin’.”

He turns to me, and to my amazement, he is all smiles. In fact, he looks like nothing happened. Totally over it.

“Aren’t you mad?” I blink.

“What about?”

“Uh…spending all the money you’ve earned this week for a room we won’t be using, for one thing.”

He waves me off, laughing now. “That was a minute ago. It’s time to move on. Don’t let the little things in life bother you, yeah?”

Crazy as it sounds, I get what he means. Life is too short to get caught up in the small things.

We get into his car and drive back to the village. When we pass Kathleen’s house on the way to his farm, I can’t help but sneak a peek at her window. She’s not there.

We get to his Tudor-style cottage, which is white with black logs running across it, a dark roof, and a heavy oak door that’s thoroughly chipped. It looks small, but in a charming, quaint way, at least in the dark. We fight bushes and overgrown grass that lash at our ankles as we make our way to the door.

“Mam’s in Kilkenny visiting my big brother, Desmond, so it’s just you and me,” he says.

“That’s cool that you have an older brother.” I watch the back of his head as he pushes the old door with his shoulder, applying force. It whines open, and we pour into his living room. Wide-plank floors, wrought-iron lighting, and salvaged wood everywhere tell me I’m no longer in America. Save for the tattered orange-yellow couch and flat TV, this place could pass as a Regency household.

“Six,” he says, dumping his keys into a vase by the door before turning around and pulling me into his arms.

I melt in his hands. “You have six brothers?” I burrow into his heat, torn between astonished and jealous.

He shrugs. “Six siblings. Five brothers and one sister. Catholic family, you see. Dez is the oldest. I’ve also got five nieces and four nephews. Don’t get me started about the pets.”

I clear my throat. “And your dad?”

“Kicked the bucket young. Heart attack at forty. I was a wee boy when he died. Joke’s on him because I don’t remember him enough to miss him.”

“I’m sorry,” I say anyway.

He takes my hand and leads me to the narrow, old kitchen with a yellow, decaying breakfast nook. He pushes another door open, and we spill into his backyard, which I can see is huge, even in the dark. There are a few divided paddocks where they must keep the cattle.