In the Unlikely Event
“I don’t want to sing. Attention doesn’t get my dick hard.”
“I know.” I smile. “That’s why I hide behind a camera, too. It doesn’t…make me wet, I suppose, either.” I blush.
“So you understand.” He smiles, relieved. “I won’t sell my songs. They’re mine.”
“Do what makes you happy. The world will understand. If it doesn’t, it’s the world’s problem, not yours.”
Silence.
“Marry me, Rory.” He turns to me. “Let’s just stay here and feck and make music and take pictures.”
I laugh and pop another candy into my mouth. But he seems serious, waiting for an answer.
“Mal…” I say.
Jesus. He’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“I have school. I’m going to college in a few weeks.”
“We have colleges here.”
“I’ve already enrolled. Paid. I have a dorm room. My best friend, Summer, is coming with me.”
“I have some savings,” he insists. “I’m good at what I do. I can provide for us.”
“You’re insane.”
“I never claimed not to be.” He scowls, and by the edge in his voice, I can tell he’s finding it hard to keep himself calm. Then he shakes his head, smiles, rolls on top of me, and covers my face with hot, wet kisses.
He taps the nightstand, trying to find another condom. There aren’t any. We ran out. He lifts his face from mine, wordlessly asking for permission. I can feel the weight of this decision pressing against every bone in my body. Especially considering how I came into this world. This is where I become my mother. Where I let my need and lust override my logic.
I give him a little nod. “Pull out, please. It’d be hard to take care of a baby during finals.”
“Feck you, Rory.”
“Please do, Mal.”
In the morning, I insist on treating him to breakfast before we head to the airport. He paid for my hotel and my meals since I got here. It’s the least I can do.
We end up at The Boar’s Head, which is apparently the only place locals eat. Tourists from all over the world come to Tolka for the small town, Irish experience, to work the land and tour the local brewery. I’ve learned this place is also known for its butter. The pub is jam-packed when we walk in, but a beautiful, blonde bartender finds us a table when she spots Mal.
“Missed you, rascal.” She winks at him.
It’s pretty easy to see they share a history.
Mal flicks the back of her ear. “Been a minute.”
“Call me this weekend?”
“Depends on a certain bell,” he says. Bell means a ring, a booty call, a one-night stand. But Belle is my name, too. Not that he knows that.
My whole body is sore from having sex with Mal five times last night, not to mention the extracurricular activities we did in addition. We don’t discuss the one time without the condom, because he did pull out. I tell myself nothing bad will happen, but just to make sure, I’ll buy a morning-after pill at the airport’s Boots pharmacy.
After placing our order at the bar, I wince as I sit down. Mal grabs my hand and presses it against his lips.
“Let’s try this again in broad daylight.” He clears his throat. “Stay.”
I tear open a pack of chips and throw one into my mouth, chewing to buy some time.
“As I said, I’m starting college in two weeks.”
“Feck college.”
“What about my mom?”
“Don’t feck her. That’s the kind of kinky I’m not quite into. But you hate her, Rory. Besides, we’ll send her hairspray every month. And plane tickets every Christmas. Easter, too, if you insist.” He reaches for his Guinness—yes, in the morning—taking a generous sip. “Stay, Rory. It’s kismet. Tell me you didn’t notice the rain stopped when we kissed yesterday.”
I open my mouth to say it means nothing, but then the power goes out. It’s daylight, but it still freaks me out when the hanging TVs go dead, the Lord of the Dance music stops, and the humming of industrial fridges ceases.
The silence stretches between us. Everyone seems to have gone quiet. I’m not sure, but I think some people are staring at us. They must’ve heard the last part of the conversation when the music died, and are waiting for my answer.
Do they know Mal proposed? I swallow, staring at my hands on the table.
“Rory?” he asks.
“I don’t believe in kismet,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes trained on the open bag of chips. “You’re twenty-two, and I’m eighteen. We both know it won’t last.”
Am I working against my own fate?
The electricity comes back on. This serendipity crap is borderline paranormal. Annoyed, I take comfort in the fact that the football playing on the TVs and the music will drown our conversation, and the rest of the locals go back to their chitchat.
Mal says nothing. His face falls, like he just realized I’m right. I pinch the hoop in my nose and slide it back and forth.
“Hey, what about doing a long-distance thing? I’m planning on getting a job while I study, so I can probably visit you next summer. Maybe even Christmas, depending on the ticket prices.”
As I say this, I try to convince myself it really can work. I’ll only need to pay for the tickets. Mal has a car and a house.
But he shakes his head, sitting back and balancing his chair on its two back legs. “I’m an all-or-nothing type of lad, Rory. There’s no way in hell I can manage long distance.”
His answer angers me a little. So he wants me, but only on his conditions? That’s shitty. If someone isn’t willing to wait for you, they don’t really deserve you.
I can’t tell him to uproot himself and come to the States, to leave six siblings, his nephews and nieces, a mother, an elderly adoptive grandfather, and a mourning childhood friend who is pining for him and probably wants to wear my skin.
And after the offhand way he treated me when I brought up long distance, I won’t even try.
“We could stay friends on Facebook or MySpace—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“And watch as you move on with other guys? Nah, thank you. I try to keep my self-hatred below suicidal level. And we both know watching each other fecking other people would be dazzlingly stupid.”
I give him a hard stare, folding my arms. “Fine. Then we go cold turkey.”
“I can’t go cold turkey,” he says.
God, he is difficult. “You leave no room for much else,” I grit out.
“False,” he retorts.
“What do you suggest?”
“A contract.” He lets his chair slam on the floor as he leans forward. “You Yanks love legally binding shite, yeah?” He reaches for my bag next to me, flipping it open. He takes out my camera and a pen, sprinkles the utensils out of a folded napkin, and straightens it on the table.
“It’s not the right time to be together, I agree. But if we meet again, under any circumstances, any time in the future, we’re making this work, Rory. Feck spouses. Feck boyfriends and girlfriends. Feck the world. If kismet happens, we are letting it happen, no matter what, you hear?”