But he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He gets into his car and drives off, leaving me standing there, with his pulse still beating in my palm.

Present

Mal

Out on the balcony, Aurora stares at me like I took a shite in her soup.

To be fair, after everything that’s gone down in the last eight years, I would have, if the opportunity had presented itself. As it happens, it didn’t. So who knows exactly why she’s filled with such surprise and terror.

Nevertheless, the years we’ve spent apart have treated her well, unlike the way they’ve treated me. She still has funky hair that would look lovely wrapped around my fist, a nose hoop I’m sure she still messes with all the time, legs for miles clad in torn fishnet stockings, and the wardrobe of a fifteen year old crushing hard on Yungblud and 5 Seconds of Summer. She has a Marilyn Monroe-like beauty mark above her upper lip, that prominent, crescent scar I bet she still doesn’t know the story of, and lashes so thick, they shadow her cheeks when she looks down.

Positively lovely. The same way many women are.

Many women I haven’t thrown my life away for.

The idea that I’ve been sick with guilt over everything I hadn’t told her, everything I couldn’t say—promised not to tell her—makes me want to laugh now.

Yes, I kept things from Aurora.

But she went the extra mile and ripped things from me.

Ask me what drew me to her in the first place that fateful day on Drury Street, and I still won’t be able to pinpoint it. She’s a fine thing, but too in love with the idea of herself, like all pseudo-artistic pretty girls who can operate a camera and their mouths around a rich guy’s cock.

I cut myself some slack. Ages sixteen to twenty-two had been a blur of getting sloshed and treating myself to periodic blackouts. A girl like Aurora had slipped easily into my hopelessly optimistic heart.

Age thirty, however, brings with it a heart that’s frosted like a winter garden. Also, I stopped taking destructive lasses into my bed and promising them forever a while ago.

Lesson learned, and Rory was an excellent teacher.

Yeah, Aurora Belle Jenkins hasn’t changed.

Me, on the other hand? A completely different fella.

She turns to face me, going for an awkward, hesitant hug. I swivel, also, but with my hands clasped behind my back. When she sees a warm greeting is not in the cards for us, I reach out and use my thumb to lift her jaw, closing her slacked mouth.

“You’re here,” she murmurs.

“Aurora, always observant and quick-witted.” I throw her an impatient smile. My coat is over her shoulders, because I remember she is always cold. What I never got the chance to tell her is that I’m always so unbearably hot.

We really were quite good together. At least for twenty-four hours.

She takes a step back, looking wary, wide-eyed—a frightened animal who just heard the deadly click of a trigger. She shouldn’t be. I would never hurt her. Physically, anyway. Wasn’t I the only muppet to give her the time of the day when she was in Ireland? Yes, yes, I was.

There’s an elephant in the room, and if she thinks I’ll take mercy on her by addressing it, she’s about to discover New Mal is nothing like the one she left behind.

“Why…how…what are you doing here?” She blinks.

Seeing her like this, confused and disoriented, is not giving me the instant gratification I’d imagined getting all those years, in case we ever met again. And knowing Aurora, it’s not going to last long. She’ll find her footing soon.

I had the luxury of spotting her as soon as I walked through the doors this evening. I needn’t a single glance to recognize her. She is, after all, tattooed in my mind, permanent and painful.

“Work,” I say. “You?”

“Same.” She clears her throat, straightening her back, gaining her composure. “You’re a singer now? That’s great, Mal.”

“I write songs,” I correct, taking a sip of my whiskey. I can tell she’s shocked and hurt by the fact that I’m not hurling myself at her with love declarations. That makes both of us, if you ask twenty-two-year-old Mal.

“You?” I jut my chin in her direction.

“Photographer for Blue Hill Records.” She smiles, trying to break the ice. “Gosh, Mal. I never thought I’d see you again. But I see we’re still as predictable as the places we come from.”

“Speak for yourself.” I run my eyes down her body, making a point not to stop anywhere of previous interest. “You might be predictable. I have a few new tricks up my sleeve.”

Her smile falls. She opens her mouth to say something. Argue, probably—Aurora’s always been feisty, and I doubt that’s changed—when the balcony doors open and Jeff Ryner stumbles out.

Jeff Ryner is what happens when every cliché in the fecking book meets a man with zero personality, deep pockets, and an impressive heritage. It’s like he was Frankensteined in the basements of some low-budget Hollywood studio. The washed-up, coked-up, slimy, record Suit.

He inherited Blue Hill, a small record label, from his father some years ago and has felt inclined to ruin it. His recent conquests include signing Ashton Richards, a solo artist who is about as talented as a half-empty bottle of lube. Richards looks like an unfortunate cross between a male model, a hobo, and a One Direction dropout. He can carry a note like I can carry a fecking pyramid on my back. Saddled with the vocal range of a battered whale, he relies on auto-tune and his baby blue eyes.

Which brings me to Jeff Ryner’s second conquest—yours truly. I’m supposed to write songs for Richards’ next album, for the modest sum of one million euros. I say modest, because there’s no price for my dignity. Yet, here I am, stripping myself of poise for the greater good. Another thing she is responsible for.

Thanks for that, Aurora.

“Jenkins! I see you’ve met the man of the hour.” Ryner slow-claps as he zigzags his way to us, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looks like Humpty Dumpty in a Technicolor suit, his sweaty upper lip glistening like garbage juice. “This is Malachy Doherty. Mal, this is Rory, our junior photographer. Mal, Rory shot the cover for Fiona in Wonderland’s new album.” He waves in her direction.

That cover was brilliant. The pop princess wore a gas mask and a full-blown wedding dress, standing in an open field.

I wonder briefly if it was Aurora’s concept before deciding I don’t care. So, the traitorous lass turned out to be decent at what she does. Call the fecking press.

“Rory, Mal is one of the biggest poets of our time. He’s sold some of the best songs on the billboard, including ‘Finding you, Losing Me’, ‘On Drury Street’, ‘Underneath the Stars’, and ‘Princess from New Jersey’.”

If she connects the painfully obvious dots together, she doesn’t let it show, and for that, I’m grateful. Dumb or heartless? My bet is on the latter, based on what I know about her.

“Pleasure,” she clips sarcastically, her eyes boring into my skull, trying to make a dent.

She adapts well to the shifting atmosphere. I can tell no part of her is glad to see me again. That’s all right. I don’t want her to be a willing participant in the game. I just want her to partake in it. It will make everything so much messier, and messy is fun.