In the Unlikely Event

Okay, so also, maybe I wasn’t one-hundred-percent honest.

I left one thing out. A teeny-tiny thing. So tiny, in fact, you could fit it in your back pocket. More specifically, the napkin. The contract. But for a good reason: it doesn’t matter. Mal clearly hasn’t kept it. He’s happily married. Plus, it’s just flat-out embarrassing.

I knock on the door a few more times, but it’s clear no one is home. How fitting of Mal not to be here just to spite me. Of course, Kathleen played along. I decide two (or rather, three) can play this game. I will not be standing outside getting pneumonia just because he has some illogical vendetta against me. The main street is far enough that we’ll have to call a cab to take us there if we want to warm up in a pub or an inn, waiting for his highness to arrive, and by the time a taxi gets here, we’ll be freezing.

I press my shoulder against the door and take a deep breath.

“Rory?” Callum asks behind me, his voice laced with worry.

“Promise not to judge me, Cal?”

“Promise.”

With a shove, I push the door, knowing damn well it isn’t locked, because last time—eight years ago—it wasn’t, either.

We spill into the house, which also looks a thousand times worse inside than it did before. Callum’s lips purse as he walks around, observing the old, ragged furniture and strewn-about newspapers, CDs, and vinyl records. There are poetry books and half-rolled, wrinkly notebooks on the couch and a coffee table and breakfast nook buried under piles upon piles of junk, dust and dirt everywhere.

I look around in shock, trying to spot one inch on the floor that’s not suspiciously sticky or covered with something.

I turn around to Cal, and his throat bobs, but he says nothing.

“I’m sorry you have to sleep here tonight.” I bite my lower lip.

It is a dump. Not because it’s small or old, but because it’s messy and filthy. It looks like no one has lived here in a while. Cobwebs adorn every corner of the room. Doesn’t matter that it’s freezing outside, I still find myself cracking a window just to get rid of the stale scent of a thousand takeout boxes left to rot somewhere in this place.

“It’s fine.” Callum tries to sound calm and collected, even though I know he pays his cleaners extra to come in every day and make sure everything is spotless in his Manhattan penthouse. “Quaint and charming. Besides, a roof is a roof. The people under it are what matters. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”

We spend the next twenty minutes touring the house. We start with the kitchen, where we find the root to the rancid smell: an unattended garbage bag sitting under the sink, a cloud of buzzing flies above it. Even though I don’t want to clean these two’s pigsty on principle, I also don’t want to puke, so I throw it out.

I walk through the narrow hallway afterwards. The master bedroom, which was his mother’s before Kathleen moved in, is completely empty, save for the king-sized bed that’s unmade. The pillows are a suspicious shade of dirty yellow, and the blanket could use a wash. I move to the bathroom, which has also seen better days, finally stopping at Mal’s then-room, and our guest room, I suppose. It has one made-up, single bed and a little closet. I turn around to Callum, but he just grins.

“Less room means more spooning. Not a bad Sunday.”

I should love this man.

I should.

And right now, I’m getting damn close to that elusive feeling.

“No part of this is your fault,” he adds. “So don’t you dare apologize.”

We move to the last room down the hallway, and it is locked—possibly the studio Ryner was talking about. That might explain the deadbolt, padlock, and STAY OUT sign on the door.

Callum gets right to business, wheeling my suitcase into our room, while I open the rusty door leading to the backyard to see if the sheep and cows are out and about.

There are no more sheep.

No more cows.

There’s no more…anything, really.

I take a step out, and something crunches under my shoe. I look down, frown, and pick up an earring. Just the one. Must be Kathleen’s. A drop-shaped pink diamond earring. It looks fake, but then again, so is she. Maybe they’re hard up for cash. No other reason for Mal to take this writing gig. I look up, staring at the green hills.

A voice behind me rustles, “Breaking and entering is illegal in Ireland.”

I jump, turning around. Mal is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his acid-washed jeans, one Blundstone boot crossed in front of the other. His beauty arrests me for exactly five seconds before I school my face.

“Nice crib.”

He pushes off the doorframe, descending the two steps to his backyard and ambling toward me. “Trashed it especially for you.”

“And I suppose Kathleen was eager to help. Anything to make me feel unwelcome.”

Mal flashes me a breezy smile, tying a red bandana on his forehead like he’s getting ready for something. He reminds me of old Mal again—adventurous and boyish, impossible to resist.

“Where is she, anyway?” I look around.

I want to get the initial slap-in-the-face reaction of seeing them together out of the way so I can breathe regularly again.

“Dublin.”

“When is she going to grace us with her presence?”

He whistles, then lets out a gruff chuckle. Of course, Kathleen has conveniently removed herself from the situation. I don’t know why she’s hiding. She’s just the type to parade her gorgeous husband like it’s a dog show. Obviously, Mal is not going to answer my question.

I gesture toward the nothingness.

“Where’s the cattle?”

“Sold it.”

“Father Doherty? Is he doing okay?”

He squats down, patting away a patch of mud on the front of his boot. “He’s alive.”

“How about your mother?”

He stops messing with his boots, looks up, and blinks at me like I stopped speaking English. “I’m not a steak, Aurora,” he snarls.

“You need to open the studio. I want to take some photos of it before Richards arrives.”

“There’s no studio,” he says, watching my reaction intently.

Then what the hell is that room? Of course, I don’t ask.

“Then how are you going to record the songs?”

“We’re not. We’re just going to write them.”

“Ryner lied,” I mumble.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. I wouldn’t trust that man to give me the time in a room full of clocks.

Mal shrugs.

“You should really clean this place. Richards won’t live in this condition in a million years and counting. He’s used to pretty, nice things.”

“That makes two of you, Princess.”

I want to ask him what the hell he means by that, but I’m not supposed to care. I haven’t done anything wrong. I respected our contract, pined for him for years, and tried to move on. What did he expect? For me to sit around and wait for fate to take control while he wedded my sister?

He shakes his head on a dark chuckle, seeming to take my silence as admittance. He turns around and stalks back inside, leaving me to stand here.

It is crazy how eight years ago, I could feel his pulse against my palm for days and weeks after we parted ways.