“Like, divorced?” Rory kicks a stone. She’s been kicking it since we were on the gravel path.

“No, like a widower. Like, his wife died and stuff. How do you not know this shit? You’re his sex slave. Don’t you have small talk after you fuck? While he gets the whip or puts nipple clamps on you?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Kids these days.”

Rory freezes, and that means all three of us stop, because we’re huddled together, me sandwiched between them. I stare down at my boots.

I can see her shaking her head. Biting her lip hard. I squeeze my eyes shut. Goddammit, Richards.

The fecker stumbles out of my grasp and looks between us, trying to light his cigarette again. The cigarette is not even in the same hemisphere as the lighter he’s flipping.

“Oh, I see.” He places his hands on his knees, laughing hysterically. “I see exactly what’s going on.”

We’re both silent. I want to tell her I didn’t lie. I was married to Kathleen. She died, but we were married. And it hurt. All of it.

The marriage part.

The dying part.

The part where Kathleen said I’d kill her one day.

And the fact that I did.

“You guys are not a sex slave and a master at all.” He finally gives up, tossing the cigarette aside. “You’re like…I don’t know. Fucked-up past lovers or something.”

More silence.

“You’re in love with her.” He shoves his finger to my chest. “Dude, you so are. And you…” He turns to her. “You’re…I’m not sure what you are. Confused as fuck, that’s for sure.”

“I have a boyfriend,” she mumbles, kicking the small stone so hard it flies to the other side of the field.

I can’t detect her tone, and it kills me, because she kills me. Tonight changed everything for me, but what if it stays exactly the same? What if it’s too late?

What if she will end up marrying the boil-balled fecker?

“Your boyfriend knows you’re looking at another guy like his cum is the nectar of the gods?” Richards asks.

I advance toward him and wrap my fingers around his neck, squeezing.

“Watch your mouth where she is concerned,” I warn, “or you will have no teeth to do it again.”

I release my bruising grip on his neck. Richards laughs and resumes his walk like I didn’t nearly break his bones. Rory and I walk a few steps behind him, at the same pace. He’s singing to himself now, oblivious to our existence. I don’t know what he’s on, but I hope it’s laced with cyanide, because every year he gets to live, our generation gets dumber and a (Victoria’s Secret) angel loses her wings.

Finally, Rory speaks.

“Mal.”

Apologetic. Here we go.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

At least she’s not angry about the lie.

“And I’m also so mad I could kill you right now.”

I take that back.

I run a hand through the back of my hair, tugging at it.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she whispers.

Ashton is swinging his arms ahead of us, bellowing a tune. Something about the birds and the bees. I hope he doesn’t truly believe in this form of conception, because that means a lot of unmonitored baby Richardses in our planet’s future.

“You wouldn’t have come if you knew the truth.”

“Exactly.” She plays with the hoop in her nose.

“Exactly.” I lift my gaze to meet her eyes for the first time since she found out. “You deserve this shot. Why throw away an opportunity because of a contract signed on a napkin? Because of an old flame?”

“Because it still burns. Old flames burn you all the same.” She looks away.

It starts to rain lightly.

She doesn’t ask if I kept the napkin. I’m guessing she thinks I treated it like it was contaminated and got rid of it as soon as I could, considering how I’ve treated her so far.

“How?” she murmurs instead.

She’s talking about Kathleen, but I’m not ready for this conversation. I need four stiff drinks and to have her naked in my bed first. Neither of those things is going to happen tonight.

She gulps. Looks away. I suspect she’s taking a moment to deal with the fact that she and her half-sister are never going to make amends again. That this is how it’s going to stay. Broken forever.

“When you’re ready.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes. “And less of an asshole, of course,” she adds, probably not completely joking.

I deserve that.

I know it’s friendly. I know it’s supposed to be comforting. But I can’t help but feel a zing of pleasure and determination course through me.

Ashton Richards is doing cartwheels in the rain, yelling, “We’re all going to die one day, and we are so self-observed and obsessed with shit that don’t matter.”

We don’t pay attention to him.

“What are you waiting for, God?” he screams to the sky, opening his arms.

Rory and I exchange looks.

“I’m telling Ryner to throw him into rehab as soon as this is done,” she says.

“Good idea.”

A NOTE FROM DEAD KATHLEEN

 

Look, I’m going to admit it right off the bat. I am the villain in this story.

I lied.

I deceived.

I manipulated the situation to my own advantage.

That’s what you want to hear, and that’s what I’m telling you, but I am not one-dimensional, and I’m definitely not as bad as Glen.

I loved Mal from the get-go. I’m talking since age two, not since age fourteen, when all the other girls in Tolka finally noticed that the weird Doherty kid was not so weird anymore, and also happened to be exciting and cool and knew how to ride dirt bikes and pierce his own nose and ears.

I’ve loved him since he let me play the doctor and dutifully played the patient, asking me humorously to touch him places I had no business even knowing about at that age.

Since he snuck snacks into Sunday Mass because we were perpetually bored and shared them with me.

I loved him when he practiced the guitar and I practiced sewing in my room, and we were both terrible.

I don’t regret anything that happened. I did all of it because I thought I could make him happy.

Just remember that as you read on, okay?

Remember that Rory is here for a reason now.

And that before I hate my half-sister, I love my still-on-Earth husband.

So, so much.

In fact, love him to death.

A NOTE FROM THE COW

 

For the record, the farmers who work the shed I live in turn on the soft rock radio station all the time, which is something I am trying really hard not to hold against them. At any rate, that means I’m familiar with Ashton Richards’ work, and although I do not consider myself an expert of any sort, I can tell he is no bloody good.

Not good as an artist, not good as a singer, and probably not as a human, judging by the first and last hour we spent together on Earth.

Ashton Richards contributes less than I do to the human effort. At least I produce milk, which gives you calcium, which promotes bone strength. It is depressingly evident that some humans, such as him, clearly decline to use the superior intelligence they were blessed with.