“There’s death everywhere you look, yes. But there’s life, too. You just need to notice it.”

“Suddenly you care about that? You told me she was in Dublin,” she accuses, trying to pull back.

“She is,” I grunt, feeling my ears get hot. “Buried in the same cemetery you just talked about. Right next to your da.”

“Mal, Mal, Mal.”

She is taking this all in, and it’s a lot.

She’s drowning in it, and I can’t pull her back up. Only time can do that.

“Don’t. It’s been eight years. Life goes on.”

“I need to leave here.” She looks around frantically, nibbling on her lip.

I lift her chin up so she looks at me. “You’re seeing this through, Princess.”

“Now I’m Princess? What is happening here? This is…this is wrong. It’s not fair to Callum.”

“Giving this up will not be fair to you.”

“Promise me you’ll behave,” she says. “Tell me you’ll stop being so hateful. But also…” She scrunches her nose. “But also promise you won’t be too not-hateful, either. Tell me you realize the whole napkin pact was a juvenile mistake, and don’t try to pursue me. Callum doesn’t deserve this.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t add that I can’t—or I won’t—agree to any of that, or that Callum simply doesn’t look like the right guy for her. She’s too imperfect for him.

But I’ll never say that to her face. And not imperfect in a bad way. He needs a Barbie he can play house with. Rory is too much to handle.

“We need to go back now.”

“Why?” she shrieks.

“Because we have two more months of babysitting Richards, and falling apart is not an option. Especially if it’s because your no-show, mediocrely talented late father popped on the radio for no good reason other than the station couldn’t figure out Christmas is over.”

She looks up at me now, the entire weight of the world’s misery swimming in her green eyes.

“Why am I here?” she asks. Quietly. Darkly. Like a dame.

There’s threat laced in her voice, and I want to suck it out of her mouth and scoop up the rest of her venom with my tongue. But kissing her will have to wait. If I do it now, I won’t stop, and I have an early morning tomorrow. I made a promise I intend to keep—Rory, Ashton, Ryner, and the rest of the world be damned.

“What kind of question is that?” I run my thumb down her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

She lets me. Though she doesn’t realize she lets me.

Goodbye, Shiny Boyfriend.

“I mean, why did you let this happen? Why did you think it was a good idea to work with each other when you spotted me in that ballroom? And why are you so angry at me? What do you want from me, Malachy?” She pounds her fists against my chest, pushing me away and kicking a puddle between us.

It’s still pouring, but neither of us cares. She’s shuddering again, and this time not from the cold. Her back curves and her mouth slacks and everything about her screams sex, sex, sex. I stand there, absorbing her little fists as she launches at me again.

“Surrender,” I whisper. “I want us to surrender to this, Rory, like you promised all those years ago.” Before life tainted what we had.

“But the contract is gone. It’s dead!” she retorts.

“Is that what you need? A piece of paper?” I ask.

“Paper is important. A marriage is a piece of paper.”

“Yeah, but people get divorced.”

She shakes her head. “The contract is gone.”

I pull her up and walk her home wordlessly.

Rory

 

Sometime in the night, I wake up feeling warm for a change.

I blink my swollen eyes and look around me. Pitch black. The surface beneath me dips, the springs whining. I’m in a bed. Mal’s bed.

Whoa.

Panic dries my throat, and suddenly, I’m sweating everywhere. I did not sleep with him after breaking down because of my father. No way.

I pat the mattress behind me and find the bed empty. Phew.

Still not convinced, I roll toward the side that’s facing the open door, pat for my phone on the nightstand—Mal put it there; I somehow knew he would—and turn on my flashlight, aiming it toward the living room.

It illuminates Mal’s silhouette on the couch, his ripped, smooth back facing me, all arches and bows of muscles under the thin fabric of his shirt.

I remember his scent in the rain: male and leather and clove cigarettes and Mal.

Then his words come back to haunt me.

He wants us to surrender.

Despite that…I know I should fight this.

I’ve worked hard to forget about him.

The end game is setting fire to me, like he did all those years ago.

I turn the flashlight off and slide my phone back onto the nightstand, but there’s something on the surface—something soft, yet crisp. I turn the flashlight on again, picking it up.

My heart stops as soon as I see it.

In the unlikely event…

Our contract.

The napkin.

It’s here. Intact.

He kept it.

It’s on.

A NOTE FROM THE NAPKIN

 

I know, right?

I didn’t think I’d make it this far, either—not to mention get some more airtime. But here we are. And my buddy Mal sure did take care of me. The ketchup stain soaked in deeper and eventually faded, in case you’re wondering.

Other than that, I’m feeling pretty rad. Had a bit of a scare there for a moment two years ago when Mal’s mother found me and tossed me into the bin (just as I predicted—should’ve bought a lottery ticket that day). When Mal came back home, he looked for me everywhere. I heard him, frantic, mumbling no, no, no. By that time I was at the bottom of the rubbish bag. He flipped it upside down and started sifting through. I couldn’t believe my metaphorical eyes. He literally touched trash to retrieve me. And not just any trash: food leftovers and soggy papers and sharp-edged packaging and rubbish juice. He kept mumbling no, no, no. I thought he was going to cry.

Full disclosure: I didn’t smell too hot before, but since the trash incident, I really do smell like a burning armpit.

Mal doesn’t seem to care.

I hope the lad gets her.

I really do.

Eight years ago

 

Mal

 

Dear Princess Aurora of New Jersey,

 

So. This is awkward.

Mostly because I told you we should leave it to fate, and here I am, writing to you, which is essentially flipping fate the finger while driving slowly by its house after trashing its locker.

I decided I don’t want to leave things to fate. Feck fate. I don’t know it personally. Why should I trust it?

Anyway, I’m not writing to you about our contract. Forget about it. Well, obviously, don’t. I still have it. But I’m trying to give fate a nudge in the right direction.

Thing is, I’ve been thinking, and perhaps I was a bit rash in my decision not to try this whole long-distance thing. What harm could it do? Let’s try.