In the Unlikely Event

“He doesn’t need repairing.”

“He is broken.”

“Everyone is broken. Some show it more than others.”

I made the mistake of telling Mom how I felt about Mal when I came back from Ireland—the first and last time I opened up to her about a boy. She threw a fit, especially after she found the rolled-up sanitary pads in my bathroom trashcan and asked how come my period was so early. Then I had to tell her about the morning-after pill I took, and she flipped and dragged me by the arm to get tested for STDs.

I’ve never felt more like an idiotic child than I did then, and I haven’t shared much with her about anything since.

“I have a boyfriend, so, obviously, no. I haven’t slept with him, nor am I planning on it.”

“You never know. You and I, we’re made of the same self-destructive material. When I met Glen, I had a boyfriend, too.”

“You did?” I ask mildly.

I don’t really care. I’m not her.

It doesn’t even matter if Callum and I break up down the road. I still won’t do this to him, for the simple reason that I won’t do it to me. I’m not a cheater.

“Yup.” She pops the P, taking another drag. “Good Italian boy. Went to the police academy. Could’ve had a good life, Aurora. Instead, here I am, cutting coupons for soap and working double shifts at Hussey’s Pizza. Pretty darn sure the Lord chose it as my workplace to remind me what I did to Tony.”

I’m about to ask her about my scar when I hear a loud thud coming from behind the front door.

Hoof.

“Talk later, Mom.”

“Wait! I need to talk to you about—”

I kill the conversation and boomerang the phone across the breakfast nook. Padding toward the door, I wonder what inspired me to put the phone down when I heard a strange, foreign, scary sound from behind the door of this deserted cottage. If photography doesn’t pan out, I sure could be an extra in the first five minutes of a B-grade scary movie. Then again, staying on the phone wouldn’t have helped.

I wouldn’t trust my mom with my wallet, let alone my life.

Please be Callum, surprising me to whisk me off to England, and not an axe murderer.

I fling the door open, only to find the usual fields, gray sky, and endless rain. I look left, then right, and still—nothing. I’m about to close the door when I hear a low, gritty groan at my feet. My eyes slide down. Mal is lying on the ground, soaked to the bone, looking positively green.

I gasp, clutching the collar of his jacket and dragging him inside. He is heavy as hell and ice cold to the touch. I can only get him to the middle of the living room before I start taking off his drenched clothes. He’s limp, and mostly unconscious under my hands. I don’t ask him why he decided to walk instead of calling a cab or—God forbid—me. I don’t ask where he’s been. My main concern is keeping him alive right now.

After I manage to strip him down to his briefs, I throw his heavy arm over my shoulder and pull him up, using all the strength I possess. My quads burn under his weight as I lead him to his bedroom. We bump into things on the way, but I don’t think he is conscious enough to notice. He is freezing, and he is always so hot. It terrifies me.

Once he’s in bed, I turn the radiator on and jog to the bathroom, coming back with a towel. I start to pat him dry everywhere, then tuck him under the duvet like a burrito, wrapping him like a mummy.

“Tea and flu medicine are on their way. Don’t go anywhere,” I joke—because he’s unconscious and can’t hear a thing—running off to the kitchen like a headless chicken.

I flick the kettle on, unscrew the bottles, then turn the kettle on. (Again? Again!) I head back to the bedroom with a glass of water, waiting for the water in the kitchen to boil.

“Heat up, heat up, heat up,” I chant to myself as I run my palm close to the radiator to check for warmth. Nothing.

“Electricity is down in the entire village.” Mal coughs, rolling in bed. His voice is so weak I can barely hear him. “Don’t bother.”

This is why the kettle didn’t work. I shove the pills and water in his face, trying not to appear as frazzled as I feel.

“Drink.”

He perches himself against the headboard and dutifully swallows the pills, not bothering with the water. Did I mention he is green? Yes. Because he is. He is shaking, too. And I, the girl who is always cold, am responsible for making him an icicle. He gave me his jacket in the pouring rain when I felt like running away spontaneously—barefoot and underdressed in the middle of the night. He slept in the living room for me, with nothing to shield him from the cold.

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“In this storm? Fat chance, Rory. It’s probably overcrowded, anyway. Christmas fecks all the drunks up, and winter does the rest.”

“Why did you have to leave?” I seethe, trying to gain control of my temper. “What kind of stupid asshole wakes up in the morning sick as a dog and decides to take a long-ass stroll in the rain?”

My New Jersey-based bad cop is slipping into my speech, and I bare my teeth at him. I tuck the edges of his blanket under the mattress, again caging him to the bed.

He doesn’t answer, just presses his eyes shut. His chest is barely moving. I stand up and go to Richards’ bedroom to grab another quilt for him.

When I come back, he looks:

Ashen

Dead

 

I run a finger under his nostrils. He is still breathing, but barely. Cold mist covers his skin. My entire body turns rigid.

Be okay. I can’t lose you, too.

“Fuck you.” I feel the tears prickling my eyes as I begin to undress.

He needs body heat. He needs body heat, and for the first time in a long time, I am actually not cold. My blood is boiling with fury at what he did to himself. At what I did to him. I dump my clothes by his bed, leaving on only my white cotton panties—I never bothered to wear a bra or brush my teeth, things were too hectic today—and slide in next to him.

I think he is out of it enough that he doesn’t even realize when I roll him to his side and clasp my arm and leg over him. His heart beats against mine, dull and weak, struggling to keep up with the rest of his body. Hot tears run down my cheeks.

Everything is falling apart. Summer was right. I am naked in bed with him—only not for the reason she thinks. I can’t let him die in the name of loyalty to Callum. Richards is a runaway, my boyfriend is in another country, Mal is a widower (and possibly bipolar?)—plus, surprise! He kept the napkin—and there’s this huge secret hovering over my head, but I can’t seem to untangle it from the cloud of lies and deceit that follows my every step in Ireland.

I rub the length of his bulging arms, up and down, up and down. I press my forehead to his lips to check his breath and temperature. His pulse is slow, his breathing labored. I wonder if I should take his phone and call someone.

I sing him a lullaby my mother sang to me when I was a kid to help me fall asleep. Honestly. It was the only beautiful thing she ever did for me. It always soothed me and calmed me down.

“Oh blow the winds o’er the ocean/ and the trees, and the seas/ and the little pigeon, that never sleeps.”

Mal groans, his eyes still closed. A sign of life.

“Rory.”