I look away from Mal, clearing my throat.

“Yes!” I say, trying to match his jovial tone. “Please come over. I would love to have you here.”

When I end the call, I press my forehead against the breakfast nook and close my eyes. Do I get a special award for being so stupid? A discount at my local library? Anything? Seems a bit surreal I’d be left to my own devices after pulling something like this.

I need to tell him. I need to tell Callum.

“I just want you to know,” I say shakily, my lips moving on the surface of the counter, “that this meant absolutely nothing.”

“Say that to your puckered nipples and wet cunt, darlin’.” Mal breezes into his bedroom on a whistle, picking up the half-eaten triangle sandwich on his way.

All the lights in the house turn on at the same time. The microwave dings. The television turns on, and two guys in suits talk heatedly about football.

The electricity is back. Mal lets out a sigh of contempt.

“Real funny, Kiki. I’m trying here, too, but you see that she’s stubborn.”

I whip my head toward him and scowl. “You think your dead wife wants you to hook up with me?”

“I know she does,” he says, matching my thunderous look.

“How so?”

“She loves me, and I love…” he trails off, slanting his head sideways. “I love chocolate bars. Love is like that, don’t you feel? Deadly, kind of. The more you prolong and stretch it like a leather leash, the more painful when it finally snaps and hits you. When you’re ready for answers, let me know.”

A NOTE FROM THE CHOCOLATE BAR

Best. Day. Ever.

Present

Mal

It’s not that I didn’t anticipate her reaction.

But it still shocks me, because while Rory is swimming (or drowning, I don’t know) in the eternal question of whether she can respect and forgive herself at some point for what she’s done to Shiny Boyfriend, I mourn the fact that she hasn’t yet broken up with him.

I’m locked outside my room now, Rory inside and refusing to speak to me. I can still taste her sweet, earthy pussy on my tongue, along with the chocolate.

This situation is ridiculous, which, of course, I don’t point out.

I make it a game. I put trays of food at her door, like she’s a prisoner. I knock every now and again and ask her if she needs anything.

Alas, Rory is a tough prisoner.

At bedtime, I get a call from Ryner telling me Rory and I need to pack our suitcases and head to Greece. Why? Let me tell you why. Because Richards is on his way from Thailand to Spinalonga Island.

“Spinalonga?” I hold the phone between my shoulder and ear, right in the middle of dying lollipop sticks pink above the sink. The artificial color drips everywhere, including on my clothes, but I still dip the sticks in paint meticulously, because those sticks need to be bright pink, glittery, and ready for usage.

As for me? I’m living the rock-n’-roll life, clearly, thankyouverymuch.

“The leper colony. He read a book about it.” Ryner tsks on the other line.

“You mean he watched a video,” I deadpan.

Ryner laughs humorlessly. “Probably, man. Probably.”

“Did you tell him there aren’t any lepers there now?” I ask.

Something is obviously going on with Ashton Richards, and no one is saying anything, because everyone has a horse in the race to produce his new album.

“He’s not listening. He’s gotta check into rehab.”

“No shit.”

But I don’t further promote the idea of Richards checking in, because that’d kill the entire Rory Project. I’d have to finish the songs and hand them to Jeff. Which means Rory would run back to America before we sort our situation. That’s simply not a possibility I am willing to entertain.

“I still think we can chain him to my sofa and make it work,” I say.

“Yeah? Go pick him up, then. I’ll throw you a nice bonus when this is all over.”

“Ryner.” I squeeze my fingertips into my eyelids, smearing pink dye all over my face. “I can’t leave Tolka. It’s in our contract. You know exactly why.”

We go back and forth a few more minutes before Ryner asks me how Callum is doing in that smug way that implies I have a lot to lose if I say no. I ask him who the feck Callum is, and he tells me he’s Rory’s boyfriend.

I know that, but I like to pretend he means so little to me, his name hasn’t registered. I know what Ryner is doing here. He’s reminding me that Greece is a great opportunity to whisk Rory away from Callum, who is planning to come here tomorrow, on New Year’s Eve, and save their relationshit.

I mean, ship. Relationship. Not like I shat all over it or anything.

Look, I want to be better than knowingly sabotaging their relationship.

Actually…no. That’s not true. It sounds like something honorable to say, but the truth is, I don’t want to be honorable about this duel. I would kick and bite and break every man-rule to have Rory. Throw sand in his eyes. Anything to win.

’Tis the truth, and the worst part is, I still sleep at night like a baby. (Though I don’t know why they say that. Babies are horrible sleepers. Sleeping like a knocked-out drunken sod sounds more accurate.)

Once Ryner and I come to agreement, I slide Rory a napkin with the news under my bedroom door and slip out of the house to say my goodbyes before I leave Tolka, even if it’s just for twenty-four hours.

When I’m back, Rory is all packed, sullen and ready to go. It looks like she’s been crying the entire time since I fucked her with a candy bar.

I feel awful, but I’ll feel worse if she ends up with Prince Preppy Pants. He will bore her to death, and I don’t want her death on my conscience.

I drive us to the airport in complete silence. It’s only when we get comfortable in our first-class seats on the plane that Rory opens her mouth again. I think she is about to tell me I’m a cunt, but she surprises me.

“How did I get my scar?”

I spit my soda all over my lap. A sincere burn in hell would have been nicer than this loaded question. I frown to buy time, but my heart rate accelerates.

“You’re asking me?”

She nods, staring me down.

“Didn’t you say you were born with it?” In my head, I envision myself running with a cart through aisles in the supermarket, desperately shopping for more time.

“That’s my mother’s version, and I’m starting to doubt it. Ms. Patel from the newsagents told me there’s a horrible story behind my scar. Your grandfather walked in before she had a chance to tell me.”

“Ms. Patel also believes in ghosts and that people with blue eyes see everything in a blue hue.”

That’s a flat-out lie, actually, but I’d rather jump off this plane using Rory’s knickers as a parachute than hurt her the way the truth would.

It is not that I don’t want to tell her the truth, but when so much of it is about to be unveiled, it is best to wait, to ease her into a situation, then sit her down properly.

“I still want to know what the rumor is,” she insists.

“Yes, of course, I suppose. Thing is, I’m not exactly attuned to small-town gossip.”