I bled onto the pages until there were no more words to be written. Still, I wouldn’t sell them. I couldn’t sell them because I didn’t want to change my circumstances. I didn’t want to become big and famous and rich (not that I thought I would, but one can’t take any chances). I didn’t want to brush shoulders with Ashton Richards and his likes. I wanted to busk till I died, and come back home to my small cottage, and live a life where I didn’t chase inspiration—it chased me. Where my art didn’t stem from the need to have a bigger house or a fancier car or more money in the bank. I did it because I wanted to, a luxury not many paid artists have. It helped that I’d never been a particularly materialistic person.

But then the accident happened.

Katherine died. But before she did, there were a series of surgeries that required specialists to fly out from Switzerland and America and whatnot. The medical bills began to pile up. Mam and Elaine, Kathleen’s mother, needed a place to live. There was shite to buy and people to pay, and I felt the world cornering me into a place I couldn’t get out of.

So I sold out.

I unchained my demons and sold them to others as pets. These people put leashes on those demons, slapped them with a cheery tune, and sold them to the masses as Billboard hits.

I sold out, hoping Rory would hear, listen, make the connection, and hopefully find me.

It was the kind of stupid, boyish hope I’d admire in a fictional, hopeless character, but hate in myself. Then again, what were the odds of her not deciphering the unmistakable words?

“…summer rain on Drury Street. Stupid me, I thought you were mine to keep.”

“…underneath the stars, you ask, do you believe in God? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, but after we’re through, I think I won’t.”

“Across the ocean, there’s a girl, made out of marshmallow and cyanide and shiny dew.”

Then I thought, I don’t know, maybe she simply hadn’t had the chance to listen to some of the BIGGEST FUCKING BILLBOARD HITS IN THIS DECADE because she had something against the radio and YouTube and TV and Western culture.

But I promised myself not to be bitter—especially after finding out Rory hadn’t, in fact, sent me the pictures and letter. She might’ve written those nasty-ass things on the backs of the photos—okay, fine, it was her handwriting, she did—but she didn’t intend for me to see them. To read them.

As for the abortion—that’s still a mystery. I want to ask her about it—if it’s even true—but that means dragging her into World War III with her mother. As much as I think Debbie Jenkins is a cunt—and trust me, no part of me doesn’t think that—I don’t want Rory to hate her mam more than she already does.

I hear a knock on my door and ignore it, still staring at the ceiling. If it’s Richards coming to get fucked, he’s in for a disappointment. I may have pretended to be more into snogging a man than I actually am. Not that there’s anything wrong with kissing men, but it doesn’t get my dick hard.

I just knew Rory would get a kick out of it, and I wanted to feck her mind before I bedded the rest of her.

Speaking of the F-word, she’s probably giving Shiny Boyfriend backdoor access right about now to make up for letting me own her mouth for long minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if I got her pregnant (possibly again) from kissing alone.

Bang, bang, bang. It’s progressed from knocking.

I groan, unplastering myself from the mattress and making my way to the door. Why are there no peepholes in these hotel doors? What kind of feckery is that? I swing it open with a frown.

Rory is standing on my threshold, eyes swollen, nose red. She’s been crying, and I’d pull her into my arms and hold her tight, but I need to know why she’s here, what we even are anymore. She lets me shove a chocolate bar into her pussy one day, but is (rightfully) mad at me the other. Getting my hopes high is a sure recipe for a heartbreak. And I’m not talking three-to-four-pieces break. My heart would completely shatter if Rory decides to ditch both Callum and me.

It’s like men are from Mars, women are from Venus, and Rory is from Pluto—faraway, mysterious, and nowhere near the rest of us.

I wait for her to say something. Preferably that Shiny Boyfriend finally got the hint, packed his Prada bags, and ran home to find himself a Botox-ridden lady friend who shares the same values. All three of them.

By the way, of all the shitty things I’ve done to get her—and the list is quite impressive for someone who doesn’t fancy himself a psychopath—kissing her today the way I did in front of him was not one of them.

We were both lost in that kiss. Found in it, too.

She is standing outside.

I’m standing inside.

And between us is a small, significant distance I really need her to be brave enough to cross.

“Where is the napkin right now?” She sniffles, shifting between her feet.

I fish for it in my back pocket—I still take it everywhere I go—and hold it up. I’ve imagined this moment so many times. The feelings of triumph and certainty coursing through me. But now, in reality, I feel…morbidly pathetic.

That I still have it. Always. With me. On me.

She storms in, slamming the door behind her with a kick. I expect it to be like in the movies: she finds out—a little later than I’d have liked her to—that I’m the one, and now it’s going to be fifty shades of every position in the Kama Sutra.

But this is not what happens.

What happens is she launches herself at me, throws her arms over my shoulders, and starts sobbing. Rory is not the sobbing type, so I wrap my arms around her and kiss her forehead, sheltering her from the rest of the world. If Arsehole Boyfriend wants her back, he is welcome to try to pry her out of my grasp.

“It’s over,” she breathes into my shoulder.

My heart is a mess of massive proportions. It hurts for her, but it’s thrilled for me, too. I can feel my shirt getting wet from her tears and snot. Her entire body is quivering with wave after wave of misery, and my initial sense of triumph is replaced with dread.

“Darlin’, it wasn’t meant to be.” I run my fingers through her hair. “He didn’t stand a chance. It was always us.”

She shakes her head into my shoulder, bawling even harder. “It’s not just that. I mean, I’m horrified by what I’ve done to Callum, and I’m ashamed of what we did…” Hiccup. “I’ve tried to fight what we have for so long, Mal. I no longer remember what it feels like to let go and allow you to pull me down the rabbit hole.”

I take her face in my hands, move her away so she can look me in the eye. “Newsflash, Rory: you’re already there. There wasn’t one moment in time, from the second we met, that you weren’t mine. Just like I’ve always been yours.”

She stares at me with emotions floating in and out of her pupils, like passengers on a train. I can see all of them.

Shame. Anger. Fear. Elation. Excitement.

“I kept the napkin, didn’t I?” I twist a lock of her hair between my fingertips.

Marry me, Rory.

Then she does something so unexpected, I nearly swallow my tongue.

She drops to her knees and unbuckles my belt with frantic movements. I say nothing, because I’m not above getting an emotional blow job, and because a weird, fucked-up, highly convenient part of me thinks she needs to suck my dick to prove something to herself.