In the Unlikely Event
But I digress.
So, yeah, I mean, okay. I may have had my own motivation for this whole staying-in-Greece plot that doesn’t have anything to do with Sex Slave and Pissy Poet’s sexcapade.
It simply made perfect sense for my master plan.
Them keeping each other occupied = less people on my case.
Less people on my case = more time to do drugs and get drunk.
More drug and alcohol time = less time to think about how this album is never going to materialize, because I’m never going to record it, because I won’t be alive by March.
Because I have terminal cancer, you see. Stage fucking billion cancer, which has spread to every single part of my body. And here I thought I was just permanently hungover, never expecting to find out that while I was partying, my body was eating itself to death.
It is all fun and games until the fat lady—in this case my doctor—sings the sad news to me, and I choose to go out with a bang, not like a faded version of my old self—a sad, bony, shadow of myself, lying in a hospice bed staring at a pleasant, generic picture on a wall.
Yeah, that’s the money shot I won’t allow TMC to ever have: me dying in a hospital gown, looking like a corpse.
Wanna hear the best part? With the amount of drugs I’m using, people are never going to suspect I’m anything other than a twenty-seven-year-old rock star who died from an overdose. A good ol’ tragic legend who worked hard and partied even harder. I’ll slip into the Amy Winehouse and Brian Jones club with a fake ID, so to speak.
If any of the goddamn idiots surrounding me just looked closely—not even too close, just enough to smell my sick-person’s breath and see all the rotting behind my eyes—they’d have realized nothing I’ve done makes sense.
Riding cows? Traveling to Thailand? All the other Jackass shit?
I’m seizing the day, one second at a time, because I’m not counting years, or months, or days. I’m counting seconds.
Yo, Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain—I’m coming for you. Make room on the couch and put a good record on.
Over and fucking out.
Rory
I wake up trembling from the cold and immediately know Mal is not in bed. I can hear him in the corridor outside our room, talking on the phone. His hushed voice skates over my flesh even though he’s nowhere near me, causing my nipples to pucker. I jump out of bed and plaster my ear to the door, every bone in me aching for answers.
It’s not that I don’t respect Mal’s privacy; it’s that he knows everything about my life, and I know nothing about his. There’s a big gap between us, and I’d just like to build a bridge over it, bring us both into the light.
I strain my ears, but hear nothing.
The door flings open suddenly, and I get hit in the face, stumbling down on my butt. I rub my ass cheek, feeling my ears turning red.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” Mal rushes around the door and pulls me up, frowning. “Were you eavesdropping?”
Hmm?
“No,” I groan, wiping the hair out of my face. “I was about to open the door to look for you. Why, were you talking to your secret lover?” I joke lamely.
“No, but close. Ryner,” he clips.
“Didn’t think he was your style.”
I try to lighten the mood. Anything to make him forget I did try to eavesdrop on him.
“Did you know Richards wants us to stay here for the remainder of New Year’s week? The nerve on this wanker.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Another lie in our deceit bucket, which is piling up quite nicely. I don’t even feel so bad this time, since Mal is lying through his teeth every day we spend together.
“That a problem?” I cock an eyebrow, daring him to open up.
“You know it is,” he retorts, storming into the room and shoving clothes into his open suitcase. “I agreed to two nights in Greece. Just the two. Even that was a stretch, and against my contract with Ryner. I’m done here.”
I’d ask him again why, but I know better than to think he’d answer.
“Pack up your stuff, Princess. We’re leaving, with or without the project.”
“How do you mean?”
He turns toward me, scowling. “I mean, I don’t give a damn about this album, and neither should you. Let’s go back.”
He can’t stay.
But I certainly can. And should. This is my job. In a moment of pure, sharp clarity, I realize that nothing’s changed. Mal still wants me to make gigantic sacrifices in the name of our unstable relationship. And I still humor him because…why? His pretty purple eyes? His bulging biceps? His panty-melting songs?
Move to Ireland at eighteen.
Give up on college.
Leave my job.
It’s a good thing he still hasn’t asked me to lick his shoes clean.
I pick up my purse, throw the strap over my shoulder, and advance to the door.
“Where are you going?” He grabs my wrist.
I shake him off, laughing bitterly. “Not sure, but wherever it is, you won’t be there, acting like a jerk who thinks I owe the world to him. I broke up with my boyfriend because of you. You pursued me relentlessly, and for what? To act like I need to up and leave my work just because you said so?”
Mal’s face twists in agony. He understands how badly he is screwing up. He shakes his head, sighs, and drops to his knees, pressing his forehead to my stomach. It is not an act of begging or kneeling, but a simple, sweet gesture.
“I’m sorry. I am being an arsehole, but I don’t mean to. And trust me when I say the last thing I do is take you for granted. Let’s do something fun today. I’ll make some calls and see what I can do about postponing going back to Ireland. What do you want to do?”
You, I think with exasperation. That’s what got me into this pickle in the first place.
He reads my face and starts laughing, rubbing his cheek.
He’s blushing. I am melting despite my best efforts. This is how it’s always going to be.
“Other than the obvious, mutual answer.” He presses his hot lips to my midriff through my pajamas.
“Surprise me,” I whisper.
“Surprise you?”
He grins, the same grin the wolf flashes before he opens his mouth and swallows Little Red Riding Hood whole.
“Your wish is my command, Princess.”
I wore a yellow summer dress and a slightly unhinged smile on my wedding day. The groom wore a red bandana on his forehead, Blundstone boots, cargo shorts, and a black V-neck tee that smelled of warm beer.
We looked too young and too drunk and too careless, but we both somehow knew it wasn’t a mistake.
We just needed liquid courage to be able to do this despite the secrets.
Mal and I got married in Cyprus eight hours later in honor of our napkin contract.
We took a ferry first thing in the morning, right after our mini-argument, and spent our time on it eating clams and drinking white wine. By the time we got to Cyprus, Mal’s nose was sunburned, and I was tipsy and giddy—but not enough to think this was a good idea just because the alcohol in my bloodstream told me so.
The truth is, I wanted to marry Mal.
I’ve always wanted to marry him, from the first time I met him. What seemed impossibly juvenile and destined for failure at age eighteen, seemed…well, just as unlikely right now, at nearly twenty-seven, but the contract was a great excuse, and a big chunk of me just wanted to promise him forever and take it one day at a time.