In the Unlikely Event

“You’re crying.” Mal squeezes my shoulder.

I realize I am.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never dealt with death up close before. My grandparents were dead before I hit three, and even though Glen died when I was a teenager, I didn’t know him and never witnessed it. It sounds ridiculous. I’m almost twenty-seven, yet up until now, death seemed like this vague, abstract idea. It was there, but not really. Now I feel it everywhere.”

Mal takes my hand in his and kisses it.

“It is,” he agrees.

“You probably miss Kathleen all the time,” I say.

“I do,” he admits, pausing to think about it. “But then I also think, when you lose someone when they’re young and in their prime, it reminds you how fragile life truly is. It reminds you that you were not put on this Earth to work. You weren’t put on this Earth to do the dishes or pay your taxes on time or, I don’t know, count your weekly alcohol units or goddamn calories. We’re not here to win awards or make money. What flashes through your mind in that fraction of a moment, when you realize this is it for you, that you’re about to die, is the kiss you stole from your first crush under the old oak tree. The cartwheels on the beach on a perfectly sunny day with your brothers. The first time your niece said your name, and you knew you were a goner—you were going to give her every single thing she asked for, including but not limited to your limbs. Losing someone when they’re young is like surviving a fatal disease. Life gifts you a second chance of not fecking it up. It can either dim you or make you shine brighter. It’s a great reminder that what we have is rare and fleeting and not to be carelessly wasted. You want to honor Richards’ legacy? Live.”

“That’s why you didn’t want to make it big.” I sniff. “You always wanted the family life. Your little corner in the world.”

And he almost got it, too, with Kath. But then she died. A part of me wants to go back to Ireland and start making babies with Mal right away. I’ve never admitted to anyone what crossed my mind when I got back home from Ireland after my first trip there.

How a part of me—and not a small one—was regretful that I took that morning-after pill. Because that would have been a great excuse to drop everything and go be with him. I’d have done what my mother hadn’t. I’d have tried to make it work.

Mal rubs his thumb across my cheek, frowning.

“Now you get it, Princess.”

The next couple days are a blur.

Mal and I have long, emotional, grueling sex. We talk for hours, wrapped around each other. I cry a lot, and he listens—a lot. Mal makes elaborate plans to tell his family about our marriage, and I do the same with my mother.

In reality, however, I don’t pick up the phone, and he doesn’t arrange any conversations with his family. He visits them every day, but never allows them to pop into the cabin. I’d say he avoids having them meet me like the plague, but even the plague gets the royal treatment compared to the way he handles his family when I’m around.

One morning, I hear whispers rising from the front door while I’m still in bed.

It’s Mal—clipped, asshole, this-is-not-the-man-I-married Mal.

“…poor timing. I’ll ring you in a bit.”

“When exactly is a bit?” asks an old woman’s voice, brittle and wary.

“Eternity and beyond, Mother.”

“That’s what it feels like, since she came along.”

A hushed, heated reply comes from the other side of the door. They’re fighting.

“No. Absolutely not,” Mal rumbles. “I’ve got this under control. Just go.”

Sometimes Mal disappears. When he does, I spend my time arguing with Ryner on the phone instead of facing the Summer and Mom music.

“Just send me the goddamn material. I’m throwing a special tribute for him, okay? Oh, and in case it escaped you, you work for me!” he screamed at me one day shortly after he was discharged from the hospital.

“He hasn’t even been put to rest,” I noted. “Which begs the question—is it a tribute to the late Ashton Richards you’re working on, or a tribute to your pocket and record label? Seems to me, you’re milking the best out of this horrific situation.”

“I just had a heart attack.” He sulked. As if this, in itself, was a reason to grant all his wishes.

“True, and I don’t want you to have a second one, which is why I’m asking you to let it go. Don’t pay me for the project. Let Ashton rest in peace.”

I’m not going to let Ryner capitalize on his death. All he cares about is selling a few posters and releasing half-finished songs to earn a few bucks.

“Welcome to unemployment, sweetheart. You’ve really done it this time,” Ryner then shouted into my ear.

“Thanks for the warm greeting. I’ll be sure to make the most of it.” I hung up.

I caught Ashton Richards in private moments, while he was suffering from a horrific addiction that led to his death. I don’t see why anyone should witness it. He was obviously desperately chasing happiness, but never quite reaching it.

Mal doesn’t say Ashton’s death wrecked him, but then he doesn’t talk about it much—just listens to me when I do—and he is adamant about not going to the funeral in the States.

Though that could also be because he has a secret lover/family/life here that he keeps disappearing off to. I say this completely lightheartedly, but of course, there’s a void in my stomach that opens an inch every time I wake up and his side of the bed is cold.

Every day I think to myself, This will be the day he opens up to me about the situation.

Every day I am wrong.

Then, a week after we’re back in Ireland, Mal announces he’s ready to go busking again. He needs to unclutter his mind, he says.

“You can tag along. Take pictures of Dublin.”

“I think I’m good.” I give him the thumbs-up.

I finally have a plan. I managed to track down Father Doherty’s new address in an old-school phone book—the kind of fat, yellow thing grandparents usually use to stop doors or as a makeshift coaster. Father Doherty lives bang in the middle of the village, and it’s time to pay him a visit, have him shed some light on my situation.

Mal, of course, can see through me. We haven’t spent an entire month together the whole time we’ve known each other, yet he can somehow read me better than anyone else.

“You sure?” He furrows his brows.

I nod. “Positive.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing has been positive about you these last days, so I find your choice of words somewhat alarming.”

“It’s been a rough week.” I saunter over to him, linking my arms around his shoulders. “One wedding and an upcoming funeral. I just want some me-time. Maybe I’ll finally call my mother back and catch up with her.”

Mal’s face twists at the mention of my mother, but he nods and kisses my forehead. I don’t know why he acts like he has an open beef with Debbie Jenkins, but if he’s flinching every time I mention her out of solidarity, he’s doing a fine job being empathetic.

“Want to talk tonight?” He skims his lips along my temple.