In the Unlikely Event

by L.J. Shen

  I can feel myself turning red, thinking that ironic, as I just found out I do have a half-sister.

  “Oh, she is blushing.” He raises a fist in the air through the window. “All is not lost. I still have a chance.”

  “Actually, you don’t.” I douse his enthusiasm in cold water. It makes him laugh harder, because he already knows. The bastard knows he is winning me over.

  “I won’t have a one-night stand with you,” I say.

  “Of course, you won’t,” he agrees easily. Freely. Not believing a word.

  “I mean it,” I warn. “Over my dead body.”

  Laughing harder, he taps the passenger door.

  “Chop-chop now, Princess.”

  Mal directs me out of Dublin in his own peculiar way (“Take a left. No, your other left. Never mind, the original left”), and though I’m terrified driving on the other side of the road, and despite the fact I don’t have an international driver’s license, I still find myself behind the wheel.

  Maybe it’s the setting that unchains me from any type of reasonable logic. Maybe it’s Mal himself. All I know is I’m eighteen, newly orphaned by a dad I didn’t know, and I feel like I’m suspended in the air, like a marionette. Between sky and earth. Nothing to lose, nothing to gain.

  We roll into a small village, tucked between green hills a stone’s throw from Dublin, with a white wooden sign announcing our arrival in Tolka, Co Wicklow. There’s a river to our right, an old stone-arch bridge over it, and old houses with bright red doors edging the town’s entrance. It’s more like a main street with a few houses scattered around it, like spots of hair on an otherwise bald head. We drive down Main Street, passing a bright blue house, a church, a row of inns, pubs, and a little cinema Mal tells me offers actual individual seats, and the people operating it still use traditional reels.

  The road winds, snaking up and down, and my heart feels strangely full when I park the car, as instructed by Mal, a few buildings down from a pub called The Boar’s Head.

  When we exit the car, I stop and take my camera out. The pub is painted stark white, with green windows decorated by flowerpots with marigolds and cornflowers spilling out of them. The Irish flag hangs on a pole by the door.

  It looks like something out of folklore, a tale my late father would have told me in another life.

  “What’s keeping you, Rory?” Mal turns around mid-stride into the pub and catches me crouching down on one knee, squinting and aiming the camera at him.

  “Make love to the camera, gorgeous,” I say in a creepy, old-man voice, expecting him to tell me to quit it.

  Instead, Mal breaks into a huge grin, covers an imaginary blowing-in-the-air dress, and sends a kiss to the camera, a la Marilyn Monroe. Only his dripping masculinity makes it look one hundred percent hilarious and zero percent feminine.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I stand up and walk over to him. He offers me his arm. I take it, too tired to resist.

  “Is this where you live?” I motion around us. “In this village?”

  “Just under that hill.” He runs his fingers through my hair to pull it out of my face, and my spine tingles in unexpected delight. He smiles, because he notices. “With all the arsehole sheep I told you about earlier. You’ll meet them in a bit.”

  “I have a flight to catch tomorrow.” I clear my traitorous throat, which keeps clogging with all sorts of emotion.

  “So?”

  “I can’t stay long.”

  He stares at me with a mixture of confusion and mirth. I think this is possibly the first time he’s been rejected. Then he does the unbelievable and reaches to run his thumb over my birthmark, staring at it, mesmerized.

  “How’d it happen?” he asks, his voice so soft, it sounds like it’s fading.

  I feel so warm I can practically sense the sun beating down on my skin, even though it’s cold and gray out.

  “It didn’t. I was born with it.”

  “You were, huh?” His thumb drags from my temple to my lips. Was he expecting some crazy story about a car crash or a freak accident?

  I pull away.

  “Anyway, I can’t stay. I have a hotel booked in Dublin.”

  “I’ll drive you back to check out.” He snaps out of his weird trance. “You’ll be staying with me tonight.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you. Over my dead body, remember?”

  He cups my cheeks in his hands. They’re rough and confident, an artist’s hands, and my heart thunders with newly found pity for my mom. Now I get why she slept with my dad. Not all Casanovas are slimy. Mal isn’t.

  “Don’t let your feelings get in the way of facts.”

  “Meaning?” I frown.

  “Just because you don’t like the fact that you’re going to sleep with me doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen.” He brushes his thumb over my lips. “And just because we’ve only met doesn’t mean we’re strangers. Do we feel like strangers?” he asks, jerking me to his body.

  No. No, we don’t. He feels like he’s never left my side. Like I carried a tiny part of him with me from the moment I was born, and now that he’s here, we can fit the part I kept with the rest of him, like finishing a puzzle.

  I gulp, but say nothing.

  “Exactly. Now, you’re cocking up our perfect meet-cute. Geena Davis is rolling in her grave.”

  “Geena Davis is not dead, Mal!”

  “Come, Madame Semantics. Let me feed you.”

  Three corned beefs and a shepherd’s pie later, Mal points at me with his half-finished Guinness pint—his fourth. I’m still nursing my first vodka Diet Coke.

  “You wanted to ask me something.” He squeezes one eye shut, like he’s zeroing in on me with a gun, licking the white foam of the Guinness from his upper lip.

  Here goes…

  “I came to Drury Street on your granddad’s advice. He knew I was Glen O’Connell’s daughter. He said you’d be able to tell me more about him.” I study his face carefully.

  He takes my hand, flips it, and trails the lines on the inside with his finger. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “I used to go to Granddad’s church every Sunday when I was a kid. Glen lived behind it. He’d let me listen to his records. He taught me a few notes and helped me string a sentence together when I started writing songs. Taught me how to bleed onto a page. So, yes, we knew each other quite well. Well enough for him to tell me he’d kill me if I ever touched his daughter.”

  Huh?

  “The other one.” He shakes his head, laughing when he sees the look on my face. “Not you. God, Glen would have died on the spot had he met you in person. He would’ve appointed an army to protect your virtue.”

  “From you?”

  “And the rest of Europe.” He smirks.

  Is that his weird, Mal way of telling me I’m pretty?

  “Why didn’t Granddad send you to Kathleen, Glen’s daughter? She lives right down this street.” Mal frowns, finishing off his pint.

  Kathleen.

  My sister’s name is Kathleen.

  The penny drops, and he realizes I didn’t know her name.

  “You knew you had a sister, yeah?”

  I nod slowly. “My mom refused to tell me her name. She said it shouldn’t matter, because no one here particularly wants to know me. How come this entire village attends a church in Dublin if you all live here? Kinda weird.” I circle the straw inside my drink.

  Mal sits back. “Not the whole village. Just us. Mam works weekend shifts at Lidl, so Kathleen’s mam took us both to Sunday mass to support my granddad’s Dublin gig, essentially babysitting me. I usually went home with Granddad, but sometimes I stayed with Kathleen when she hung out with Glen afterwards.”

  “What kind of father was he to her?”

  “A good one,” he says, then frowns and amends, “but not good enough for you.”

  “And how old is Kathleen?” I ignore his attempt to make me feel better.

  “My age
.” Mal still studies my hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Twenty-two,” he adds.

  “You must know her well.”

  “We grew up together.” He clanks his empty glass on the sticky wooden table. “Why he would direct you to me and not to her, I wonder.”

  “He said she was in a state and didn’t want to see anyone.”

  “Bollocks. Kathleen’s more social than a penguin.”

  What an odd thing to say. I try not to smile at his choice of words. Everything about him is so…different.

  “What’s she like?” I feel like an FBI agent, but it’s hard to keep myself in check when I want to learn everything there is to know about Dad. About my sister. Plus, if my lips keep moving, I don’t have to stop to examine the stain of jealousy in my voice. Kathleen had years of growing up with Dad. And being next to Mal.

  “Sweet. Nice. Saintly. You’ll see. Let’s go see her. She must have a load of photos of him.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Well, I do. You’re not getting out of here empty-handed. Let’s go.”

  He takes my hand and yanks me to my feet. He slaps a few bills onto the table, and I don’t even attempt to pay for my portion of the meal, because with the hotel, I’m already deep in the red on this trip.

  My hand clasped in his, Mal blazes through Main Street like a bullet. It starts to rain, and I duck my head, trying to dodge the downpour.

  He laughs, his voice muffled by the storm. “I can’t believe it’s raining in the summer. It’s like you brought winter with you, Rory.”

  It is weird, but it keeps us close and touching, so I don’t care.

  “Why not take the car?” I yell.

  “Her house’s right in front of my car, actually. Besides, she’ll have mercy on us if she sees us wet and miserable.”

  “I thought you said she was saintly.”

  “Even the godly have their limits, especially considering I’ve been ignoring her for three consecutive months.” He snorts.

  “Mal!” I shriek, but he only laughs harder.

  We arrive at a white-bricked, black-shuttered Victorian house. Mal raps the door and runs his fingers along his dripping hair. It sticks out in a thousand different directions, making him look annoyingly delicious. A few seconds pass before the door swings open and a girl who looks like a rounder, less-edgy version of me appears. Her hair is ruby red, a few shades lighter than my original light orange, but she has the same big, green eyes and bony nose and downturned, pouty lips. She has freckles, like me, and the same beauty mark by her upper lip.

  But as far as appearance goes, this is where our similarities end. She’s wearing a sensible white cardigan with a long, blue A-line dress underneath. Her leggings are pristine white, like bones. I shift in my Toms and hoodie and jam my fists into my pockets to stop myself from playing with my nose hoop.

  “Mal!” she cries when she sees him, throwing her arms over his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. “What are you doing here? God, you’re soaking wet!”

  “Kath, I want you to meet my friend, Aurora, from New Jersey.” He flashes her a big, goofy smile and motions to me as if I’m some kind of a prize in a game show.

  We’re still on her doorstep, the rain pounding our faces. But even that doesn’t stop Kathleen from taking a sharp inhale, her eyes bulging when she notices me for the first time. Mal is too busy kicking the rain off his boots and shaking his head like a dog to recognize the delicate situation he’s just created.

  “You said you always wanted to meet her, and she told me she doesn’t even have any pictures of Glen. Well, bumped into her in Dublin and reckoned it was high time for a reunion. Thank me later.” He winks, knocking his shoulder against hers, his fists stuffed in his jacket pockets.

  So my mom was right about one thing. Men do have the emotional intelligence of underdeveloped bricks.

  I blink at her, refusing to dwell on the fact that Father Doherty insisted she didn’t want to see anyone, yet Mal says she’s been dying to meet me. Only one of those things is true, and I have my hunch.

  Kathleen assesses me—not that I can blame her, it is a bombshell—and I immediately feel guilty for going against Father Doherty’s word. She shakes her head, snaps out of it, smiles, and flings her arms around me in a hug, throwing herself into the rain. I stagger back and return a squeeze.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.” She crushes my bones with her hug.

  I melt into her and burst into laughter and tears at the same time. It’s a total case of emotional diarrhea, but it’s not every day you meet your half-sister for the first time.

  “You’re both drenched! Come! Shall I make some tea?” She disconnects from me, tugs my hand, and ushers us inside, padding to the bathroom and coming back with two warm towels. We wrap ourselves gratefully.

  “Tea!” Mal exclaims, like it’s the best idea he’s ever heard in his life. “The magic word. Rory, did you know Kath makes a mean cup of tea? Best in the county. No joke.”

  Kath swats Mal on the chest and giggles like a schoolgirl on our way to the kitchen. We follow a narrow hallway with coats and scarves piled on hangers. Everything is small and neat and cozy. The house has a ’70s feeling to it, with green wallpaper, brown furnishings, and yellow lights. It is soaked with familiarity. Fully inhabited—not just a space with furniture like Mom’s house in New Jersey.

  “Country, not county,” Mal amends.

  Kathleen swats Mal’s shoulder and keeps her hand on him, possessively. Sighing like it’s a job, he captures her wrist, turning her around and pinning her against the hallway wall in one swift movement. I halt, watching the situation unfold. He holds her like a farmer holds cattle, rough and without passion, but she is breathing hard. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dripping lust, daring him to make another move. She lets out a little moan, flinching at her own lack of control and turning bright red. He looks down at her like she’s a chewed toy. The familiar, old type that is too nostalgic to throw away, but no one wants to play with anymore.

  “How’s school, Kiki?” he asks with a pang of regret in his voice, like he hates to do that—string her along.

  Then why does he?

  He knows exactly what he’s doing to her, and that bothers me, because I can see just how much he oozes control. She is locked in the moment, but he’s an observer, the gatekeeper keeping her in a foolish dream, the key far from her reach.

  “Grand.” Her voice shakes. “I…I tried to call you a few times. Dropped by on Sundays after mass. Your mam said you’ve been busy.”

  “I have.”

  “Not too busy for Aurora, apparently.” She turns scarlet again. There’s nothing mean about her tone. Just desperate.

  My loyalties are torn between the boy she loves, who is trying to help me, and the sister who’s falling apart because of him.

  “She prefers the name Rory.” Mal removes a lock of hair from Kathleen’s face, tucking it behind her ear.

  I want to punch him in the balls on her behalf, then kick him in the knee on mine.

  “Sorry, Rory.” She flashes me a nervous smile, snapping her eyes back to him, like he could disappear at any moment. “I missed you.”

  She missed him.

  She loves him.

  I can’t do this to her. I can’t kiss him or sleep with him or do any of the things I want to do with Mal. Because I’m leaving, and she is staying. Because she seems lovely, and even if she isn’t lovely, she’s still my sister.

  I tiptoe my way to the kitchen without making it apparent that their seemingly friendly conversation is making something in my chest collapse, brick by brick.

  “Stay,” Mal snaps behind my back. He doesn’t sound so nice anymore.

  I halt, but don’t turn. Kathleen’s obviously got it hard for him, and I want to show her I’m not a threat.

  “You guys are…” I start.

  “Nothing,” Mal clarifies. “We’re just friends, right, Kathleen?”


  She clears her throat, smoothing her dress. My heart is dust in the wind. Poor her.

  “Of course.”

  What an asshole. Before I know what’s happening, Mal is at my side, plastering his hand at the small of my back. He ushers me into the kitchen, leaving Kathleen behind. I turn my head to her as I go, and she flashes me a tired smile, waving us to move along.

  “I’ll just go wash my face,” she mumbles. “Turn the heater off, maybe. I’m feeling a bit flustered.”

  I take a seat at the dining table and study the family pictures hanging on the walls with hungry eyes. But there’s no one who looks like he could be Glen. Just Kathleen and her mom, Kathleen and the family dogs, Kathleen kissing young Mal’s cheek while he looks horrified and disgusted to the core, as boys do at that age. Even toddler Mal gives me butterflies. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Everything, apparently. He’s just like your dad.

  My half-sister serves us tea and shortbread as she tries to make conversation. She explains to me that she studies veterinary medicine and jokes about Mal hiring her when he eventually takes over his family farm.

  “Actually, it was Mal who told me I should become a vet. Remember, Mal? The day I tried to save that pigeon? I think it was the Christmas we turned eleven.”

  Mal stares at me. “Yeah. Sure.”

  He doesn’t remember. Kathleen’s eager smile doesn’t collapse.

  “He’s just being modest. You just wait till I graduate, Mal. You have plenty of sheep and cows. You can do so much with them, if you only put your mind to it. Renting out the land to other farmers is a bad investment. I could help.”

  “I’m a musician.” He pours half a carton of milk into his tea, staring intently at his cup. “I’ve no interest in farming.”

  “You still help the Boyles here and there, though.”

  He shrugs. “When they need help, yeah. I also take shits. Doesn’t necessarily mean I want to be a plumber.”

  I almost spray the tea in my mouth all over the table. Almost.

  “How are you a musician, Mal? You don’t want to be a singer, and you don’t sell your songs to anyone, even when they make you an offer.” Her eyelashes flutter, her cheeks staining pink.