by L.J. Shen
There’s more back-and-forth on that front, then Mal stops Kathleen’s stream of questions and arguments and says, “We were wondering if you could share some memories of Glen with Rory. Since she never really met him. Surely you don’t mind?”
“Oh, of course. I didn’t want to point out the elephant in the room.” She smiles, angling toward me in her seat. “Of course, Rory, anything. What would you like to know?”
“Hmm.” I tap my knee under the table. “What was he like?”
Did he ever talk about me?
Did he miss me?
Did he care?
“He was the best, Rory. We had a great relationship. He had a wicked sense of humor and a massive musical talent. In fact, the only guy I know who’s more talented than him is Mal. Da used to call me McNugget, because I was small and a bit pudgy when I was a kid. Remember that, Mal? I was so offended for the longest time.”
She reaches and squeezes Mal’s shoulder. He is still looking at me. Kathleen’s words sound detached, but I chalk it up to her being upset over Mal showing up here with me.
“Did he have a lot of freckles, like us?” I ask, the question sounding dumber than it was in my head.
Thing is, I’ve never seen my dad. Ever. My mom told me he had dark hair and light eyes and three chins. Forever a poet, this woman.
“No.” Kathleen chuckles. “His face was pale and smooth. I got mine from Ma.”
I guess I got mine from my mom, too.
“Do you have a picture of him?” I fidget with my fingers under the table.
“I don’t believe I do.” She scrunches her nose. “Have you not seen him?”
I shake my head, swallowing the ball of tears settling in my throat. Maybe it was a mistake to come here and see the real family he left behind.
“Surely you have a picture or two of Glen, Kiki.” Mal frowns at Kathleen.
She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Mam did a massive cleanup a few weeks ago and moved everything to the attic. She’s got the key for it, I suppose, but she’s out. I wish I could have known you were coming, Rory. I’d have asked her to leave it here.”
“Did he ever mention me?” I ask into my cup of tea, not wanting to see the pity in her face when she answers.
Even staring down, I can see Kathleen in my periphery putting down her cup of tea and sighing heavily. Almost theatrically. I don’t know why I do this to myself. Each question puts another nail into my self-esteem’s coffin.
“Oh, Rory, I really am so sorry.”
I lift the cup and bring it to my lips. The scorching liquid burns a path from my tongue down my throat, but I’m practically chugging it, longing to feel anything—even pain—to distract myself from what’s going on inside my head. Mal eventually lowers my hand with the cup.
“I’m sure he did here and there. He’d have loved you!” Kathleen tries desperately. “Da loved everyone, didn’t he, Mal? Even that stook, Jared, who sold knockoff Burberry on the street corner every Sunday.”
Mal gives her a weird look I can’t decipher, then stares at me in a way that makes me feel naked of clothes, skin, and bones. Like he’s looking into my soul, dissecting it with a knife and a fork.
He snaps out of it, stretching in his seat. “Excuse me, ladies. Nature’s calling, and it has a three-gallon piss for me to depart in the jacks.”
He stands up and saunters to the bathroom. I realize he knows this house by heart—been here probably dozens of times. He and Kath share history, chemistry. I should feel happy that Kathleen might end up with a guy like Mal, if she ever manages to tame him. Funny and charming and handsome.
But for some reason, I don’t.
As soon as Mal is out of earshot, I shake my head and smile. “He’s a wild card, huh?”
Kathleen’s sweet smile drops. She plucks a tube of lip gloss from her handbag on the table and squeezes a generous amount onto her pinched lips.
“What he is and what he’s not shouldn’t matter to you. He’s mine.” Her warm voice is now a cold, pointy blade running along my neck.
“Excuse me?” I slant my head back.
She smacks her lips, lifts her teacup—pinky in the air—and takes a slow sip. “The problem with Malachy is he has a weakness for strays. No matter how dirty, no matter how rabid.” She narrows her eyes at me. “No matter how dangerous.”
I study the way her face twists in revulsion, my mouth parting in shock.
Fake.
It was all fake.
My sister is not nice or timid or disoriented. She is the devil.
She hates me. She’s always hated me. That’s why Father Doherty wanted me to stay away. That’s why he directed me to his sweet grandson. Kath just puts on a mask for Mal.
“You know, Da said he’d made a terrible mistake when he came from Paris and it became known he’d impregnated the American slag. But personally, I’ve always wanted to meet my wee half-sister. Until he died and it became clear you’d go after his money. I didn’t want to believe it. I truly didn’t. I even wanted to write to you.”
“Yet you didn’t.” I grit my teeth, holding her gaze now. “How convenient of you to say you wanted to reach out, but never did.”
I feel cold again. I want Mal to come back, to soak the room with his warmth.
She flashes a mocking smile.
“Fancy seeing you here a second after he drops dead.”
My nostrils flare, and my heart kicks up. Whatever she’s insinuating is complete BS and far removed from the truth.
“I’m not here for his money,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes and hoping to God I look as menacing as I feel. “I’m here to see his grave, where he lived and grew up. To take some pictures, so I can look back at them and tell myself I came here and connected to my roots. There’s half of me I don’t even know. I’m carrying a stranger’s genes in my body, for crying out loud.”
“Why not sooner, then?” She rolls her eyes on a sarcastic smile.
“I wasn’t of legal age to make that decision!”
“Is that why your mam sent a letter to my grandparents asking to see the will? So you can connect not only with your heritage, but also a nice Gucci bag?”
It’s a surprise my jaw doesn’t hit the floor. I want to kill Mom. Or at least I think I should. I don’t know what I’m entitled to or not. I don’t care. I’m not gonna use his stupid money. This is not what this trip is about.
“Listen, I—” I start, but she cuts me off.
She leans forward, clutching my hand in hers across the table. Kathleen squeezes painfully, crushing my bones, her plastic smile making an unexpected comeback. Now I know that when she hugged me at the door, she really did mean to hurt me. She looks like the kind of girl who’d drown her old dog to get her parents to buy her a puppy.
“No, you listen to me. You’re not going to see a penny from Da’s money. He left everything to me, and for good reason. I’m his legitimate child. You and the other poor sod who kicked the bucket, on the other hand, are nothing but mere unfortunate accidents. Also, you can shag Mal all you want for however long you’re here, but it is me who will marry him. So just remember that when you’re writhing underneath him and letting him use you. He’ll fuck you, because he can, but it’s me who will warm his bed forever. And that’s you in a nutshell, Aurora. A cheap version of me. In Da’s life. In Mal’s.”
Her grip tightens even more around my hand. I pull away, but she is strong, and I’m too stunned to move. Her lips twitch and widen. “And please don’t embarrass yourself by trying to pull your mother’s trick and get knocked up. Surely you know he won’t follow you to America, and if you expect to dump your spawn at my door, you’re in for a terrible disappointment.”
I stare at her, wondering how I could be genetically linked to this cardigan-wearing, fire-spitting green-eyed monster.
“You’ve got it all wrong.” I try to yank my hand away again, but she tugs harder, digging her manicured, neutrally colored nails in.
Usually, I’m a take-no-c
rap kind of person, but right now, the shock of being in a foreign land and hearing this from my only living relative besides Mom freezes me to the spot. Turns out, I’m not a fight, nor a flight type of person. I’m a let’s-sit-here-like-a-log-and-see-how-it-pans-out chick.
“Stay away from Mal. He is mine. The money’s mine. Everything you see here, everyone you meet, belongs to me. Leave.”
“You think I’m after the money? Your crush?” I spit the last word.
Moments ago, I’d have died before laying a finger on Mal. But right now? I would likely hump him on her dining table, preferably as she eats her dinner in front of us.
“I think you’re a gold-digging whore like your mother. She ruined my father and everything I knew and loved. You’re the reason I lost him for a while.”
A while? What does she mean by that? Pointless to ask, as she seems less than cooperative with me.
“You’re a bitch,” I retort.
Not the most eloquent of comebacks, but one that comes from the heart.
She smiles. “Well, I’m the bitch who owns everything you want, so I’ll happily take the title. Now, now, don’t look so riled up. Mal loves me more than life itself. If you tell him I said any of those things, he’ll kick you to the streets.”
Mal reappears at the kitchen door with perfect timing, plopping back on his chair. He notices Kathleen’s hand on mine. She pats the back of my hand in a motherly way and straightens her spine.
“Bonding. I like it.” He looks between us, yawning. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing important,” she purrs, blinking in my direction with a sugary, meaningful smirk. “I just brought Rory up to speed.”
Eight years ago
Rory
“Know what’s ironic?” Mal asks when we exit Kathleen’s house.
I’m still shaken and nauseous from our visit. When I told Mal I’d had enough of our friendly chat, Kathleen altruistically volunteered to drive me back to Dublin. She really is a saint. Not. Mal, who has been blessed with the diplomacy skills of a soiled diaper, informed her that we were planning to spend the rest of the night together.
It was the first—and I hope the last—time in my life that I took pleasure in someone else’s misery. She could burn in hell at this point and I wouldn’t even hand her sunscreen.
The sky is a blue and orange velvet blanket. The scent of fresh earth rises from the concrete and trees, enhanced by the rain.
My head is still reeling from the hateful words Kathleen threw in my face like grenades.
Gold-digger.
Stray.
Whore.
“Earth to Rory.” Mal grabs a lamppost and spins around it like in the movies, jumping into a puddle and splashing me. “What’s eating you? Can’t be me, or you’d have a smile on your face.”
“You’re not funny,” I snap, still walking.
He catches my wrist and spins me to face him. We’re in front of his car. I don’t feel like driving. Or talking. Or breathing. I just want to go home, to America, with my tail between my legs, licking my wounds. I don’t have a family in Jersey other than Mom, and I sure as hell don’t have one here. At least I have Summer.
“What’s wrong? Did Kathleen say something to upset you?” Mal frowns, placing a hand on my shoulder.
A little voice inside my head tells me to keep my mouth shut about Kathleen’s Don Corleone speech—not because I want the best for her, but because I want the best for Mal, and he doesn’t deserve to know his childhood friend is a bitch. I have a twenty-four-hour shelf life in Ireland. I’m merely a smear of ink in the elaborate painting called his life. Why disrupt their relationship—if he’d even believe me? Besides, I saw how he looked at her. There’s no attraction there. Amusement, yes, but he’ll never be with her.
In a moment of sheer madness, I do something I’ve never done before. I slant my eyes toward her house, making sure she’s at her window, watching us.
She is.
Kathleen is messing with the top button of her cardigan. Button, unbutton. Button, unbutton. Her lips pressed together, her hawk-like eyes watching my every move.
Slowly, I raise onto my toes.
“Everything is mine. Nothing is yours.”
We’ll see about that, sister dearest.
I press my lips to Mal’s. Tentatively. Shyly. Uncertainly. I’ve never kissed a boy before. It was always the other way around. But I’m not here to enjoy the kiss. I’m here to prove a point.
His mouth, warm and soft, latches on mine delicately. He wasn’t expecting to be kissed. But he is molding into the shape of my body so we’re pushed against each other everywhere. Seconds pass. I watch Kathleen watching us kiss, my eyes wide open while Mal’s are closed. I drink from the well of Kathleen’s misery for long seconds before I sink down to the pavement, disconnecting from him. I peek behind his shoulder again. She is red, her lips so thin, they’re non-existent.
“No,” I hear Mal grunt.
I look up at his face, and something about it sucks the air out of my lungs like a vacuum. A black cloud passed over his features while I gave him that kiss. No part of him is playful or cute anymore. He looks like a demon, out for blood—thick eyebrows pulled together, eyes crackling with thunder, mouth twisted and sharp, like an icy storm.
“No?” I whisper.
“No. This is not a fecking kiss, and this is certainly not our first kiss.”
Before I know what’s happening, he pulls me at the waist and slams my back against his car. I arch and moan when his hands find my cheeks, my neck, my hair; they’re everywhere. He’s an octopus, wrapping himself around me, no longer molding, but conquering, and it’s crazy, but the rain stops abruptly, the sun peeking through the clouds.
The rays pierce my cold skin, and Mal does the rest of the job, pouring heat that swirls and dances in my stomach.
When our lips connect again, they don’t meet, they crash. He shoves his tongue into my mouth, growling. Our tongues twist together, roaming, exploring, fighting. He’s an animal, acting on a carnal instinct, devouring me like a beast. We kiss and we kiss and we kiss and boy, does he know how to kiss. He smells amazing, he tastes divine, and when his head drops to suck on my neck, my eyes widen as I remember Kathleen is still there.
She watches us through the window, tears rolling down her cheeks as her palm presses against the glass, ghost-white from the pressure she puts on it. I can feel the pressure of her touch like my skin is the glass.
Mal and I are no longer kissing. We are full-blown making out in the middle of the street, his lips closing around my tongue and sucking it into his mouth.
“Christ,” he mutters, moving his mouth to the sensitive flesh of my shoulder, dragging it up my chin and back to my lips again, still oblivious to our audience. “You burn under my fingertips, Rory. How do I give you up?”
Burn, I think. Strange choice of words, seeing how I’m always cold. But I feel it, too. The pull. The ache. It is not necessarily sweet or nice or called for. I’m aflame at the stake, a redheaded witch, watching his fire consume me.
I rip my mouth from his and mumble, “We can’t do this here.”
He kisses my mouth again. Then my nose. Then my forehead. He can’t stop. No part of him is in control.
“Let’s check you out of that money-sucking hotel and head back home. I want to spend every waking moment in you until you leave.”
“What?”
“With you. Get your mind out of the gutter, lass.”
“You put it there!” I laugh.
“You say carjacking, I say borrowing. Why are we still here discussing it?”
Dazed, I slip into the passenger seat of his car, fastening my seatbelt. Mal gets behind the wheel, revving the engine. He drank quite a bit of Guinness a few hours ago, yet he looks oddly sober. I look up one last time, catching Kathleen’s gaze. Her eyes are puffy and wet. It’s not in my nature to be a bitch, but it’s not in my nature not to fight back, either.
Mal doesn’t look back a
nd doesn’t appear to notice Kathleen as he rolls down the road, taking a U-turn back to Dublin. Our hands touch, and there’s a moment I can’t explain. It feels like more than just our flesh links us. I tell myself it’s nothing, that I’m the only one feeling it, but then I slip my hand back between my thighs and we both shudder in unison, like someone unplugged us from an electric outlet.
To burn under your fingertips, I think, is to come alive.
During the drive, I realize what Father Doherty was talking about. I’m a gray squirrel‚ an unwanted pest who steals from the locals. The cunning, street-smart, diseased, rat-like thing. But villains are just misunderstood heroes. I learned that the day I realized my mother’s archnemesis—Glen—was the protagonist I wanted to meet the most.
I sit back and let Mal reach over, grab my hand, and lace his fingers through mine over the gearshift.
Life is too short not to kiss the one you want.
Midway into Dublin, I remember something. “Mal?”
“Princess?” he answers naturally, like we’re well-versed in conversations with each other.
“You said something was ironic, but never got to tell me what it was.”
“Did I?” He feigns innocence.
“Tell me.”
“Even if it’s no longer true?”
“Especially so.”
“Well, my name, Malachy, means angel, but Kath used to tell me I was the devil when we were teenagers, that I’d be the very thing to kill her one day. She was eighty-percent joking, I’m sure. I was always up to one shenanigan or the other. Climbing trees, lighting homemade torches, attempting to ride the cattle…”
There’s a twitch in his mouth that tells me he’s trying to school his face, that he’s tasting a calamity that’s yet to happen.
“But twenty percent of it, I felt she truly believed. Which is why I’ve always kept my distance from her. A subconscious part of me has always been worried I’ll hurt her.”
I squeeze his bicep. “It is ironic that the angel is someone’s devil.”
“The second part of my name—Doherty—means unlucky. Yet, Mam claims the luck of the Irish is with me.”