by L.J. Shen
She’s babbling. I don’t care about her P.O. box.
About her former house.
About dorms and random people’s parents, and I definitely couldn’t give a toss about what bills she paid eight years ago.
“Finally,” she continues, undeterred, “I decided to redirect all my mail to my mom’s house. You know how I feel about her, but I just couldn’t risk it. I was already drowning in debt. I didn’t need unpaid bills with interest on top. Plus, she offered to pay for the entire thing and took care of it herself, so that was a bonus. Here, let’s go this way.” She stops, pointing behind the barn. “I think that’s where I heard the noise coming from.”
I follow her, frowning. I believe my views about her verbal diarrhea have changed.
“So you got your mail redirected to New Jersey,” I say, controlling the level of interest apparent in my voice.
“Yeah. Living in the middle of nowhere is bad for mail, dude.”
“Since when?”
“Like, three months after I moved out? Something like that.”
“Huh.” I’m keeping it bored, though my mind is screaming WHAT. THE. FECK. All in capitals.
Pieces of the puzzle seem to be falling into place, but the overall picture is all wonky and wrong. Different from what I thought. It doesn’t paint Rory as the villain and me the hopeless protagonist.
“The house was neat, though. I shared it with eight other girls. One of them was my best friend, Summer. I don’t remember if I told you about her. She became an actress in an off-Broadw—”
“That means your mam opened your letters for you,” I interrupt, my brain threatening to melt now.
She is still bouncing and shivering. I could put her out of my misery by touching her—getting her hot and bothered has never been an issue—but being rejected by her would crush me.
“Yeah. But I didn’t get letters letters, you know. Just…bills and stuff. I was starting to build my credit. I couldn’t afford late payments.” She messes with her camera, which is attached to a strap on her neck.
Through my carefully crafted exterior, it hits me like a ton of bricks.
I’ve been missing a big part of the truth of it all. The one unspoken. Her truth.
I never bothered to ask her version of things—not that I had the chance to. Still. Still.
I listened to two sides of the story, but neither of them was hers. Neither of them came from her mouth.
One came from Kathleen.
The other from Debbie, her mother.
And all that time, it seems Rory was oblivious. Her mail was going to New Jersey.
Sure, there are a few loose ends, but with a crushing weight, I know in my gut that everything I’ve believed all this time was a lie. Everything I believed about her. Rory never set out to destroy me. Rory didn’t know. Her mother was responsible for this. All of this.
Rory didn’t reject me.
She didn’t betray me.
She didn’t hate me for what happened.
What probably never happened at all.
She is still talking, oblivious. Trying to win me over, maybe. She’s playing with the hoop in her nose. Nervous.
God, Rory. God.
The earth under my feet is moving. Things inside of me are shifting, too. This changes everything.
Rory is still pure and good and meant to be mine. And I will make her so. Even if I have to fight Callum and her mother, and the entire village.
Which I will.
(I might have to resume my morning push-ups if I plan on starting a full-blown war with the entire universe.)
She’s craning her neck now, looking for Ashton, oblivious to the life-changing pep talk I’m giving myself in my head. She has no idea that my whole world has transformed in the last minute.
“…moved to Manhattan, from a five-thousand-square-foot house to a five-hundred-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment. Summer put up a bead curtain to divide our makeshift rooms. But let me tell you, it’s awkward when she brings guys back…”
I stop walking.
She stops, too, eventually. It takes her five steps to realize I’m not there with her. She turns around to face me, slanting her head, confused.
All this time.
All this anger.
For nothing.
I want to hug her.
I want to fall down on my knees and ask for her forgiveness.
To cry.
To tell her what happened.
To hide it from her, so she won’t know how awful it has been.
I want to kiss her. Dip my fingers in her long, currently snow white hair. Press my lips between her eyes and thighs and over her beautiful, flawless heart that always beats faster when it’s under my palm. I want to keep her warm. Forever.
“What?” Rory frowns, like a wee child that’s been scolded for nothing. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” I smile, happy she can’t see the glimmer in my eyes in the darkness.
“Like…I don’t know. Like I just saved your life or something. You look upset but happy.”
“I am both,” I admit. “And you did,” I whisper softly, knowing she can’t hear.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mal, but you’re the most confusing, infuriating, hotheaded man I’ve ever me…”
I’m about to take a step toward her and kiss the living hell out of her—feck Shiny Boyfriend and his shiny family and the shiny engagement ring I found in the nightstand drawer in their room when I went back to retrieve The Boar Head’s napkin from the bin (oops).
She’ll never know he wanted to propose before I summoned her for work, never know he forgot the engagement ring there, because he has the same amount of brain cells as a Benadryl tube.
Rory is not going anywhere. She’s staying with me.
She stops talking, but it’s not to welcome my almost-kiss. She lifts her palm and cocks her head, listening. There’s a shriek from behind the barn.
“Don’t you fucking dare move away. Do you know who I am?”
A cow snorts loudly. Rory and I exchange frowns as we take off toward the back of the barn, the grass muddy and slippery beneath our feet.
We round the big barn and find Ashton Richards, the snog-blocker, looking rather blue and thoroughly crazy, still in his golden robe.
He throws his arms in the air. There’s a cow in front of him, but it’s backing off, obviously aware of the fact that between them, it is the more intelligent, responsible creature.
Ashton raises one leg in the air while stumbling after the cow, trying to get on top of it. Feck. He is trying to ride it.
“Come here. Do you know how many women would give up their families to have me ride them? Do you?” he asks, half-laughing, half-crying.
Actual tears, I notice, which makes the situation considerably more bizarre.
He looks…crushed. Devastated. On the brink of a breakdown.
Rory lifts her camera, adjusts the flash, and takes a string of photos silently. Badass, I think. Not just because she’s putting her job first, but because of the stoic look on her face. After she’s satisfied with what she’s captured, she hands me the camera silently and approaches him, yanking at the back of his robe.
“Ashton!”
He spins around and blinks at her, slapping his forehead. “Sex Slave! Damn, girl, your boyfriend has been sulky as fuck since you left. I hope you got it all fixed between you two.”
He pats his breast pocket, producing a soft pack of Lucky Strikes. Suddenly, he is smiling again. There’s something definitely up with this bloke.
Even though the idiot is not wrong, Rory chooses to ignore the information about me and clamps his back. I don’t like seeing her hand on him, but if we don’t get him in the house right now, he is going to spend the next week in the hospital, battling a wicked lung infection.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks.
He shrugs into her palm.
“You cannot ride cows, Ash.”<
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“That’s not a cow.” He points at the cow with his half-lit cigarette, waving it around, like it proves something. “That’s a horse, honey pie.”
I put my fist to my mouth to cover my smile. Rory nods patiently. She draws circles on his back with her palm, gently persuading him to walk toward me and out of the field.
“What makes you think it’s a horse?” she asks conversationally.
“It’s completely brown. Cows can only be black or white or both.”
“Hmm…” She sounds like she’s considering the merits of his argument. “What else?”
“I saw it running from the barn when I walked by. Cows don’t run. They’re fat and lazy.”
That’s not true. I’ve seen cows run plenty. Granted, it’s an odd sight, but it is possible. They run heavily, like elderly ladies trying to catch a departing bus.
“What were you doing here in the first place?”
She keeps him talking. They reach the gravel path I’m standing on. We proceed toward the cottage, knowing damn well that Ashton is high enough to make a U-turn at any point and go back to the cow, demanding his ride. We need to keep him engaged until we lock the door with him inside the house.
“I was looking for you.” He turns toward Rory, poking her arm with his cigarette.
Thankfully, it died because he couldn’t light it properly. My jaw twitches, and I slide between them, bracing his back and breaking their contact. It’s a relief to be protective of Rory. Trying to hate her was exhausting, and futile.
She had none of my bullshit, for one thing. And for another, I always felt shitty trying to make her sad.
“Why were you looking for me?” Rory blinks, puzzled.
“Because our host here was being a sulky-ass motherfucker. You know, I don’t think it’s just sex he wants from you, honey pie. The only time I saw him smile was when you were around.”
“Our host is married,” Rory says, the three of us walking up the road, back to the cottage. “To someone else. There was no need for you to look for me.”
“No, he’s not.” Ashton laughs, wildly and loudly and more annoyingly than legally allowed, I’m sure.
“You also thought a cow was a horse, Richards. Not sure you’re in a position to give your opinion about anything, least of all my martial status,” I mutter.
I’m not ready for her to find out. Not like this. I want to do this right, so we’ll have a chance.
We need to be alone. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. Somewhere I can explain.
“It’s not an opinion.” He whistles, zigzagging on the road. I tighten my grip around his shoulder. “You ain’t married, dude. Ryner told me the story.”
How high is this dickhead?
“He has a wedding band,” Rory points out.
“That’s because he is marrieded,” Richards hiccups.
“Richards,” I start.
“Marrieded is not a word,” Rory interjects.
“’Course, it is. It’s married. But, like, in past tense.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, clawing his shoulder in a vise grip, but he is too high to notice.
“Like, divorced?” Rory kicks a stone. She’s been kicking it since we were on the gravel path.
“No, like a widower. Like, his wife died and stuff. How do you not know this shit? You’re his sex slave. Don’t you have small talk after you fuck? While he gets the whip or puts nipple clamps on you?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Kids these days.”
Rory freezes, and that means all three of us stop, because we’re huddled together, me sandwiched between them. I stare down at my boots.
I can see her shaking her head. Biting her lip hard. I squeeze my eyes shut. Goddammit, Richards.
The fecker stumbles out of my grasp and looks between us, trying to light his cigarette again. The cigarette is not even in the same hemisphere as the lighter he’s flipping.
“Oh, I see.” He places his hands on his knees, laughing hysterically. “I see exactly what’s going on.”
We’re both silent. I want to tell her I didn’t lie. I was married to Kathleen. She died, but we were married. And it hurt. All of it.
The marriage part.
The dying part.
The part where Kathleen said I’d kill her one day.
And the fact that I did.
“You guys are not a sex slave and a master at all.” He finally gives up, tossing the cigarette aside. “You’re like…I don’t know. Fucked-up past lovers or something.”
More silence.
“You’re in love with her.” He shoves his finger to my chest. “Dude, you so are. And you…” He turns to her. “You’re…I’m not sure what you are. Confused as fuck, that’s for sure.”
“I have a boyfriend,” she mumbles, kicking the small stone so hard it flies to the other side of the field.
I can’t detect her tone, and it kills me, because she kills me. Tonight changed everything for me, but what if it stays exactly the same? What if it’s too late?
What if she will end up marrying the boil-balled fecker?
“Your boyfriend knows you’re looking at another guy like his cum is the nectar of the gods?” Richards asks.
I advance toward him and wrap my fingers around his neck, squeezing.
“Watch your mouth where she is concerned,” I warn, “or you will have no teeth to do it again.”
I release my bruising grip on his neck. Richards laughs and resumes his walk like I didn’t nearly break his bones. Rory and I walk a few steps behind him, at the same pace. He’s singing to himself now, oblivious to our existence. I don’t know what he’s on, but I hope it’s laced with cyanide, because every year he gets to live, our generation gets dumber and a (Victoria’s Secret) angel loses her wings.
Finally, Rory speaks.
“Mal.”
Apologetic. Here we go.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
At least she’s not angry about the lie.
“And I’m also so mad I could kill you right now.”
I take that back.
I run a hand through the back of my hair, tugging at it.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she whispers.
Ashton is swinging his arms ahead of us, bellowing a tune. Something about the birds and the bees. I hope he doesn’t truly believe in this form of conception, because that means a lot of unmonitored baby Richardses in our planet’s future.
“You wouldn’t have come if you knew the truth.”
“Exactly.” She plays with the hoop in her nose.
“Exactly.” I lift my gaze to meet her eyes for the first time since she found out. “You deserve this shot. Why throw away an opportunity because of a contract signed on a napkin? Because of an old flame?”
“Because it still burns. Old flames burn you all the same.” She looks away.
It starts to rain lightly.
She doesn’t ask if I kept the napkin. I’m guessing she thinks I treated it like it was contaminated and got rid of it as soon as I could, considering how I’ve treated her so far.
“How?” she murmurs instead.
She’s talking about Kathleen, but I’m not ready for this conversation. I need four stiff drinks and to have her naked in my bed first. Neither of those things is going to happen tonight.
She gulps. Looks away. I suspect she’s taking a moment to deal with the fact that she and her half-sister are never going to make amends again. That this is how it’s going to stay. Broken forever.
“When you’re ready.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes. “And less of an asshole, of course,” she adds, probably not completely joking.
I deserve that.
I know it’s friendly. I know it’s supposed to be comforting. But I can’t help but feel a zing of pleasure and determination course through me.
Ashton Richards is doing cartwheels in the rain, yelling, “We’re all going to die one day, and we are so self-observed and obsessed with shit that don’t matter.”
“What are you waiting for, God?” he screams to the sky, opening his arms.
Rory and I exchange looks.
“I’m telling Ryner to throw him into rehab as soon as this is done,” she says.
“Good idea.”
A NOTE FROM DEAD KATHLEEN
Look, I’m going to admit it right off the bat. I am the villain in this story.
I lied.
I deceived.
I manipulated the situation to my own advantage.
That’s what you want to hear, and that’s what I’m telling you, but I am not one-dimensional, and I’m definitely not as bad as Glen.
I loved Mal from the get-go. I’m talking since age two, not since age fourteen, when all the other girls in Tolka finally noticed that the weird Doherty kid was not so weird anymore, and also happened to be exciting and cool and knew how to ride dirt bikes and pierce his own nose and ears.
I’ve loved him since he let me play the doctor and dutifully played the patient, asking me humorously to touch him places I had no business even knowing about at that age.
Since he snuck snacks into Sunday Mass because we were perpetually bored and shared them with me.
I loved him when he practiced the guitar and I practiced sewing in my room, and we were both terrible.
I don’t regret anything that happened. I did all of it because I thought I could make him happy.
Just remember that as you read on, okay?
Remember that Rory is here for a reason now.
And that before I hate my half-sister, I love my still-on-Earth husband.
So, so much.
In fact, love him to death.
A NOTE FROM THE COW
For the record, the farmers who work the shed I live in turn on the soft rock radio station all the time, which is something I am trying really hard not to hold against them. At any rate, that means I’m familiar with Ashton Richards’ work, and although I do not consider myself an expert of any sort, I can tell he is no bloody good.