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I open my mouth to say it means nothing, but then the power goes out. It’s daylight, but it still freaks me out when the hanging TVs go dead, the Lord of the Dance music stops, and the humming of industrial fridges ceases.
The silence stretches between us. Everyone seems to have gone quiet. I’m not sure, but I think some people are staring at us. They must’ve heard the last part of the conversation when the music died, and are waiting for my answer.
Do they know Mal proposed? I swallow, staring at my hands on the table.
“Rory?” he asks.
“I don’t believe in kismet,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes trained on the open bag of chips. “You’re twenty-two, and I’m eighteen. We both know it won’t last.”
Am I working against my own fate?
The electricity comes back on. This serendipity crap is borderline paranormal. Annoyed, I take comfort in the fact that the football playing on the TVs and the music will drown our conversation, and the rest of the locals go back to their chitchat.
Mal says nothing. His face falls, like he just realized I’m right. I pinch the hoop in my nose and slide it back and forth.
“Hey, what about doing a long-distance thing? I’m planning on getting a job while I study, so I can probably visit you next summer. Maybe even Christmas, depending on the ticket prices.”
As I say this, I try to convince myself it really can work. I’ll only need to pay for the tickets. Mal has a car and a house.
But he shakes his head, sitting back and balancing his chair on its two back legs. “I’m an all-or-nothing type of lad, Rory. There’s no way in hell I can manage long distance.”
His answer angers me a little. So he wants me, but only on his conditions? That’s shitty. If someone isn’t willing to wait for you, they don’t really deserve you.
I can’t tell him to uproot himself and come to the States, to leave six siblings, his nephews and nieces, a mother, an elderly adoptive grandfather, and a mourning childhood friend who is pining for him and probably wants to wear my skin.
And after the offhand way he treated me when I brought up long distance, I won’t even try.
“We could stay friends on Facebook or MySpace—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“And watch as you move on with other guys? Nah, thank you. I try to keep my self-hatred below suicidal level. And we both know watching each other fecking other people would be dazzlingly stupid.”
I give him a hard stare, folding my arms. “Fine. Then we go cold turkey.”
“I can’t go cold turkey,” he says.
God, he is difficult. “You leave no room for much else,” I grit out.
“False,” he retorts.
“What do you suggest?”
“A contract.” He lets his chair slam on the floor as he leans forward. “You Yanks love legally binding shite, yeah?” He reaches for my bag next to me, flipping it open. He takes out my camera and a pen, sprinkles the utensils out of a folded napkin, and straightens it on the table.
“It’s not the right time to be together, I agree. But if we meet again, under any circumstances, any time in the future, we’re making this work, Rory. Feck spouses. Feck boyfriends and girlfriends. Feck the world. If kismet happens, we are letting it happen, no matter what, you hear?”
I stare at him like he just fell from the sky. What is he smoking and how do we make sure it never falls into the hands of our youth?
“The chances of us meeting again are less than zero.”
“Bzzz. Wrong again. They are slightly more than zero. I would put it at zero point fifteen percent,” he says cheerfully.
I don’t know how he can be so nonchalant about it, but I guess I can’t complain. He proposed to me, and I’m almost sure he was serious. I turned him down. Publicly, too.
“What if one of us seeks the other person out?” I ask.
“That’s cheating.” Mal shakes his head. “It needs to happen organically. We can’t look for each other.”
“But what if someone does?” I have a feeling this someone is going to be me.
“Then the contract is terminated, and you don’t have to marry me.”
“I have to marry you if we meet again?” My eyes flare, but I’m smiling.
He shrugs. “High stakes make good stories, Princess Aurora of New Jersey.”
“So much for me having the power to kill you. You won’t even give me your phone number,” I mumble, sipping my Diet Coke.
“I’m not giving you my number because I don’t want this to kill me,” he grinds out, his eyes darkening.
I’m trying not to hate him right now, because I know everything he says is right and true. We can’t be together, and keeping in touch would leave both of us craving more. Mal jots the terms of the contract on the napkin. Then he signs it and slides it toward me.
