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“I don’t mind, you know,” she tells me quietly. “If you call her name. I really don’t. It’s kind of kinky, I think. I like it.”
I clutch her waist in one hand, her jaw in the other, and kiss her mouth hard, ignoring the blood between us, filling my lap.
What it means.
What she just did to me.
What I just unwillingly took.
And the calamity that’s waiting for us around the corner.
Present
Rory
Rory: Are you sitting down?
Summer: Bitch, what kind of question is that? Who’s standing up for no reason? This is the 21st century. We sit down unless we’re in the gym or in line for Jamba Juice.
Rory: Mal is a widower.
Summer: ???
Rory: What part didn’t you understand?
Summer: The one where you’re being short and snappy with me for no apparent reason, in fact.
Rory: Sorry. Sorry. I’m just shocked. Kathleen died some time ago. He wouldn’t give me the details. I’m shattered, Summer. She was my sister.
Summer: Half-sister. And as you should be. But don’t forget she wasn’t a saint to you.
Rory: Still. What do I do?
Summer: You pack a bag and say goodbye to Cillian Murphy Junior. This has trouble written all over it. He is officially available and after your ass.
Rory: A. We’re working together, and B. He looks NOTHING like Cillian Murphy.
Summer: A. I don’t care, and B. Shame, huh?
Rory: Seriously, what do I do?
Summer: Mal. You are about to do Mal.
Rory: How could you be so callous about her death?
Summer: After the things she told you before you left, how could you NOT?
Rory: I need to tell you something else.
Summer: I knew it would get worse. I knew it. Tell me.
Rory: He kept the napkin.
Summer: How do you know?!?!
Rory: He left it on my nightstand last night.
Summer: $#%$%&^^*#%#!!%%^&^%&%^
Rory: After he told me he wanted us to surrender to our promises to each other.
Summer:
Rory: I can’t believe you’re making fun of the situation. This is serious.
Summer: It’s serious that he is a widower. It’s serious that I told you this wasn’t a good idea. It is NOT serious that you’re about to live on a cloud of orgasms for the next few weeks, which will cost you your perfect boyfriend.
Rory: I’m not going to cheat on Callum.
Summer: Mark my words. By the end of today, you are naked in his bed.
A NOTE FROM SUMMER
I have a confession to make, but guys, it’s going to be an awful one.
It’s not that I’m an awful person. It’s that I’m real. I wish I could be less real. I wish I could be a bubbly TV or book character who is always helpful and nice and loyal. But I’m not.
We all have baggage, and mine landed me in hot water a few months ago.
All I want you to know at this point is that I love my best friend very, very much and always will.
But love comes in different sizes and shapes, and it’s not always the full range of positive feelings you imagine when you think about it.
I love Rory, but sometimes I want her to snap out of it.
She is so naïve, so self-centered, so clueless.
Who goes to Ireland to work with the love of her life for two months, leaving a boyfriend she clearly doesn’t love behind?
She does.
This is going to end in tears.
I just hope I’ll be there to wipe them.
Oh, and as for the confession? You’ll see.
Present
Rory
I wake the next morning when the scent of freshly baked cake wafts into my nose, and I follow it like a cartoon character, practically floating to the living room. Cocoa and sugar and warm, crisp goodness. I find Mal in the kitchen with his back to me. His damp, ruffled hair suggests he is freshly showered, and a dark gray sweater clings to his lithe body and dark jeans. He moves around in his dirty Blundstones, the cake cooling on the counter beside him. The minute our eyes meet, my smile drops.
He looks like shit.
His bronze skin is pale, his eyes droopy and watery, his nose red, and he looks flat-out drained. There’s a mist of cold sweat coating his face and neck. He places the cake in the breakfast nook to cool, then produces a small gift bag from behind the nook, putting it on the counter.
“I’m off,” he says flatly.
His gruff voice is extra gravelly, extra throaty, extra different. Something happened between last night and now, and I’m hunting through my brain to try to figure out what it was.
“You’re sick.” I ignore the birthday stuff. I don’t care who’s celebrating, getting out of the house in his state is a bad idea. “Stay.”
He shakes his head. “It’s important.”
“Whose birthday?” I ask.
“Please don’t ask.” He touches his eyebrow, looking down.
An odd response, but then again, Mal is an odd person. Then I remember my presence here is largely unwelcome, and maybe he’s going to celebrate someone’s birthday and doesn’t want to invite me. The thought pierces my heart with shame and pain, but I let it go.
