In the Unlikely Event

“Aren’t you mad?” I blink.

“What about?”

“Uh…spending all the money you’ve earned this week for a room we won’t be using, for one thing.”

He waves me off, laughing now. “That was a minute ago. It’s time to move on. Don’t let the little things in life bother you, yeah?”

Crazy as it sounds, I get what he means. Life is too short to get caught up in the small things.

We get into his car and drive back to the village. When we pass Kathleen’s house on the way to his farm, I can’t help but sneak a peek at her window. She’s not there.

We get to his Tudor-style cottage, which is white with black logs running across it, a dark roof, and a heavy oak door that’s thoroughly chipped. It looks small, but in a charming, quaint way, at least in the dark. We fight bushes and overgrown grass that lash at our ankles as we make our way to the door.

“Mam’s in Kilkenny visiting my big brother, Desmond, so it’s just you and me,” he says.

“That’s cool that you have an older brother.” I watch the back of his head as he pushes the old door with his shoulder, applying force. It whines open, and we pour into his living room. Wide-plank floors, wrought-iron lighting, and salvaged wood everywhere tell me I’m no longer in America. Save for the tattered orange-yellow couch and flat TV, this place could pass as a Regency household.

“Six,” he says, dumping his keys into a vase by the door before turning around and pulling me into his arms.

I melt in his hands. “You have six brothers?” I burrow into his heat, torn between astonished and jealous.

He shrugs. “Six siblings. Five brothers and one sister. Catholic family, you see. Dez is the oldest. I’ve also got five nieces and four nephews. Don’t get me started about the pets.”

I clear my throat. “And your dad?”

“Kicked the bucket young. Heart attack at forty. I was a wee boy when he died. Joke’s on him because I don’t remember him enough to miss him.”

“I’m sorry,” I say anyway.

He takes my hand and leads me to the narrow, old kitchen with a yellow, decaying breakfast nook. He pushes another door open, and we spill into his backyard, which I can see is huge, even in the dark. There are a few divided paddocks where they must keep the cattle.

I can’t imagine Mal as a farmer. Clearly, he can’t imagine himself one, either, because he prefers to perform on the street for a living. He leads me to a patch of grass and tells me to stall the ball. He disappears into his house and comes back with blankets, a bottle of whiskey, and an orange pack of something called Hobnobs. We lie on the grass next to each other, staring at the stars as they fade into the clouds.

“Do you believe in God?” I munch on a chocolate-covered cookie. It’s so much easier to ask weird questions when darkness engulfs you. I can see a glorious Mal-smile cracking in my periphery.

“When it suits me.”

“When does it suit you?”

“When I need to have a word with Him or when Ireland needs a prayer during the World Cup games. My turn to ask a question.”

I already roll my eyes, psychic that I am.

“Why don’t you like your scar?”

Birthmark, I itch to correct. “How do you know I don’t like it?”

“You didn’t want to talk about it,” he says.

I sigh. “There’s nothing to like about it. It’s ugly. It stands out.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing about you. It makes you more than a generically beautiful face,” he says.

I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it. “My turn. Do you sometimes feel like we’re all just burning alone?”

“All the time,” he croaks. “Less so when I’m with you, though. My turn—have you ever climaxed with a guy?”

I choke on crumbs from my cookie, twisting my head to him with a frown. He still stares at the stars, completely serene.

“What the hell, Mal?”

“I’m sorry, is that more intimate than asking if I believe in God? ‘Sides, you’re never going to see me again, remember? Who will I tell? My arsehole sheep?”

He’s right. Our little world has an expiration date.

“No. I mean, I’m not a virgin. I just…anyway, no. I think I’m too inside my head when I’m intimate with a dude. My turn,” I say quickly.

I hate that he’s smiling. I hate that his smile makes every inch of my flesh tingle. But most of all, I hate that he illuminates all my senses, like a drug, and soon, I’ll have to quit him.

“Do you really hate money?” I ask.

“Loathe it,” he confirms. “I’ll never make large sums of it. Knowingly, anyway.”

“So, Kathleen was right? You can sell your songs and don’t?”

He tilts his head toward me, cupping my cheek. Fire licks at the inside of my belly. “Not needing money makes you rich in another way, Rory. A better way. The less you depend on it, the less it limits you. My turn—do you think you’ll marry a rich, boiled-balled man when you’re older?”