In the Unlikely Event

Of course. Of course, she would never call Kathleen by her name. Of course, she’s hostile toward Dad, even when he moved closer to his kid and tried to be a decent father.

“You’re not answering my question.”

I want to punch a wall. I think I just might. But I’m afraid a trip to the hospital will result in more revelations. Maybe they’ll run some tests and find out I’m half-leprechaun. Who knows?

“No,” she says finally. “No, I haven’t. Are you sleeping with that infuriating Irishman yet? You’ve always had a weakness for the ones who are irreparable.”

“He doesn’t need repairing.”

“He is broken.”

“Everyone is broken. Some show it more than others.”

I made the mistake of telling Mom how I felt about Mal when I came back from Ireland—the first and last time I opened up to her about a boy. She threw a fit, especially after she found the rolled-up sanitary pads in my bathroom trashcan and asked how come my period was so early. Then I had to tell her about the morning-after pill I took, and she flipped and dragged me by the arm to get tested for STDs.

I’ve never felt more like an idiotic child than I did then, and I haven’t shared much with her about anything since.

“I have a boyfriend, so, obviously, no. I haven’t slept with him, nor am I planning on it.”

“You never know. You and I, we’re made of the same self-destructive material. When I met Glen, I had a boyfriend, too.”

“You did?” I ask mildly.

I don’t really care. I’m not her.

It doesn’t even matter if Callum and I break up down the road. I still won’t do this to him, for the simple reason that I won’t do it to me. I’m not a cheater.

“Yup.” She pops the P, taking another drag. “Good Italian boy. Went to the police academy. Could’ve had a good life, Aurora. Instead, here I am, cutting coupons for soap and working double shifts at Hussey’s Pizza. Pretty darn sure the Lord chose it as my workplace to remind me what I did to Tony.”

I’m about to ask her about my scar when I hear a loud thud coming from behind the front door.

Hoof.

“Talk later, Mom.”

“Wait! I need to talk to you about—”

I kill the conversation and boomerang the phone across the breakfast nook. Padding toward the door, I wonder what inspired me to put the phone down when I heard a strange, foreign, scary sound from behind the door of this deserted cottage. If photography doesn’t pan out, I sure could be an extra in the first five minutes of a B-grade scary movie. Then again, staying on the phone wouldn’t have helped.

I wouldn’t trust my mom with my wallet, let alone my life.

Please be Callum, surprising me to whisk me off to England, and not an axe murderer.

I fling the door open, only to find the usual fields, gray sky, and endless rain. I look left, then right, and still—nothing. I’m about to close the door when I hear a low, gritty groan at my feet. My eyes slide down. Mal is lying on the ground, soaked to the bone, looking positively green.

I gasp, clutching the collar of his jacket and dragging him inside. He is heavy as hell and ice cold to the touch. I can only get him to the middle of the living room before I start taking off his drenched clothes. He’s limp, and mostly unconscious under my hands. I don’t ask him why he decided to walk instead of calling a cab or—God forbid—me. I don’t ask where he’s been. My main concern is keeping him alive right now.

After I manage to strip him down to his briefs, I throw his heavy arm over my shoulder and pull him up, using all the strength I possess. My quads burn under his weight as I lead him to his bedroom. We bump into things on the way, but I don’t think he is conscious enough to notice. He is freezing, and he is always so hot. It terrifies me.

Once he’s in bed, I turn the radiator on and jog to the bathroom, coming back with a towel. I start to pat him dry everywhere, then tuck him under the duvet like a burrito, wrapping him like a mummy.

“Tea and flu medicine are on their way. Don’t go anywhere,” I joke—because he’s unconscious and can’t hear a thing—running off to the kitchen like a headless chicken.

I flick the kettle on, unscrew the bottles, then turn the kettle on. (Again? Again!) I head back to the bedroom with a glass of water, waiting for the water in the kitchen to boil.

“Heat up, heat up, heat up,” I chant to myself as I run my palm close to the radiator to check for warmth. Nothing.

“Electricity is down in the entire village.” Mal coughs, rolling in bed. His voice is so weak I can barely hear him. “Don’t bother.”