In the Unlikely Event

This is why the kettle didn’t work. I shove the pills and water in his face, trying not to appear as frazzled as I feel.

“Drink.”

He perches himself against the headboard and dutifully swallows the pills, not bothering with the water. Did I mention he is green? Yes. Because he is. He is shaking, too. And I, the girl who is always cold, am responsible for making him an icicle. He gave me his jacket in the pouring rain when I felt like running away spontaneously—barefoot and underdressed in the middle of the night. He slept in the living room for me, with nothing to shield him from the cold.

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“In this storm? Fat chance, Rory. It’s probably overcrowded, anyway. Christmas fecks all the drunks up, and winter does the rest.”

“Why did you have to leave?” I seethe, trying to gain control of my temper. “What kind of stupid asshole wakes up in the morning sick as a dog and decides to take a long-ass stroll in the rain?”

My New Jersey-based bad cop is slipping into my speech, and I bare my teeth at him. I tuck the edges of his blanket under the mattress, again caging him to the bed.

He doesn’t answer, just presses his eyes shut. His chest is barely moving. I stand up and go to Richards’ bedroom to grab another quilt for him.

When I come back, he looks:

Ashen

Dead

I run a finger under his nostrils. He is still breathing, but barely. Cold mist covers his skin. My entire body turns rigid.

Be okay. I can’t lose you, too.

“Fuck you.” I feel the tears prickling my eyes as I begin to undress.

He needs body heat. He needs body heat, and for the first time in a long time, I am actually not cold. My blood is boiling with fury at what he did to himself. At what I did to him. I dump my clothes by his bed, leaving on only my white cotton panties—I never bothered to wear a bra or brush my teeth, things were too hectic today—and slide in next to him.

I think he is out of it enough that he doesn’t even realize when I roll him to his side and clasp my arm and leg over him. His heart beats against mine, dull and weak, struggling to keep up with the rest of his body. Hot tears run down my cheeks.

Everything is falling apart. Summer was right. I am naked in bed with him—only not for the reason she thinks. I can’t let him die in the name of loyalty to Callum. Richards is a runaway, my boyfriend is in another country, Mal is a widower (and possibly bipolar?)—plus, surprise! He kept the napkin—and there’s this huge secret hovering over my head, but I can’t seem to untangle it from the cloud of lies and deceit that follows my every step in Ireland.

I rub the length of his bulging arms, up and down, up and down. I press my forehead to his lips to check his breath and temperature. His pulse is slow, his breathing labored. I wonder if I should take his phone and call someone.

I sing him a lullaby my mother sang to me when I was a kid to help me fall asleep. Honestly. It was the only beautiful thing she ever did for me. It always soothed me and calmed me down.

“Oh blow the winds o’er the ocean/ and the trees, and the seas/ and the little pigeon, that never sleeps.”

Mal groans, his eyes still closed. A sign of life.

“Rory.”

“Yes?” I ask hopefully.

“You’re terrible, darlin’. Please stop.”

Then he is completely out of it, leaving me to shake with laughter next to him, so entwined I can feel him everywhere on my body.

“You’re a total pain in the ass, Doherty,” I mumble into his chest.

Goosebumps rise along his smooth, bronze flesh, and I smile. I doubt he can hear me, but I know the gooseflesh is him responding to what I’m saying.

“You make everything so hard.” I sigh, and as I say it, I realize he is hard.

One of my legs is thrown over his, and his penis is pressed against my groin. It’s hot and velvety and swollen, even behind his briefs. I shudder, closing my eyes, feeling the delicious clench inside of me. I open my eyes again to glance at him. But he’s not pretending. He really is dead to the world.

And he is getting warmer. Because of me. The ice queen.

“Of course, you would be hard when I say that. You always had the sense of humor of a cabbage,” I add as an afterthought.

He lets out a soft snore, his body tilting away from me, heavy with sleep, but I’m not ready to let go. I press my thigh harder against him, tightening my grip.