goes like this: A boy begs his father to get him a dog. Not a particular dog, any rat-looking one would do. The boy dreams of owning a dog, breathes the idea, and obsesses over it. Time passes. The father hangs the condition of having a dog over the boy’s head. The boy does everything his father tells him to. Makes the best grades, excels at sports, stays out of trouble. He is on the straight and narrow, and does everything he possibly can to get a dog.
One Christmas, his father finally gets him a bloody dog.
The boy is devoted to the dog, aptly named Dog. The dog is his entire life. The boy feeds it the best food, takes it on long walks in green, lush fields. Tends to its fur and takes it to the vet for checkups. One day, during their walk, a storm brews. The boy realizes he and Dog can’t get home, so he looks for shelter. He finds a cave in the middle of a forest and slips in. It rains hard. Dog is scared, cold, and shivering. The boy cannot bear the idea of losing his beloved pet, the one he’d done everything in his power to win and keep. He hugs the dog tight the entire time, until the storm passes. When the sun reappears, the boy looks down and realizes to his horror that he suffocated the dog in his quest to save him.
Moral of the story: clutching something desperately doesn’t mean you’re going to keep it. You might just kill it.
Plus, call me a conceited son of a bitch, but I truly don’t see Malachy Doherty as competition. He looks sloppy, his house is an utter mess, and his life is shaping up to look even worse. Those are things women don’t find attractive.
And Rory, she is a bit of a wild spirit, this one, but she is not daft. I don’t think.
In the cab, I take my phone out of my pocket and wipe away the idea of Rory and Malachy together.
I can keep her.
I have thus far, haven’t I?
And let’s not pretend she was always into it.
Only a bit more before I seal the deal. Then Weirdo Wackhead can be a distant memory again.
Eight years ago
Mal
Whoever invented the phrase “out of sight, out of mind” evidently had the memory of a goldfish. “Out of sight, out of my fecking mind” sounds more fitting.
I miss her.
Oh, how I miss her like a flower misses the sun. Like the Clash missed the mark with “Cut the Crap.” I can’t stop thinking about her, and that contract is possibly the worst idea I’ve had since wanking into a Shepherd’s pie in tenth grade, straight out of the oven.
My mate, Daniel, claps my back as Sean, his twin, slides a pint of the black stuff across the table of The Boar’s Head. They motion for me to drink up with their chins.
“Feck the contract,” Daniels spits. “Pick up the phone and call the girl.”
I stare at the thick, white foam of my stout. It’s not that simple. It’s not just the contract part, but whatever comes after it. The making-it-work part.
“What if she’s moved on?” I ask my drink.
“In three weeks? Unlikely.” Sean lets out a gruff laugh.
Sean and Daniel look alike, as identical twins do. Same blond hair trimmed close to the scalp, green eyes, and I-fucked-your-wife kind of cocky smirks. The only way I can distinguish them is that Daniel makes some sort of sense every now and again when he opens his mouth, and Sean is a complete ape. And I say that with a lot of love. (Not to Sean. To apes. They’re lovely, intelligent creatures.)
“I can’t do long distance.”
I dip a finger into my Guinness and suck the bitter foam. I hear a sigh from the table next to us. Kathleen. She is sitting with her friends, Maeve and Heather. She flicks her straightened hair, smiles at me shyly, and turns back to Maeve.
“Clearly you must, since you can’t stop thinking and talking about her. You’re a complete puss.” Daniel shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth.
“Two people shorten the road.” Sean taps his temple. “Think about it.”
“Wrong saying, but the sentiment is correct, brother.” Daniel laughs. “I know you said you don’t want to settle down, but that’s exactly what you’re doing, and she’s not even here. You’re settling for misery instead of taking a chance. You haven’t shagged a soul since she left. At