at her, pining…again. She’s doing the same—to me. I wish they’d just shag and let me drown in my misery.
“She is not a slag at all.”
But the more time passes, the more the crisp memory of her not being a slag dims. The captions on the pictures are now more vivid than her innocent smile in my head.
“I’m going to call her mum,” I announce.
“Dumbest idea you’ve had in a while.” Daniel does a thumbs-down, whistling as he crashes his hand against the table. “And you’re never short of those.”
“Borderline suicidal.” Sean bobs his head, dragging his eyes from Kath.
Ever since our conversation by my grandfather’s door, she’s been dropping by my house quite a lot—always in skimpy dresses that look very odd on her, and always with a fresh platter of something good for me to eat, plus a bottle of wine or a few cans of Guinness in her hands. I invite her in, eat while she tells me stories about whatever is happening in her life, then send her on her way. On the surface, she seems content with being just friends. A dom-girl friend, I suppose, with that kind of attire.
“No, I need to talk to Rory directly.” I shake my head and stand. I still keep the napkin, of course, returning it carefully to my pocket, but I’ve broken every rule under the sun.
Now, here I am, dialing Debbie’s number. Again.
She picks up on the third ring. There’s a time difference, and I know I’m catching her early in the morning.
“Hello?”
“Debbie?”
Drunk Mal is obviously on a first-name basis with Rory’s mother. Sober Mal, however, is worried for Drunk Mal’s bullocks.
“Yes?” She already sounds on edge.
“It’s Mal, Father Doherty’s grandson.”
“What do you want?”
Your daughter. Is it not painfully, pathetically clear by now?
“Cheers for the pictures.” I hiccup into the phone. “She is very talented, our Rory, isn’t she?”
I know I come off as a stalker. The first call was a shot in the dark. The second one is a shot in my foot. I am unwanted in their lives—that much is obvious—yet I keep coming back.
“What. Do. You. Want?” she asks again.
Tough crowd. All right, straight to the point it is.
“I want to write Rory a letter, but I don’t want to send it to you. I want to send it directly to her. I know where she goes to school, so it’s not like I won’t be able to find out myself. Now it’s just a matter of you making it easy or hard for me. I’ve a feeling she wasn’t planning on me ever seeing these captions, and I’m willing to keep this our little secret if you give me her P.O. box.”
I’m blackmailing my future mother-in-law. This will make my promise to Rory to invite her for Christmas every year tricky.
Debbie mumbles a few things, but surprisingly, she gives me the address. I write it down on the back of my hand, then on a piece of paper, then as a note on my phone. You know, just in case.
“It’s not going to do you any good,” she murmurs bitterly. “My daughter doesn’t want you, Malachy.”
“See you next Christmas, Ms. Jenkins.”
I’m just acting the maggot, like she’s a mate or something, but a part of me wants to believe what I’m saying. Which, of course, speaks volumes about my level of intoxication. See her at Christmas? Ha.
“Cheerio,” I sing-song.
She hangs up on me.
Hope Debbie doesn’t plan on getting any of Mammy’s special mince pies next Christmas.
She doesn’t deserve them.
Present
Rory
I didn’t leave my room the entire day yesterday, determined to avoid Mal.
Actually, that’s not true. I left it one time, when I heard Mal’s old car barking exhaust smoke down the road and knew he had gone. Where, I have no idea. I went out then, slipped into my Toms, and marched the entire, rain-soaked way to Main Street, stomping on puddles and flipping the bird to sheep and cows on my way. I stocked up on granola bars and bottled water, then treated myself to a cup of coffee, a chocolate chip cookie the size of my head, and a nice, internal meltdown in a local coffee shop.
By the time I got back to the cottage, Mal’s car was parked by the front door. The Lord of the Dumpster was in his room. Hearing whispering behind the closed door, I realized there was someone with him, a woman.
My rubber-ball heart bounced in my chest. Kathleen. I tiptoed to the door and pressed my