“You knew you had a sister, yeah?”

I nod slowly. “My mom refused to tell me her name. She said it shouldn’t matter, because no one here particularly wants to know me. How come this entire village attends a church in Dublin if you all live here? Kinda weird.” I circle the straw inside my drink.

Mal sits back. “Not the whole village. Just us. Mam works weekend shifts at Lidl, so Kathleen’s mam took us both to Sunday mass to support my granddad’s Dublin gig, essentially babysitting me. I usually went home with Granddad, but sometimes I stayed with Kathleen when she hung out with Glen afterwards.”

“What kind of father was he to her?”

“A good one,” he says, then frowns and amends, “but not good enough for you.”

“And how old is Kathleen?” I ignore his attempt to make me feel better.

“My age.” Mal still studies my hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Twenty-two,” he adds.

“You must know her well.”

“We grew up together.” He clanks his empty glass on the sticky wooden table. “Why he would direct you to me and not to her, I wonder.”

“He said she was in a state and didn’t want to see anyone.”

“Bollocks. Kathleen’s more social than a penguin.”

What an odd thing to say. I try not to smile at his choice of words. Everything about him is so…different.

“What’s she like?” I feel like an FBI agent, but it’s hard to keep myself in check when I want to learn everything there is to know about Dad. About my sister. Plus, if my lips keep moving, I don’t have to stop to examine the stain of jealousy in my voice. Kathleen had years of growing up with Dad. And being next to Mal.

“Sweet. Nice. Saintly. You’ll see. Let’s go see her. She must have a load of photos of him.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I do. You’re not getting out of here empty-handed. Let’s go.”

He takes my hand and yanks me to my feet. He slaps a few bills onto the table, and I don’t even attempt to pay for my portion of the meal, because with the hotel, I’m already deep in the red on this trip.

My hand clasped in his, Mal blazes through Main Street like a bullet. It starts to rain, and I duck my head, trying to dodge the downpour.

He laughs, his voice muffled by the storm. “I can’t believe it’s raining in the summer. It’s like you brought winter with you, Rory.”

It is weird, but it keeps us close and touching, so I don’t care.

“Why not take the car?” I yell.

“Her house’s right in front of my car, actually. Besides, she’ll have mercy on us if she sees us wet and miserable.”

“I thought you said she was saintly.”

“Even the godly have their limits, especially considering I’ve been ignoring her for three consecutive months.” He snorts.

“Mal!” I shriek, but he only laughs harder.

We arrive at a white-bricked, black-shuttered Victorian house. Mal raps the door and runs his fingers along his dripping hair. It sticks out in a thousand different directions, making him look annoyingly delicious. A few seconds pass before the door swings open and a girl who looks like a rounder, less-edgy version of me appears. Her hair is ruby red, a few shades lighter than my original light orange, but she has the same big, green eyes and bony nose and downturned, pouty lips. She has freckles, like me, and the same beauty mark by her upper lip.

But as far as appearance goes, this is where our similarities end. She’s wearing a sensible white cardigan with a long, blue A-line dress underneath. Her leggings are pristine white, like bones. I shift in my Toms and hoodie and jam my fists into my pockets to stop myself from playing with my nose hoop.

“Mal!” she cries when she sees him, throwing her arms over his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. “What are you doing here? God, you’re soaking wet!”

“Kath, I want you to meet my friend, Aurora, from New Jersey.” He flashes her a big, goofy smile and motions to me as if I’m some kind of a prize in a game show.

We’re still on her doorstep, the rain pounding our faces. But even that doesn’t stop Kathleen from taking a sharp inhale, her eyes bulging when she notices me for the first time. Mal is too busy kicking the rain off his boots and shaking his head like a dog to recognize the delicate situation he’s just created.

“You said you always wanted to meet her, and she told me she doesn’t even have any pictures of Glen. Well, bumped into her in Dublin and reckoned it was high time for a reunion. Thank me later.” He winks, knocking his shoulder against hers, his fists stuffed in his jacket pockets.