But hate is a verb.

And I’m about to prove I hate her more.

Present

Rory

The sun paints the sky lilac, its light dripping on Mal, highlighting the perfect arcs and planes of his face.

I take another picture. He hasn’t been writing a whole lot, but I’m not here to monitor his progress, or lack thereof.

I don’t know how many of them Ryner is going to use for the website, or album cover, or documentary, or whatever he has in mind for this project, but I can’t wait to upload these to my laptop and start working on them. I want to study Mal’s face alone, without him witnessing what the sight of it does to me.

I stand up and walk around his backyard, looking for my next perfect shot. Mal has been talking about the song “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette for ten minutes now, in a true Old Mal fashion.

“…literally none of her examples were truly ironic. Especially the one with Mr. Play it Safe, who was afraid to fly and ended up dying in a plane crash. It is not ironic. It would have been ironic had he died in a car accident. That’s the definition of irony. The expression of one’s meaning by using language that signifies the opposite. It’s like a bunch of people sat and worked on this song, and nobody—not one soul—bothered to tell her nothing about this song was ironic. Other, of course, than the fact that she wrote a song about irony that wasn’t ironic. Which is a big irony in itself, I suppose.”

I smile to myself, but don’t answer him. There’s something so deliciously sweet about seeing him in his element. It reminds me that under the bitter jerk he’s become is still a boyish, adventurous, wildly creative and witty man.

Who happens to be really good in bed.

“You love what you do,” he states, out of nowhere.

We’ve been talking on and off all night. It’s curt—barely civilized—but it’s progress. It’s still early to be optimistic, and the dynamics might change as soon as Kathleen gets back from Dublin, but I think the realization that I collect napkins defrosted him. I’m not even sure why Mal is trying to be an asshole. He’s terrible at it. He is one of the best, most exciting people I know.

“I do. Do you?” I spin the zoom ring, frowning at my camera.

“Do you love him?” He ignores my question.

My breath catches, my thumb halting on the camera ring. I take a deep breath, then walk over to him, ready to take a close-up. We are close enough I can feel his breath on my skin. It’s slow. Warm. Wild.

“Do you love her?” I whisper back.

“What I love,” he says slowly, “is basking in the knowledge that you will soon be on your knees for me, Aurora Jenkins.”

At first, I think he’s joking, but then I see the intensity behind his stare and freeze. He means it. He is unhappy with Kathleen. A shiver slithers down my spine.

“You don’t love her,” I breathe out, closing my eyes.

He is in a loveless marriage.

He opens his mouth to say something when I hear a knock on the doorframe.

My head snaps, and I turn around, finding Callum on the threshold. He is showered, suited, hair slicked back, and ready to go. A camel-hued, leathered duffel bag is draped over his shoulder. He looks like an Armani ad.

Callum’s eyes shift between us with confusion. When I realize my proximity to Mal and withdraw from him like he’s fire, my boyfriend’s expression softens.

“I’m off.” He hooks his finger and motions for me to come to him and say goodbye. I place my camera on the coffee table and move toward him. Something tells me I need to reassure him that whatever he saw meant nothing.

Not that he saw anything. The hand-on-the-shoulder move was a classic are-you-okay? gesture. Nothing about it screamed “I want to rip your clothes off.”

I back Cal into the house, knowing damn well Mal is not a fan of our PDA. After his confession, I can understand why. He is unhappy in his marriage, and living under the same roof with a loved-up couple in that state is anyone’s idea of a nightmare.

I close the screen door behind me, look over my shoulder to make sure Mal isn’t watching, then fling my arms around Callum’s neck, covering his face with wet kisses.

“Come to the New Year’s party,” I say. “Please.”

He brushes his nose along mine and frowns. “Have a productive night?” There’s an edge to his voice.

I nod. Not a lie. I did. Mal, on the other hand…

“Seems like you two patched things up.” He rubs his thumb across my cheek.

“Hardly.” I kiss his chin. “But we no longer want to kill each other, I think.”

“Good. I want you well and alive for the next seven decades,” he says.