I didn’t mean to fall for the unattainable.

To ruin so many things along the way.

Now my Sean knows, but we are not getting a divorce.

No. He is better than that. Better than me. He just told me if I ever see Mal again in private, he would take the kids away.

I know he wants to kill Mal.

I want to kill Mal, too.

But for a different reason. I just saw the girl he fell in love with and realize I don’t stand a chance.

There’s a reason why fairytales end right after the prince saves the princess. No one likes to see her nursing postpartum depression and a drunken husband, all whilst folding the laundry.

And Mal? He was the prince who blazed by on a horse, heading in a different direction.

Present

Mal

Rory’s shivering.

I told her not to come with. Did she listen? No, she didn’t. Does she ever? Also negatory. She just grabbed her camera and flew through the door, taking this as an opportunity to work.

Of course, the fact that I am now the host of a currently AWOL, coked-up rock star whose name is synonymous with recklessness is part of why I’m ready to smash my head against a rock. Ashton Richards is an all-right guy, in the sense that he is unaware of just how irritating he is. He is one of those born-a-cunt people who thinks the world owes them something, and that others should do the job for them. The coke addiction is a byproduct of being an insta-rock star. If Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler had decided to skip on one leg four days a week as some sort of a rebellious statement, he’d have overdeveloped quads and would be late everywhere.

My phone rings a thousand times a minute.

10 Missed Calls From Bigwig Cokehead.

That’s the nickname I gave Ryner.

We trudge past the fields by the cottage, and I omit the fact that we are technically trespassing. The fields are no longer mine. I sold every inch of my land except the cottage after The Night That Ruined Everything. I didn’t want the responsibility, and I needed the money to buy a new house for Mam, Father Doherty, and Kathleen’s mum, Elaine. Then there was that emergency surgery for which we had to fly in doctors from America. That cost me a pretty penny, too.

I stop in front of a shack-like bungalow, the only house remotely close to mine, curl my knuckles, and pound on the door. The place belongs to the Smiths (the family, not the band), and the Smiths know things Rory doesn’t, so of course, I’m wary of the exchange.

“Hullo.” Brenda, a sixty-something-year-old housewife, opens the door. A warm, yellowish glow and the scent of baked pies spill out from behind her.

She wipes her swollen, veined hands with the hem of the apron wrapped around her big frame. The minute she sees me, her face alters from relaxed to pitying.

“Dear God, Malachy. How have you been? I’ve been meaning to come check on y—”

“Have you seen a strange-looking man around by any chance?” I cut her off. I did not consider the fact that the entire village treats me like Moses left in the reeds of the Nile River—maybe to survive, probably to die a slow, lonely death.

Surely Rory’s going to pick up on my sob story soon, if she hasn’t already.

Brenda’s brows nosedive. “How do you mean? Dodgy looking? Suspicious?”

“More like crazy looking. Golden robe, long hair. Sort of like a Kardashian version of Jesus Christ.”

She tsks. “Sorry, dear.”

“All right.” I turn around. “Cheers.”

“Wait! Come in! Have some pie!”

Brenda is calling after me, eager to help the poor, lost boy, but I jerk at Rory’s hand before she listens to the questions, and the pleas, and the condolences.

“Must you always act like you’ve been raised by swamp creatures?” Rory breaks away from my touch, jamming her fists in her pockets.

Her teeth are chattering. The girl is going to die if she tries sleeping in the living room tonight. I don’t answer her.

“Ryner is blowing up my phone.” She tries changing the subject. “Yours, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Should we answer?”

“We are not a thing. I do whatever I choose to do, and you are free to do the same.”

Today, when Rory and I had the argument in the bathroom that resulted in all the blood in my body rushing to my cock, I almost told her she could take my bed and I’d take the sleeping bag. Then she had to go and bring up the locked room, and all the dark memories poured in, washing away every good intention I may have had.

“Where could he go? He didn’t take the car.” She skips to warm up, unfazed by my behavior.

The car is still parked in front of my house. Besides, I highly doubt he can operate a light switch, let alone an actual vehicle. No, Richards must be somewhere nearby. My phone rings again. Ryner. I don’t particularly care that we missed the call. I give a shite about this job a little less than I give one about the wellbeing of endangered cockroaches in Madagascar. Richards is the one with the problem.