“Surrender,” I whisper. “I want us to surrender to this, Rory, like you promised all those years ago.” Before life tainted what we had.

“But the contract is gone. It’s dead!” she retorts.

“Is that what you need? A piece of paper?” I ask.

“Paper is important. A marriage is a piece of paper.”

“Yeah, but people get divorced.”

She shakes her head. “The contract is gone.”

I pull her up and walk her home wordlessly.

Rory

Sometime in the night, I wake up feeling warm for a change.

I blink my swollen eyes and look around me. Pitch black. The surface beneath me dips, the springs whining. I’m in a bed. Mal’s bed.

Whoa.

Panic dries my throat, and suddenly, I’m sweating everywhere. I did not sleep with him after breaking down because of my father. No way.

I pat the mattress behind me and find the bed empty. Phew.

Still not convinced, I roll toward the side that’s facing the open door, pat for my phone on the nightstand—Mal put it there; I somehow knew he would—and turn on my flashlight, aiming it toward the living room.

It illuminates Mal’s silhouette on the couch, his ripped, smooth back facing me, all arches and bows of muscles under the thin fabric of his shirt.

I remember his scent in the rain: male and leather and clove cigarettes and Mal.

Then his words come back to haunt me.

He wants us to surrender.

Despite that…I know I should fight this.

I’ve worked hard to forget about him.

The end game is setting fire to me, like he did all those years ago.

I turn the flashlight off and slide my phone back onto the nightstand, but there’s something on the surface—something soft, yet crisp. I turn the flashlight on again, picking it up.

My heart stops as soon as I see it.

In the unlikely event…

Our contract.

The napkin.

It’s here. Intact.

He kept it.

It’s on.

A NOTE FROM THE NAPKIN

I know, right?

I didn’t think I’d make it this far, either—not to mention get some more airtime. But here we are. And my buddy Mal sure did take care of me. The ketchup stain soaked in deeper and eventually faded, in case you’re wondering.

Other than that, I’m feeling pretty rad. Had a bit of a scare there for a moment two years ago when Mal’s mother found me and tossed me into the bin (just as I predicted—should’ve bought a lottery ticket that day). When Mal came back home, he looked for me everywhere. I heard him, frantic, mumbling no, no, no. By that time I was at the bottom of the rubbish bag. He flipped it upside down and started sifting through. I couldn’t believe my metaphorical eyes. He literally touched trash to retrieve me. And not just any trash: food leftovers and soggy papers and sharp-edged packaging and rubbish juice. He kept mumbling no, no, no. I thought he was going to cry.

Full disclosure: I didn’t smell too hot before, but since the trash incident, I really do smell like a burning armpit.

Mal doesn’t seem to care.

I hope the lad gets her.

I really do.

Eight years ago

Mal

Dear Princess Aurora of New Jersey,

So. This is awkward.

Mostly because I told you we should leave it to fate, and here I am, writing to you, which is essentially flipping fate the finger while driving slowly by its house after trashing its locker.

I decided I don’t want to leave things to fate. Feck fate. I don’t know it personally. Why should I trust it?

Anyway, I’m not writing to you about our contract. Forget about it. Well, obviously, don’t. I still have it. But I’m trying to give fate a nudge in the right direction.

Thing is, I’ve been thinking, and perhaps I was a bit rash in my decision not to try this whole long-distance thing. What harm could it do? Let’s try.

Also, I would like to point out that I haven’t been my flirty self lately. Apropos of absolutely nothing. The edge is gone, I suppose, and anyway, it’s never been about the sex, I hope you know. It’s more of a validation thing. I suppose you won’t relate, because you’re brainy and fantastic and go to college and have terrific tits.

Are you still thinking about your father? Stupid question. Of course, you are. I’ve thought about your da a lot since you left. Not in a weird way or anything. Mam says our loved ones that have passed away are watching us, sitting on fat clouds, which is grossly inaccurate and improbable, as you know, seeing as you’ve been on a plane and above the clouds. But I’d like to think, especially for you (and a bit for me, because I’m not completely heartless when it comes to my own late da), that they are watching us.

But not all the time, because I do enjoy wanking and taking shits without an audience, and cannot possibly see that changing anytime soon.