I advance toward him and wrap my fingers around his neck, squeezing.

“Watch your mouth where she is concerned,” I warn, “or you will have no teeth to do it again.”

I release my bruising grip on his neck. Richards laughs and resumes his walk like I didn’t nearly break his bones. Rory and I walk a few steps behind him, at the same pace. He’s singing to himself now, oblivious to our existence. I don’t know what he’s on, but I hope it’s laced with cyanide, because every year he gets to live, our generation gets dumber and a (Victoria’s Secret) angel loses her wings.

Finally, Rory speaks.

“Mal.”

Apologetic. Here we go.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

At least she’s not angry about the lie.

“And I’m also so mad I could kill you right now.”

I take that back.

I run a hand through the back of my hair, tugging at it.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she whispers.

Ashton is swinging his arms ahead of us, bellowing a tune. Something about the birds and the bees. I hope he doesn’t truly believe in this form of conception, because that means a lot of unmonitored baby Richardses in our planet’s future.

“You wouldn’t have come if you knew the truth.”

“Exactly.” She plays with the hoop in her nose.

“Exactly.” I lift my gaze to meet her eyes for the first time since she found out. “You deserve this shot. Why throw away an opportunity because of a contract signed on a napkin? Because of an old flame?”

“Because it still burns. Old flames burn you all the same.” She looks away.

It starts to rain lightly.

She doesn’t ask if I kept the napkin. I’m guessing she thinks I treated it like it was contaminated and got rid of it as soon as I could, considering how I’ve treated her so far.

“How?” she murmurs instead.

She’s talking about Kathleen, but I’m not ready for this conversation. I need four stiff drinks and to have her naked in my bed first. Neither of those things is going to happen tonight.

She gulps. Looks away. I suspect she’s taking a moment to deal with the fact that she and her half-sister are never going to make amends again. That this is how it’s going to stay. Broken forever.

“When you’re ready.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes. “And less of an asshole, of course,” she adds, probably not completely joking.

I deserve that.

I know it’s friendly. I know it’s supposed to be comforting. But I can’t help but feel a zing of pleasure and determination course through me.

Ashton Richards is doing cartwheels in the rain, yelling, “We’re all going to die one day, and we are so self-observed and obsessed with shit that don’t matter.”