Back inside my house, Richards is still higher than the Empire State Building and seems to be in good spirits. He is in a touchy mood, though, putting his hands on everything inside my house. It feels a lot like he’s touching me when he touches what’s mine, and I don’t particularly like to be touched these days—unless it’s by Rory.

“Mate, stay still, like, won’t you?” I sigh.

He turns on the radio and starts dancing in the living room, even though there’s nothing cheerful about George Michael singing that his heart was broken last Christmas. Why they’re playing Christmas songs after Christmas is a mystery I reckon everyone is too post-holidays bloated to solve.

Rory is in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed.

When I look back at Richards, he’s fixing himself a martini on the breakfast nook, improvising with a pickled egg instead of an olive. I’m about to head into the shower to clean up and go through the script in my head of what I plan on saying to Rory. I laugh a little to myself, because I brought her here looking for one thing, and now it’s like scrambling to welcome a new baby hours before its arrival. Everything is different and exciting and new.

The song ends and another one begins.

“Belle’s Belle,” written and performed by Glen O’Connell.

No. No. No. She can’t hear this.

“Turn it off,” I snap, grabbing the rugby ball Richards brought in earlier today (“Dude, this football is hella weird. I had to buy it.”) and squeezing it hard to get rid of the tension.

“Why? I love this song! This O’Connell guy was a one-hit wonder, but boy, what a hit.” He starts moving to the slow, acoustic tune in a way I think he perceives as seductive. In practice, he looks like a drunk swaying his way back home.

Realizing he is not going to comply, I tuck the ball under my arm and stalk toward the radio on the breakfast nook before Rory comes back from the bathroom.

“I said turn it off.” I reach for the radio, but Richards swats my hand away.

“Rain or shine, snow or sun, you will always be the one…”

“No! It’s giving me inspiration.”

“What inspiration? You don’t even write your own songs—probably because you’re bloody illiterate.”

Truth be told, I’m already furious with him for spilling the beans about Kathleen. And I’m not Instagram. I don’t have any filters where people who are not Rory are concerned. If something pops into my head, I say it—the byproduct of having nothing to lose these days.

“Bells are ringing, choirs are singing, it must be Christmas Day…”

“Harsh.” Richards pouts. “Take it back, dude.”

“Turn it off.”

“Nope.”