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.

Chapter 11

Eight years ago

Mal