“Care if I join you? I could use a stiffy.”

I bet you could, my mind snarls.

Christ, I don’t want to think like an arsehole. It’s bad enough to see my mates showing each other naked pictures of their girlfriends. The idea of being someone like that makes my skin crawl.

Kiki plays with a lock of her hair and—shocker—purrs, “Long week. Lots of finals.”

“No offense, but I’d rather be alone tonight. Tell you what, I’ll give you a bottle and we’ll take a rain check. I’ll make shite company, anyway.”

This may or may not be the understatement of the millennium. I grab one bottle and head straight to my car. I rev up the engine, but it’s coughing. That’s just grand. A trip to the mechanic is exactly what my overdraft has ordered. I see Kath inching toward my car through the window, waving the second bottle in the air, and I slam my foot against the gas pedal, trying to start the car.

Come on, come on, come on.

Her hand is on the door handle. It’s like in a horror film. Will he or won’t he? I twist the keys back and forth in the ignition as she opens the door and slips in.

“Me again,” she sing-songs, tucking the bottle between her bare legs for balance.

I punch the wheel, staring forward.

“I said I—”

“I don’t care,” she snaps. “I know you’re going to be a miserable sod. I want to be there for you, anyway.”

At my house, I open one bottle and we pass it between us at my dining table, filling our tea mugs to the brim. It’s pissing outside, and suddenly, I hate Tolka, and Ireland, and myself. No wonder Rory doesn’t want anything to do with us. All of us. She’s better off not knowing what kind of person her da was. Let’s just say there’s a reason Kathleen wasn’t particularly heartbroken when he died.

Stop making excuses for Rory. She’s a world-class cunt who didn’t even tell you before aborting your child.

Her body, her choices, I remind myself. A heads-up would’ve been nice, though. I could’ve pleaded my case. Weighed our options. Popped the question.

Whoa, time to put the liquor down.

“You look like you need another one. Let me take care of that.” Kathleen pats my arm, filling my mug for the third time, the vodka sloshing over.

I notice she doesn’t drink hers. Hardly a surprise. Kiki has never been much of a drinker. I stop and wonder why she said she needed a drink in the first place, then decide I’m too busy drowning in self-pity and alcohol to decode her behavior.