Again with this word.

“Kiki…”

“Mal,” she mimics my voice. “I’m so sick and tired of people giving you slack because of some bloody, magical hold you have on them. You’re stalling.”

“I’m not stalling. I’m simply rejecting your request.”

“You’re a cunt, is what you are.”

“All right, then,” I say.

Can’t really dispute that. I certainly feel like one right now. But she is not the little saint she makes herself out to be, either.

She advances toward me and slaps my face.

I can feel my skin burning, my cheekbone aching. I clench my jaw. Something tells me I’m being a stubborn son of a bitch, that I should just get rid of the fecking thing. The napkin means nothing. It meant nothing from the moment Rory said goodbye. And even if it didn’t, her letter didn’t leave room for doubt.

Now, let’s play devil’s advocate and say there is doubt, that it’s not over on her end.

Let’s say we meet again, four years from now, because fate has a twisted, sick sense of humor.

Let’s say Rory is no longer a bitch from hell and decides to honor the contract.

Then what? I leave little Glen and Kathleen and my entire family—who will disown me for taking off with the Yank, no doubt—and go live happily ever after with the same girl who aborted my child without consulting me about it?

I stalk toward the kitchen, hearing Kathleen’s bare feet padding behind me. I stop by the bin, take the napkin out of my pocket, and crumple it in my fist, ready to throw it out, along with Rory’s stupid memory.

I clutch it above the open jaw of the bin, squeezing hard, my fist shaking.

Do it already. What is the matter with you?

“Do it!” Kiki yells.

I stare at my fist, the trashcan, the fist again, then lift my eyes to the ceiling, letting out a ragged sigh.

Feck you, Rory.

I withdraw my arm, yanking at my hair with the other one. I can’t do it.

I don’t notice when Kath jams her feet into her shoes, but I snap to attention when the door slams behind her. I take off after her immediately. It’s late, cold, and dark.

Kath slides into my car, revs it up, reverses, and then gallops down the path to Main Street. I chase her by foot, yelling at her to slow down. That only causes her to slam her foot against the gas pedal to get away from me faster.

As I run after my own car, my own wife, my own future, I contemplate stopping. I can see through the rearview mirror she’s in quite a state. She’s shaking and crying so badly, I’d be surprised if she sees anything. Maybe if I leave her alone, she will slow down.