“Don’t feck her. That’s the kind of kinky I’m not quite into. But you hate her, Rory. Besides, we’ll send her hairspray every month. And plane tickets every Christmas. Easter, too, if you insist.” He reaches for his Guinness—yes, in the morning—taking a generous sip. “Stay, Rory. It’s kismet. Tell me you didn’t notice the rain stopped when we kissed yesterday.”

I open my mouth to say it means nothing, but then the power goes out. It’s daylight, but it still freaks me out when the hanging TVs go dead, the Lord of the Dance music stops, and the humming of industrial fridges ceases.

The silence stretches between us. Everyone seems to have gone quiet. I’m not sure, but I think some people are staring at us. They must’ve heard the last part of the conversation when the music died, and are waiting for my answer.

Do they know Mal proposed? I swallow, staring at my hands on the table.

“Rory?” he asks.

“I don’t believe in kismet,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes trained on the open bag of chips. “You’re twenty-two, and I’m eighteen. We both know it won’t last.”

Am I working against my own fate?

The electricity comes back on. This serendipity crap is borderline paranormal. Annoyed, I take comfort in the fact that the football playing on the TVs and the music will drown our conversation, and the rest of the locals go back to their chitchat.

Mal says nothing. His face falls, like he just realized I’m right. I pinch the hoop in my nose and slide it back and forth.

“Hey, what about doing a long-distance thing? I’m planning on getting a job while I study, so I can probably visit you next summer. Maybe even Christmas, depending on the ticket prices.”

As I say this, I try to convince myself it really can work. I’ll only need to pay for the tickets. Mal has a car and a house.

But he shakes his head, sitting back and balancing his chair on its two back legs. “I’m an all-or-nothing type of lad, Rory. There’s no way in hell I can manage long distance.”

His answer angers me a little. So he wants me, but only on his conditions? That’s shitty. If someone isn’t willing to wait for you, they don’t really deserve you.

I can’t tell him to uproot himself and come to the States, to leave six siblings, his nephews and nieces, a mother, an elderly adoptive grandfather, and a mourning childhood friend who is pining for him and probably wants to wear my skin.

And after the offhand way he treated me when I brought up long distance, I won’t even try.

“We could stay friends on Facebook or MySpace—” I start, but he cuts me off.