He knows it. I know it. Still, you can’t make someone be with you. You can’t force them to commit to something doomed. I have no plans of moving to Ireland after I graduate, and Mal’s entire life is here.

I amend my name to Aurora Belle Jenkins, so he’ll know it—I already want him to cheat—and sign. I consider only briefly the fact that I never told him my middle name, and he’s referred to it. He takes a picture of the napkin and passes me my camera. “Your copy of the agreement, for safekeeping.”

Mal tucks the napkin into his back pocket and takes a sip of his Guinness.

“I mean it.” He shrugs. “I’m getting this notarized and apostilled.”

“I know.” I throw another chip into my mouth, trying to act nonchalant.

“Let’s just hope I don’t die from heartbreak first.” He downs the rest of his Guinness.

I think about Kathleen’s open arms and the herd of girls who follow him everywhere.

“Oh, I think you’ll survive.”

A NOTE FROM THE NAPKIN

Look, I don’t have high hopes for this spur-of-the-moment contract. You think it’s my first rodeo? I’m recycled, bitch. I’ve been around the block—long enough to know how this works. They will keep their promise for a few weeks. Maybe a month, if they’re really into each other. Then I’ll start to wrinkle, stink, and fall apart, or his mother will find me and throw me away, muttering profanity at her untidy son, who, of course, by that time will be balls deep in someone else and not actually present.

I’m just the victim of their knee-jerk decision. I should have died gracefully, in a recycling bin, tucked comfortably among other napkins, plastic bottles, and stray leftovers the workers here are too lazy to scrape off to the other bin.

Also, and not on a completely unrelated note, I have a ketchup stain the size of a pea on the word casualties, and it itches like hell.

This has mess written all over it.

When we reach Dublin Airport, I fling my backpack over one shoulder, grab my suitcase from Mal’s trunk, and insist he doesn’t come in with me. He double parks, rounding the car on a jog.

“I hate airport scenes in movies. They’re morbidly tacky. We’re better than that, Mal.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, chuckling at my feet.

Truth is, I’m already crushed, and if we share any more intimate moments, I might spend the entire trip home crying, which would be beyond embarrassing.

He rubs his thumb over my lower lip, smiling. “Safe travels.”

“Thanks.” But I’m still standing here like an idiot. Waiting for…what, exactly?

I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you.