Plus, call me a conceited son of a bitch, but I truly don’t see Malachy Doherty as competition. He looks sloppy, his house is an utter mess, and his life is shaping up to look even worse. Those are things women don’t find attractive.

And Rory, she is a bit of a wild spirit, this one, but she is not daft. I don’t think.

In the cab, I take my phone out of my pocket and wipe away the idea of Rory and Malachy together.

I can keep her.

I have thus far, haven’t I?

And let’s not pretend she was always into it.

Only a bit more before I seal the deal. Then Weirdo Wackhead can be a distant memory again.

Chapter 7

Eight years ago

Mal

Whoever invented the phrase “out of sight, out of mind” evidently had the memory of a goldfish. “Out of sight, out of my fecking mind” sounds more fitting.

I miss her.

Oh, how I miss her like a flower misses the sun. Like the Clash missed the mark with “Cut the Crap.” I can’t stop thinking about her, and that contract is possibly the worst idea I’ve had since wanking into a Shepherd’s pie in tenth grade, straight out of the oven.

My mate, Daniel, claps my back as Sean, his twin, slides a pint of the black stuff across the table of The Boar’s Head. They motion for me to drink up with their chins.

“Feck the contract,” Daniels spits. “Pick up the phone and call the girl.”

I stare at the thick, white foam of my stout. It’s not that simple. It’s not just the contract part, but whatever comes after it. The making-it-work part.

“What if she’s moved on?” I ask my drink.

“In three weeks? Unlikely.” Sean lets out a gruff laugh.

Sean and Daniel look alike, as identical twins do. Same blond hair trimmed close to the scalp, green eyes, and I-fucked-your-wife kind of cocky smirks. The only way I can distinguish them is that Daniel makes some sort of sense every now and again when he opens his mouth, and Sean is a complete ape. And I say that with a lot of love. (Not to Sean. To apes. They’re lovely, intelligent creatures.)

“I can’t do long distance.”

I dip a finger into my Guinness and suck the bitter foam. I hear a sigh from the table next to us. Kathleen. She is sitting with her friends, Maeve and Heather. She flicks her straightened hair, smiles at me shyly, and turns back to Maeve.

“Clearly you must, since you can’t stop thinking and talking about her. You’re a complete puss.” Daniel shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth.

“Two people shorten the road.” Sean taps his temple. “Think about it.”