Kathleen is the most put-together, ambitious, levelheaded, motivated person I know. I’m a busker and a bum and, on weekends, a bloody drunk. We have absolutely nothing in common, other than the fact that we both breathe. Even that is something I’m sure Kathleen is better at.

Wait.

A fling?

“Back up. What did you say she told you?” I hold my palm up.

A part of me acknowledges I’m a heartless SOB for asking about Rory when she just bled her heart out and confessed her undying love, but we’ll get to that in a second. Right after we discuss my bleeding heart. (See, Kath? I’m selfish, too. Really, what did you find in me?)

She stares at her feet, biting on her lip.

“Remember at my house, when you went to the toilet? You got back and saw Rory and me holding hands. That was a minute after she told me she was planning on sleeping with you. I confessed my feelings for you, and she told me she didn’t care. She said I got the money and Da and the heritage, and she would get the guy. That she’d ruin you for me. That’s why I haven’t tried to stay in contact with her, Mal. I was deeply hurt.”

I take a step back, digesting.

It sounds nothing like Rory. Not only is she not a cunning cow, but she’s also too blasé to voice something like that aloud. It sounds like something out of Cruel Intentions, not the mouth of a Disney princess. Then again, Kath is not a liar. At least, I’ve never caught her in a lie before, and I’ve known her all my life.

I gather Kathleen in my arms, pulling her to my chest.

“Kath?”

She flinches in my arms. She knows. She can’t not-know. I’ve shagged/snogged/fingered nearly every girl in this village, always careful not to touch her, and not just because her dad warned me off.

“Listen to me. You’re beautiful, smart, funny, and make a mean cup of tea. But you also feel a lot like a sister. Too much for me to want to shove my hand into your knickers. And I don’t think that’d ever change. I’d rather kick someone’s arse for treating you badly than be the wanker to actually mistreat you. You following?”

I feel her body going rigid in my arms. I press a kiss on her shampooed, carefully combed hair, missing Rory’s tousled nest of random colors—light roots, dark middle, bleached tips.

“I’m sorry if she said that to you,” I add.

“What do you mean if? She did.” Kath rears her head back, the light in her eyes flickering like a dying flame. “You believe me, right? You know I’m telling the truth.” She tugs at my shirt.

“Sean likes you.” I change the subject.