“Really?” She sulks like I just suggested she date a bucket of lube. “Well, I don’t like him.”

“That’s fine, but I think it’s time to find someone you do.”

I’m trying the Band-Aid method. Fast and burning, as opposed to slow and excruciating. If I break her heart once, she’ll glue it back together and move on. If I break it one crack at the time, she’ll hold on to some silly hope this could happen. It won’t. Whether Rory wants me or not, I’ll never be with Kath.

I sidestep, push the key into the lock, and close the door behind me, leaving her outside. Then I walk into my granda’s darkened living room, take his phone book from the coffee table, sit down on his couch, and dial Debbie Jenkins’ number.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Jenkins?”

“Who is it?”

“My name is Mal. Malachy. I’m Father Doherty’s grandson.”

I expect her to feign recognition. I know she knows my grandfather. But instead of offering some sort of greeting, she says nothing at all. The silence is like a nail dragged over a blackboard. I cram words into it, desperately trying to fill the void.

“I’m calling because…well, I wanted to see how Rory is doing. We got to hang out while she was here, and she was quite emotional, and…”

Put more ands in the sentence, muppet.

I sound like I need to wear a helmet indoors. What the feck is wrong with me? But she is still not saying anything, and now I’m trying to figure out what the feck is wrong with her. I tally all stupid things I’m saying and thinking right now, as if this is some sort of a job interview.

“Anyway, is she there?” I clear my throat.

“No,” Debbie Jenkins clips.

More silence. Rory Jenkins despises her mother, and I’m starting to see why.

“May I have her number, please?”

“Malachy…” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Listen, I know you and my daughter had…a thing. We’re not as distant as she’d like people to believe. Rory is inexperienced, impressionable, and hopelessly romantic. I’m sure it got blown into this huge something in both your heads, but let’s admit it, just between the two of us—it doesn’t exactly have a future, does it?”

I’m torn between telling her to feck off and pleading my case. If I thought it didn’t have a future, I wouldn’t be calling.

She continues, “She moved out. She’s in college. She’s dating—”

“Dating?” I snap.