I know I come off as a stalker. The first call was a shot in the dark. The second one is a shot in my foot. I am unwanted in their lives—that much is obvious—yet I keep coming back.

“What. Do. You. Want?” she asks again.

Tough crowd. All right, straight to the point it is.

“I want to write Rory a letter, but I don’t want to send it to you. I want to send it directly to her. I know where she goes to school, so it’s not like I won’t be able to find out myself. Now it’s just a matter of you making it easy or hard for me. I’ve a feeling she wasn’t planning on me ever seeing these captions, and I’m willing to keep this our little secret if you give me her P.O. box.”

I’m blackmailing my future mother-in-law. This will make my promise to Rory to invite her for Christmas every year tricky.

Debbie mumbles a few things, but surprisingly, she gives me the address. I write it down on the back of my hand, then on a piece of paper, then as a note on my phone. You know, just in case.

“It’s not going to do you any good,” she murmurs bitterly. “My daughter doesn’t want you, Malachy.”

“See you next Christmas, Ms. Jenkins.”

I’m just acting the maggot, like she’s a mate or something, but a part of me wants to believe what I’m saying. Which, of course, speaks volumes about my level of intoxication. See her at Christmas? Ha.

“Cheerio,” I sing-song.

She hangs up on me.

Hope Debbie doesn’t plan on getting any of Mammy’s special mince pies next Christmas.

She doesn’t deserve them.

Chapter 8

Present

Rory

I didn’t leave my room the entire day yesterday, determined to avoid Mal.

Actually, that’s not true. I left it one time, when I heard Mal’s old car barking exhaust smoke down the road and knew he had gone. Where, I have no idea. I went out then, slipped into my Toms, and marched the entire, rain-soaked way to Main Street, stomping on puddles and flipping the bird to sheep and cows on my way. I stocked up on granola bars and bottled water, then treated myself to a cup of coffee, a chocolate chip cookie the size of my head, and a nice, internal meltdown in a local coffee shop.

By the time I got back to the cottage, Mal’s car was parked by the front door. The Lord of the Dumpster was in his room. Hearing whispering behind the closed door, I realized there was someone with him, a woman.