Was that how Mal thought?
He’d said the same thing, the first time he’d kissed Jory. Something about it being fucked up.
Kirsty was speaking again. “It was never meant to be anything, me and him. Just a bit of fun. A bit of comfort, on a lonely night. Don’t blame him for it. He’s had a rough time, with what happened at work and all.”
“He told you about that?”
She nodded. “Think he was glad to get it off his chest. But you knew, right?”
Stupid, to feel hurt that Mal had confided in her. A better man would be glad Mal had been able to talk about it—glad, even, that he’d found someone he could have uncomplicated fun with, as he seemingly couldn’t with Jory.
Jory wasn’t a better man. “Where is he now?”
“He left.”
“But where did he go? Back to the pub?”
Kirsty shook her head. “Thought he’d come here. After you. He was really upset.”
“No. He wouldn’t come here.” Kirsty raised an eyebrow at Jory’s firm tone, but he wasn’t feeling up to explaining it all. “He must have gone back to the Sea Bell.”
“Right. Well, when you see him . . . Go easy, yeah? Wasn’t his fault. And I think you’re wrong, for what it’s worth. About him not wanting a relationship.”
Jory didn’t—couldn’t—believe it, but there was no point arguing with her.
Again, she seemed to see straight through him. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. You didn’t see him after you left. Like you tore his heart out and took it with you.”
She was being overdramatic. Mal didn’t feel that way about him.
Did he? Oh God. Was this Rafi all over again? “Kirsty . . .” Jory stopped.
She gave him a questioning look.
“Why did we never get divorced?” he asked.
Kirsty shrugged. “Because you never bothered, and I don’t care. What? I never have, you must know that. There’s a reason I treat our marriage like a joke, and that’s cos it is one. And it’s not just us. When did a bit of paper ever make a difference to whether people care about each other or not? The fact that people like you and me can get legally wed shows how fucked up the whole marriage thing is. If it hadn’t been for your big brother going all Victorian on us, I’d never have got married to anyone. Would you?”
Jory had never really thought about it. Had never allowed himself to think about it. He was starting to realise what a terrible mistake that had been. “I want us to do it. Get divorced,” he added hastily.
She snorted. “Don’t worry, I didn’t think you meant anything else. Fine. You sort it, I’ll sign it. Long as you don’t try and pull a fast one about custody of Gawen.”
“No. I don’t want his life to change at all.”
“Good.” She was silent a moment. “You should have stayed here, when he was little. I know it wasn’t what we agreed—fuck knows, it wasn’t even what I wanted, back then—but you should have stayed. He needed his dad, and you were off getting your degree from your posh college, collecting more letters after your name than were bloody well in it, and what was it all for?”
“I don’t know.” Jory took a deep breath. “If it’s any consolation, I think if I’d stayed, we’d have ended up really hating each other.”
“Yeah. Fuck it all. Sam’s waiting, and I’m going home to bed. You gonna find Mal? Tell him I’m sorry, and I hope he’s okay.”
After she’d gone, Jory grabbed his jacket—then stopped, irresolute. Should he go and find Mal? Or should he just leave it for the night? Let them both calm down?
He tried to imagine going to bed. Sleeping, with all this still unresolved.
To hell with that. He pulled his jacket on, grabbed his keys, and set off for the Sea Bell.
Walking into the Sea Bell after his reception the last time wasn’t the easiest thing Jory had ever steeled himself to do. At least this time he had the moral high ground.
Or had he? He was the one dating while married, for God’s sake.
But Mal knew how Jory felt about him. And God, to get off with Kirsty . . .
Jory wished he’d asked her more about what Mal had said, after Jory had stormed off without waiting for an explanation—although damn it, what he’d seen hadn’t looked like it needed explaining. She’d said he’d been really upset . . . Well, guilt could do that to you.
When it came down to it, he only had Kirsty’s word for it that Mal hadn’t instigated . . . what they were doing. Or even if that was true, that he hadn’t been perfectly happy with it all until Jory barged in.
God, this was so screwed up.
Jory walked through the pub to where Tasha was serving at the bar. He probably only imagined that all eyes were upon him.
Probably.
Jago Andrewartha certainly had both steel-grey eyes trained on his every move. He’d got up from his seat the minute Jory set foot inside the place, and had moved to stand by Tasha’s shoulder, his presence as solid and threatening as the granite cliffs around Mother Ivey’s Bay.
Jory drew in a deep breath. “Can I speak to Mal, please?”
It was Tasha who answered—and oddly, there seemed a hint of sympathy in her expression. “He ain’t here. Gone out for the evening.”
“He hasn’t been back?”
“No.” She bit her lip. “Was he with you? He said he met some girl.”
Jory tried to ignore the stab of pain that caused him. “No. Not exactly. I . . . ran into him. Them.”
She gave him a long look—then turned to Jago. “Think I’m gonna take my break now, all right?”
Jago gave a curt nod. “Take it outside.”
Jory flushed. Apparently his sort still weren’t welcome here. He checked to make sure that Tasha was coming out from behind the bar, then led the way outside.
The wind had picked
