Page 18 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

Damien isn’t shy in expressing his attraction to me, but every moment of physical intimacy since then has been couched in an undercurrent of seeking consent. Moments that could easily have been coercive, but weren’t.

I think back to the moment he had me to himself in the corridors at The Vault.

I’m going to kiss you again. Is that alright?

Right here?

Unless you have any objections.

Effortless. Simple. Easy. A door left open for me to decide which room I’d like to reside in.

And now he’s spending ridiculous money on me. And holding my hand like we’ve been doing it for a hundred years. And tasting Earl Grey tiramisu by way of the lingering traces of it on my tongue.

Bastion had me feeling like it was possible I could only be attracted to a man if he was indifferent or even a bit mean to me. Suddenly I’m worried that I’m in very real danger of falling for this man. Hard and fast and with nowhere soft or kind to land in the aftermath.

It’s terrifying. And it’s exhilarating. I imagine skydiving might feel like this.

“What is it?” Damien asks after I’ve been staring at our joined hands for a long time.

I lift my eyes back up to his and I’m suddenly overtaken with the urge to weep. My introspective mood must be clear on my face, because he cups my cheek with his other hand, hiding my face from Craig just as his eyes flick to look in the rearview mirror.

“It’s just a really good night,” I say, relieved when it only sounds a tiny bit choked up.

Damien’s expression softens, and his perfect smile cracks open. “Yeah,” he says.

I let out a soft laugh. He slides to the middle seat and guides me to rest on his shoulder, kissing the top of my head.

It’s only a couple more moments before Craig pulls up to the bookshop and grunts out a curt goodbye as we exit his prius.

Before us stands a slender, Victorian-era building, painted the same deep violet of the sky and dotted with blue and white stars. A modern sign touts the name of the business, The Nocturne, in the same font as the American Horror Story title cards. It’d be cringey if it wasn’t such a cute shop.

The windows glow from the inside with amber light. I see a few of the regulars I always do when I’m here: Binx, an artist who always wears glasses but always winds up pushing them up to his forehead as he leans closer and closer to his sketchbook, as if the glasses somehow get in the way of him seeing his work well enough to complete it. Mackenzie, an author who always has her manuscript open on the coffee bar, but spends her entire visit flirting with Raina, the beautiful Indian woman who makes the best Turkish coffee I’ve ever tasted. And of course, Naomi, who owns the shop.

It must be a while since I last visited, because her pretty textured hair is now braided in hundreds of tiny micro braids that go from her natural warm brown color to a dreamy shade of lilac that looks incredible against her bronze, freckled skin.

She’s perched on one of the picturesque ladders at the far end of its railing in a section of the store I spend a lot of time in: The Occult Sciences. She has a few rare tomes that she’s let me handle (gingerly, with gloves on) that have provided some vital context for a few workings I’ve done for clients. She waves at me through the window before eyeing Damien.

She lifts her brows and gives me one of those expressions that’s like a frown while nodding. The kind you do when you’re reluctantly impressed. The “Okay, girl, get it,” expression. She places her the book she’s handling on the shelf before tapping her middle finger and thumb together in tiny applause and tucking some braids behind her ear.

Damien’s too busy looking at me to notice the tiny gesture before Naomi starts descending the ladder. I drag Damien inside behind me, pulling him over to my favorite spot. It’s a worn-out, too-big sofa that feels like it’s swallowing you in the best way when you sit on it. I settle him into the seat just as Binx looks over at us. His wavy brown hair frames his always-tired expression. “Lillith, long time no see,” he says as he squints at us. He blinks like he suddenly realizes he’s nearsighted and pulls down his glasses. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hey, I’m Damien. Nice to meet you, man,” he says, curling a hand around my knee a little possessively.

“Binx,” he offers as he adjusts his thick, tortoiseshell glasses. “I thought you didn’t date, Lil.”

Damien immediately stiffens. “Maybe she doesn’t date you, buddy,” he says, the last word coming out a little sharply.

“No, no,” I say pacifyingly, as I place a hand on top of Damien’s beanie-clad head.

“Oh. No,” Binx adds, speeding his hands in front of him in surrender. “I’m not—”

“We have a pact,” I explain.

“A stupid one,” Binx admits with a hasty nod. “Believe me, I am too twiggy to get into a fistfight with someone who’s filling out a goddamn sweatshirt like you do. I mean, you probably bench press twice my weight. That’s not an invitation but—”

“We like to joke that we’re platonic casual-intermittent-opportunistic-soulmates,” I say.

“In the way of like—like how incels are soulmates in their solitude—you know, like that,” Binx says. “Please don’t bend me in half. I’m just extremely autistic and forget how to talk to strangers in a way that doesn’t immediately come across as the actual worst.”