Page 19 of Succubus

“I feel like I’m angry because we could have this amazing life right now.” Molly blows her nose into a paper napkin. “We have this great home. . . .”

We all murmur agreement: The kitchen! The garden!

“Sinai has been doing really well. The allergy shots are working, so we’re not dealing with that all the time.”

I try to focus. It’s been two days since dinner with Joel. He texted the next morning: You’re both always welcome. Please don’t keep Ella from Mr. Button because of me. And I still haven’t sent the response I’ve been composing: I think it’s better if we stop. I’m sorry. Thank you for being so kind. But I will send it. I have to send it.

But if you didn’t kill Adam . . . whispers my immoral mind.

I keep managing to conveniently forget the coma. That was certainly my fault, even if somehow his death wasn’t. I felt better after I slept with him: The faint ache in my spine dissolved, the seeping weakness evaporated. I looked better, too. My hair grew in happy and thick. Daily nonconstipating iron pills and my gluten-free, leafy-greens-rich diet just can’t compete with forbidden demonic sex, in terms of keeping my energy and keratin levels up.

I check my phone under the table and there’s nothing new. Grub’s last few messages are letting me know he’s located Dick Face’s old manager—out in Wyoming and unhelpful. I’ve already watched his video message. “There’s some idiot on TikTok who looks a lot like him. Like in the old music videos,” he told me, chewing on his lip. “With that hair.” He did a floofy gesture over his head.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Harini says firmly, rubbing Molly’s back.

And then time’s up—Molly and Alice have to get home for bedtime. I reach around the remains of a veggie curry to touch Molly’s wrist. “Something always shifts. It will get better.”

And it will, for her.

“Thank you, T,” she whispers. And then, “I bet you’re glad you don’t have to deal with this crap, right?”

She isn’t an insensitive person, she’s just upset right now.

I smile. No. I want what you have.

Alice’s greasy hand is on my knee, squeezing.

Do I really want what Molly has? Miserable husband, no sex even though they’re sleeping in the same bed and neither of them has a sex-related curse, an allergic kid and a surly toddler who is always blowing snot bubbles and throwing tantrums.

I do. I want it so much that I can’t help myself—I pull out my phone and text Grub under the table. Having a moment.

God, I’m pathetic. Using a sixteen-year-old as an on-call therapist.

Stay strong, he writes back immediately. He knows what I mean. Where u?

Out with friends. Srry.

I’m apologizing because he can’t even do that. Fuck me, he’s cut off his best friend, isolated himself completely, and yet I can’t even send Joel the text.

FUCK YOU, he writes psychically. And then, Kidding. They bein a bunch of moms and stuff?

Yeah.

I mean gross tho. Diapers. Adopt an older kid. Never have to wipe someone’s ass.

Any suggestions?

MEEEEEEEE.

I send a smile.

We finish with the checks, stand up, and hug Molly.

And then someone behind me says, “Tempest.” Except it isn’t a regular someone. We all turn, and Joel is somehow right there, like a large block of radiant cuteness in a black cloth jacket, smiling affably.

“Joel!” I clear my throat, feeling Alice’s eyes lock on my face. I’m suddenly aware of the way I’ve let him continue to use my Shakespearian-sounding given name instead of the less theatrical “T” that I usually go by.

He says, “Nice timing,” because we’re all leaving. I’m shocked for some reason by the revelation that he was already here without me noticing. In front of my friends, who are seeing him for the first time, he seems more attractive than I remember. And I remember him being the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.