Page 66 of Succubus

I come again, later, remembering the urgent, rhythmic sound of it, his gasping, guttural breath in my ear.

The next night we end up on the living room floor, and the following one, too, his eyes closed tight in a grimace of denial, hands shoving my thighs open.

“Beg me,” I say, sliding down him.

“Bitch,” he says right back, fingers coiled in my hair, his voice on the edge of breaking.

He has clearly admitted to himself that this is happening, because he got condoms. The night after that, we make it all the way to the couch, where he visibly hates himself for giving in—his head between my legs. He devours me starvingly, in a rage that burns briefly close to something sweeter. Mr. Button hides. We come at the same time, like in one of my books, except in those stories it’s because they love each other. On this couch, it’s only hate and dark magic and Joel getting really quiet while I get really loud, and he is looking accidentally into my face at the last moment and whispering, “Tempest.” And then, “Fuck.”

I wake up early, my mind washed clean by sleep, my muscles excited. I have so much time to myself before Ella wakes up. I can do yoga or meditate again or relaunch my poem-of-the-day project.

Miss me? I text.

Don’t flatter yourself. Ooh, he’s talkative today.

I write: Don’t pretend you aren’t thinking about it all the time.

There’s a pause. Then he sends: Don’t imagine I have any interest in you outside my unfortunate reaction to your dark power. I’m sorry for bringing shame on my brother’s memory. I’ll carry that to my grave.

I recoil.

That warmth in his eyes, when he looked at me, before the truth came out, before he knew what I’d done. I know I’ll never see that again. For a moment, I forget everything—I want desperately to see that look. I want to claw backward through time, ripping apart the other pieces of the story, flinging aside everything else, until it’s only the two of us, standing in his kitchen.

And then I remember Grub.

I wake up even earlier the next day, at 5:35, before the sun has even leaked a hint of morning. I go for a run in the dim, clinging mist. Maybe the third time in my life I’ve ever tried to run. (The first two were—well, what do you think? If they’d been good maybe I would’ve done it more.)

This time is revelatory; it’s almost spiritual. My ligaments sing operatically. I suddenly understand runners. I understand athletes. I understand people who go to the gym. They are my people! Running is the second-best thing to flying— the road feels taut, it gives ever so slightly under the soles of my sneakers, it springboards me. I’m hardly out of breath.

How are you feeling? A little weaker? I text Joel after our sixth night. I’m grateful for Dee’s sleeping pills—she hasn’t noticed me sneaking around. It’s the furthest away from her I’ve felt since I moved in with her and told her everything, and I’m hardly thinking about it. I’m too occupied.

I feel fine, he writes back. Is he lying? I’m riveted.

Too bad, I say.

Sorry to disappoint you.

I’m going for a run every morning. I watch the sunrise from Goose Poop Hill (Ella named it a while back). I watch the sunrise from the old slate steps of a castle-like courtyard at the heart of the university campus while all the students sleep. Magic sizzles in the corners where Virginia creeper climbs bloodred over the stone; a single ancient ginkgo tree rises like a gout of yellow fire. Grub would like it. Back home, I almost google his real name again, almost look at that photo from his school, to see his face again. I don’t, though. My hands shake so hard on my phone when I try that I have to stop.

I carve pumpkins with Ella in easy strokes of the butcher knife; I can remember it being hard, other years, hacking through the tough hide. I hoist Ella up into my arms when she stubs her toe at the park. I give her a piggyback ride.

“You never give me rides!” she cries, delighted.

After dinner, we turn pop music up loud in the living room and push back the coffee table and dance. Ella and me, then Mom when she gets home, beads clacking wildly, then Dee, still in her work clothes.

“Play it again!” Ella yells, high on adrenaline and togetherness, eyes fervent.

We blast the same song over and over, working on our moves. I’m jumping, Dee is shimmying like she’s in the club, Mom has her arms over her head in a blissed-out trance. Ella is clapping her hands and doing jumping jacks and kicks. She tries a little butt wiggle that alarms me, but only distantly.

“I love you, you pack of crazy coyotes,” Mom says as we calm down. We grin at each other. Dee pulls her button-down off, sweating in a black tank top.

It’s been a while since we had one of these dance parties. It’s the first time I haven’t been exhausted after. I want to keep dancing, I’m just getting started, but I make myself sit down on the old green chair. Ella flops instantly across my lap, her chest heaving, her arms splayed, belly-up. For a minute, I’m happy. But then I’m fidgety, itching to move again, needing to go somewhere. Ella’s sticky skin is an irritant against mine; she is a hot little anchor, trying to hold me down. I nudge her off me, stand up. Something isn’t right. Something in me is unsatisfied and bored, is outgrowing the confines of my regular life. I look around the bright living room with its messy scatter of books and colorful throw blankets, and it feels for a moment as restrictive as a cage.

CHAPTER 22

When are we going back to Joel’s?” Ella asks. “It’s Monday.”

“Not today, Els. I set up a playdate with Sinai.”