Page 80 of Succubus

Mom and Al stay up a long time. I hear the TV, waves of delighted laughter. I hear the sound effects of one of the dumb phone games—bubbly blurps and a few overexcited whistles. I hear them talking. What could they be talking about for so long? Maybe Dick Face. Maybe she’s just explaining modern plumbing to him. At last, she walks him to the door, I hear them saying good night, and the door closes behind him. It might be the first time Mom hasn’t slept with a man on the first date.

I do push-ups in the dark like I’m one of those jacked prisoners in a cell. I have never been able to do a single push-up. Not that I’ve tried more than once. Now they seem obvious, the motion satisfyingly short, precise.

Mom comes up the stairs, goes into her room.

I do sit-ups. Not as fun, but they occupy the time. Actually, my stomach hurts.

Everything is still and silent.

Finally!

Down the stairs I go, out the door, through the garden, past the looming shadow of the RV where a pain demon slumbers in our driveway. It’s misty and eerie outside; the glowing lanterns on that one redbud tree look like they might mark the entrance to the realm of the fairies. The sidewalk in front of the more expensive houses looks naked, blown too clean, and leaves sift inexorably down, working to hide it again.

I knock on Joel’s door. The porch light is off, but the light in the entryway is on.

“Please leave me alone,” he says, right on the other side of the door. I can tell he’s been waiting for me. It’s a potent, vibrating little nub of a thought: both of us lurking in the dark for hours, waiting for this moment.

“Come outside,” I say. “I want to talk.”

“We talked.”

“We aren’t done talking.”

“I told you what will happen. You can send me your father’s address.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t know where he is.”

“Tempest, I don’t want to play games.”

“No games. Come outside.”

He opens the door and looks away from me, radiant in the sudden golden light from inside. He’s in a gray collegiate shirt and sweats, exceptionally sexy, his curls aglow, limned—is that a halo? I clench my teeth. I prefer him rumpled, sleepy, distracted. Maybe because he is easier prey then? Does it matter?

“Let’s sit.” I settle on the top step, pat the bricks next to me. I’m in my cozy sweater-jacket with the Southwestern designs and a knit hat that Dee bought for herself and then decided was too boring.

He lets the door close behind him, shutting us in the big dark together, and sits down reluctantly beside me. I feel the gravitational tug of him as though I will tilt, am already tilting, toward him.

He looks out into the silent street, the lowering sky with its thick web of uneasy clouds, his neighbor’s still-shaggy dawn redwood tree leaning in.

“You seem stressed,” I say.

He makes a sarcastic sound, a soft snort of disbelief. “What is this?”

“Just an observation.”

“You like your prey happy and oblivious?” he guesses. So we’re both thinking of him as prey then. “Better high?”

I shrug. “I don’t really notice a difference. I feel amazing either way.”

“Great.” He starts to get up. I put my hand on his arm. He stops.

“Nope. We’re still talking.”

His whole body is tensed, anticipatory. He rubs his forehead.

“Why do you think I’m still alive, Joel?” His name sounds intimate to me as I say it. Possessive. I feel like he thinks so, too, from the way he cringes slightly. Or maybe he’s just surprised that I’m asking. He shakes his head.

“I don’t know.” He sounds brusque. “Maybe I’m not strong enough.”