Page 94 of Succubus

Molly’s husband—Louis—comes out and offers me coffee. He’s friendly, apologizing for being busy with work. Also, the toddler is asleep inside. She just conked out in the car on the way back from Costco! He smells good—a clean scent. He works out, I can tell. He has a close-trimmed beard, very dark eyes.

I like Molly. She’s my friend. We have sipped tea and talked about starting a book club. We’ve bonded over how much our girls hate practicing their instruments and how much we hate making them practice but how we do it anyway and we don’t even totally know why sometimes. I was there for her when she cried and told us about her marriage, about her deepest fears.

I like Molly, but I am wondering what her (depressed?) husband looks like naked. How he would react if I put my hand on his arm, looked into his eyes.

It would be so easy. I picture him under me, teeth bared, arching, helpless.

I smile at him for a flutter of a moment, and his expression slips, just a hair.

I startle, turn aside, ripping my eyes from his.

Did I really just consider leaving Ella to jump on the trampoline under the outstretched arms of a sprawling maple tree so I could murder her friend’s father just there, in the happy yellow farmhouse? Also, I feel for some reason like I’m betraying Joel. Which is absurd.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I just remembered—we have to go. I didn’t realize—violin lesson. Ella!”

I drag her away as she protests and Sinai tries to reason with me, promising she will make me a present, one of her famous butterfly paintings, if I just let Ella stay. Louis, seeming to understand that something dark and untoward has occurred under the surface of our interaction, avoids eye contact, tugging Sinai back to the house, bribing her in the end with popcorn.

Will this man now flinch away from me at the weekend family meetups in the park? Will he say something to Molly? Is there anything to say? Will I no longer be allowed to be her friend?

I try to worry about it, but Ella is whining in the car and I’m thinking about Joel again—the weakness, his hands on my back when he held me. Simple hands, a simple embrace, something infinite in it.

Now that we’ve cut the playdate short, I can’t think of anything else to do to fill the time, and I’m dreading running into Al at home. I feel trapped. I feel like I don’t belong in this car with this kid in the back seat demanding that various songs from the Encanto soundtrack be played in a specific order. I don’t belong in this town. This state. I should be on the open road, alone. I should be headed somewhere big. Maybe I should go to New York. Maybe I should fly to Paris.

I slow down on our block. Al’s RV is now pulled all the way into the driveway. I park behind it and we go inside. I steel myself, but it’s quiet, the iPad abandoned on the coffee table.

Phew.

But there’s still nothing to do.

Ella flops around in the living room, asking for sugar. “When the heck is the ice cream truck going to come again?” I don’t like the sweary tone of that. “Do you think it’s still going to come every Tuesday?” The truck hasn’t shown up in over a year. Its route must’ve changed.

The day drags its corpse toward an early dark. We forgot to eat lunch and I don’t want to cook now. We get gluten-free pizza from Jules, which I usually love; I dump hot honey on mine. Then hot sauce, too. It still tastes lackluster, empty.

I text Mom, Where are you aren’t you supposed to be home?

Grabbed drinks w Jenn! Brought Al! Took him to late lunch since he’s never had french fries!!!!! Back soon , she texts instantly. Ah. That explains where he went. Mom and Al are best friends.

Ella finally settles down on the couch with her tattered copy of Libby and the Garden Gate, and I feel like I can breathe for one second, and then she gasps loudly and I am already cringing hard when she begins to wail. “Oh no! Oh no!”

I make a strangled sound.

“Ahh, ahh, it’s bleeding! I saw my own blood!” She is speaking in bursts, hyperventilating.

“What now?” I say to myself as I go into the living room. Ella is curled up, rocking herself on the couch, her book beside her. A second ago, there was peace; now there’s a storm of frantic misery. She’s holding up one trembling hand like a flag. “Paper cut?” I ask.

Her whole body nods, rolls forward, back again. “It’s bad!”

I come closer, get ahold of her hand. It isn’t bad. It’s pretty average.

“Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!” Her wet, hair-plastered face pops up, mouth gaping open in a desperate cry.

“Ella, I’m just looking at it.”

“Get a BAND-AID!” She seems furious at me. She isn’t really, just terrified.

“Okay, I’m getting a Band-Aid. But you’re fine.”

“I’m not fine! I’m not fine! I’m bleeding! You touched it!”