Page 10 of The Romantic Agenda
Joy takes another deep breath and steps out of the car.
One terrifying step at a time, she marches up the walkway to Malcolm’s front door. Unlike the rest of their friends, he’s the only one who made enough money to buy a home. Everyone else, Joy included, is still renting small apartments and condos, filling them with wistful dreams of someday having a backyard. He’s painted the outside of his house a soothing deep tan trimmed with cream and transformed the front yard into a wild garden of tall grass, flowering bushes, and a vegetable garden for the neighborhood rodents.
His human neighbors really hate him for the last part. Malcolm doesn’t care. He always does exactly what he wants, the way he wants, and he wants to feed animals to keep them out of the garbage because they deserve better. Thoughtful acts like that are Malcolm at his best. And make Joy love him even more.
Joy uses her key to let herself in. She closes the door, slipping off her shoes as she pauses in the entryway next to the coat closet.
An extremely feminine-sounding someone giggles in the kitchen.
Summer, her brain hisses. Joy turns right and walks softly, body pressed close to the wall like a wannabe spy in a Lifetime movie. Not wanting to be seen yet, she carefully peeks around the corner.
She instantly loses interest in the voice when she sees Malcolm.
Flannel shirt. Old, comfortable jeans. Hiking boots. A baseball hat.
The only time he dresses like a damn amateur lumberjack is to go camping.
Malcolm planned a romanticcampinggetaway—Joy feels thetruth of it weighing down her anti-outdoor bones. Heknowshow much she hates it.
Nothing about camping appeals to Joy.Nothing. There’ll be an endless stream of insects determined to suck her blood (ticks and mosquitos) or kill her for the fun of it (yellow jackets), wild animals that will eat their food and their livers, no sanitized place to use the bathroom, and worst of all, shitty cell phone reception that’ll magically stop working when she needs it most.
Joy grips the door frame as she tries to tamp down on her rage.
If they accidentally wander into a slasher horror movie, Joy knows she’ll be the first to die. Those are the rules. Black? Check. Female? Check. Virgin? That might save her, but racism almost always trumps “purity,” so she’s still shit out of luck.
Malcolm shifts slightly to the left, revealing the giggler. She’s white, shorter than him with blonde hair and wide-set chocolate brown eyes, and is slender to the point of waif levels. Her back has that definitive hunch of someone who spends hours at a desk, but her calves screamI can run in high heels.
Summer has Final Girl written all over her. Great. Perfect. Even her name fits Joy’s horror movie of death fantasy.
“When will she get here? I thought we were leaving at seven,” she says in an angelic-sounding voice.
Joy’s grip tightens. How is it possible for her to sound likethat? High-pitched and melodic without being tinny or annoying.
“Soon. She’s never late for anything.” Malcolm checks his phone. “You’re going to love her. She’s the sweetest person in the world.”
“I’ve heard so much about her, how can I not?” She tops off her proclamation with an arm caress paired with an adoringSee? I’m totally not threatened by your female best friendgaze.
Joy rolls her eyes. She can recognize that look from space because she’s spent almost ten years maneuvering around it. Dating may be a rarity for her but being asexual hardly put a dent in Malcolm’s relationship game. The aftermath of Caroline the Cruel has been the longest stretch of time she’s ever seen him single.
“Eavesdropping is rude.”
Surprise sprints up Joy’s spine, making her eyes widen. The speaker is behind her, and she’s clearly been caught in the invasive act. But she manages to turn around slowly, calmly flipping her braids over her shoulder.
“If they didn’t want to be heard, they shouldn’t have decided to talk in the middle of an open kitchen.” Joy stands her ground, looking directly into his dark eyes—smoldering with haughty intensity, openly judging her. “And who, exactly, are you?”
“Fox.” His voice, a deep soothing rumble, surprises her again. She takes her time, assessing him from head to toe, wanting him to see her judge him right back.
Fox. The hateful thorn in Malcolm’s side. His brown hair, shot through with a shocking amount of gray for a face that looks so young, is mostly slicked back. A few curly locks have gone rogue, spiraling in front of his ears and near his temples. There’s nothing exceptional about his face, but she recognizes broody-pretty when she sees it. Conventionally attractive white man du jour who lands movie roles because he looks like the actor they actually wanted and couldn’t afford.
Since Fox allegedly hates Malcolm, she isn’t too keen on playing nice with him. Her next words to him could set the tone for the entire trip. He’s already on the defensive. What would surprise him the most?
The answer comes to her almost immediately.
Joy lifts her chin and says sweetly, “Happy Birthday.” Without waiting for his response or reaction, she turns around and strides into the kitchen.
“Oh!” Summer taps Malcolm’s arm with one hand and points with the other. “She’s here! Hi!”
Before Joy knows what’s happening, she’s trapped in a bear hug, andwow, Summer is strong. Uncomfortable, Joy pats her on the back with stiff hands. She smells like oranges—a balanced mixture of sweet fruit and bitter rind.
