“Okay you’re obviously overthinking this,” Emma said. “So just answer this one question. If Nash didn’t care—if it truly wouldn’t bother him to see you with his brother—what would you do?”

“But he does care…”

“That’s not the point. Just for the next minute—for the sake of argument—pretend there is no Nash,” she said, and I nodded slowly, trying to imagine something so impossible. “Now, since there’s nobody to get hurt, no matter what you decide, what do you want to do?”

I closed my eyes, and in my head, I saw a set of bright blue ones staring back at me. “I want to kiss Tod again.”

16

I followed Emma back to her house, and we spent the next two hours overanalyzing my ill-fated love life and ignoring her older sister’s unsolicited advice about that ill-fated love life—which she understood very little of. We didn’t talk about my impending death. In fact, we avoided the subject at all costs, by mutual, unspoken agreement.

Emma seemed to understand what I would have had to explain to anyone else—that I wanted just a couple of hours of normal with my best friend, before I returned to the maelstrom of bizarre the rest of my life had become. What little life I had left, anyway.

But when it was time for me to go, I accidently left my keys in her room, and when I went back for them, Emma was crying, facedown on her bed. Hard enough that she heard neither my footsteps, nor the rattle of my keys as I slid them into my pocket. My heart broke for us both as I snuck out again, so she wouldn’t know I’d seen.

Five minutes later, I opened my front door to find a huge bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and I could tell from the scent and the way some of the kernels were shriveled that they were drizzled with real butter.

“Hey.” My dad stepped into the living room from the kitchen with two tall, clear glasses, topped in thick cream-colored foam.

“Is that what I think it is?” I pushed the door shut and dropped my keys into the empty candy dish, then took the glass he handed me. “Coke floats?” He used to make them when I was little—that was one of the few memories I had from before my mother died.

“None other. And I’ve got sour worms and Milk Duds for dessert.”

“So this is dinner?” I dropped onto the couch and grabbed a handful of greasy popcorn.

“Unless you want pizza.” My dad plopped onto the couch next to me and stuck a bendy straw into my float. “I happen to know the local delivery boy can be here in thirty seconds or less.”

I laughed, because that’s what he wanted to hear, but the mention of Tod made my heart ache, with a confusing combination of excitement and guilt. “No, this is fine. This is great.”

“Good.” He set his glass on the end table and picked up the remote control. “It looks like the movies recorded, but I’ll be damned if I know how to make them play.”

I swallowed my first mouthful of Coke and melted ice cream, then took the remote from him and pulled up the guide menu. “You know, you’re going to have to learnto do this for yourself, at some point. I’m not going to be around to program the DVR forever…”

I meant it as a joke, but my dad looked like I’d just stabbed him in the heart. Repeatedly.

“Sorry. Just kidding.” I shoved another handful of popcorn in my mouth to keep from making it worse.

“It’s okay,” my dad said, though it was clearly anything but. “However, I reserve the right to wallow in denial for as long as I see fit. And on that note, how was school today?”

Another sip from my glass, and I was ready to play along. “Well…I embarrassed Sophie at lunch, failed to turn in five homework assignments, lied to my French teacher, saw Tod feed my personal reaper to Avari in the Netherworld, broke up with my boyfriend, then propositioned my math teacher.” I shrugged and tried on a nervous grin. “Nothing worth writing home about.”

My father leaned back on the couch, holding his float in both hands. “I swear, Kaylee, sometimes it’s hard to tell when you’re joking.”

“Is this part of that whole wallowing in denial thing?” I reached for another handful of popcorn. “’Cause I was serious. All that really happened.”

His brows rose and his gaze narrowed on me. “The father of a non-emancipated minor might be a little overwhelmed right now.”

“A non-emancipated minor would never have told her father most of that.”

My dad sighed. “I don’t even know where to begin.” I started to make a suggestion, but he cut me off. “Oh, wait. Yes I do. Why the hell would you proposition your math teacher? And what exactly do you mean by ‘propositioned’?”

“I don’t think you want details on my definition of that word, Dad. But it wasn’t for real. Our math teacher is an incubus, and Em and I were trying to get him where we want him, so we can take him out. By…putting ourselves in the line of fire, tomorrow, at Emma’s house.” Before he could form a response—and his struggle with that was obvious—I pushed the play button on the remote. “How ’bout some Alien?”

“How ’bout some answers?” He grabbed the remote and pushed several buttons, and when he couldn’t get the movie to stop, he finally stood and stomped across the room, then slammed his whole hand down on the power button.

Dramatic, but effective.

“Okay, I’ll give you the short version,” I conceded. “But then I demand some serious Alien carnage.” My dad made a “go ahead” gesture, then reclaimed his seat next to me. “Mr. Beck is Mr. Wesner’s replacement, and last week we discovered he’s not human. He’s an incubus. And he’s in heat—or whatever. I would have told you, but that was the same day you and Tod told me I was going to die, and then everything started to pile up, and you were always gone trying to save my life. And as it turns out, there’s just never a good time to tell your dad you’re doing battle with an evil lust demon posing as your math teacher. Right?”