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 scream I 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 like that? 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 adoring See? I’m totally not threatened by your female best friend gaze.

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.