Instruction Manual Not Included

Roy stared at the spreadsheet on his monitor like it might eventually blink first.

It didn't.

The numbers swam. The cursor pulsed. He had moved the same cell three times in the last ten minutes and couldn't remember why. His brain felt thick, cottoned over, every thought dragging as though it had to wade through syrup before it reached him.

It was late afternoon. The office lights had taken on that faintly cruel quality they got near the end of the day, too bright, too even, flattening everything. Roy leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath through his nose.

He hadn't done a damn thing all day.

He'd tried. God, he'd tried. But every few minutes his attention snapped sideways, drawn by movement, by the presence of a woman somewhere in his peripheral vision. A coworker passing by. Someone standing near the printer. A woman across the open floor laughing at something on her phone.

Every time, the same thought rose, sharp and hopeful and sick all at once.

This is it.

Every time, nothing happened.

No shift. No arm hair standing up. No hiccup in reality as it reset.

Once or twice, the women caught him staring. One raised an eyebrow. Another frowned, uncomfortable. Roy had looked away quickly, heat crawling up his neck. Soon people were going to start talking. Soon he was going to be that guy. The creep who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.

He rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the clock.

Just past three.

The idea came to him fully formed: I should just go home.

He was exhausted. More than that, he was unraveling. He had plenty of sick time banked; weeks of it, untouched. And when it finally happened, when this whole Tom situation finally caught up with him and blew his life apart, it wouldn't be like he'd be able to pack unused sick days into a box and take them with him.

He pulled up the report he was supposed to be drafting, the one due at the end of the week. The words refused to settle into meaning. He read the same paragraph three times and absorbed none of it.

With a quiet sigh, Roy leaned back again and closed his eyes.

What did I do wrong?

The wish seemed to have rules. He didn't know them, not really, but there were patterns. He'd learned them over the past few days through experience.

The women before Michelle had all been freed the same way. After he'd been with them sexually, after things had reached their natural conclusion, all it had taken was seeing someone else. Another woman. A handoff. A clean break.

That had to be it.

Or was it?

He ran through it again, methodically, like retracing steps after realizing you'd lost your keys.

Charlotte, Elaine, and Claire had all been incredible and generous lovers. And Tabitha, on her knees in that grim little gas station restroom, taking him in her mouth, had been like living out some sort of porn movie.

And Michelle.

Roy's eyes opened.

Wait.

He sat up straighter, his pulse kicking.

With the others, there had been no ambiguity. No half-steps. These were sexual relationships. With Michelle... he'd been so careful. So intent on doing the right thing. On making sure she could walk away clean, untouched by whatever this thing inside him did to people.

He swallowed.

Was that it?

The thought felt almost obscene in its simplicity, and yet it clung to him, refusing to let go. With the others, there had been a very clear line crossed. Being with each of them, finishing inside of them, there was no question about who they were and what they were doing. With Michelle, maybe it hadn't counted. Maybe because she'd only used her hand, maybe because when he'd climaxed it hadn't entered her body, maybe it didn't qualify. Maybe the wish was far cruder than he wanted to believe.

The idea made his stomach twist.

It can't be that, he thought. It can't be that stupid.

And yet...

Letting out a short, humorless breath, he shook his head. Why hadn't this wish come with a goddamn instruction manual? A checklist? A warning label? Failure to complete all steps may result in unintended consequences.

If he was right about what had gone wrong, then Roy was going to have to become far more comfortable with compromise, with going farther than he wanted to. His sense of self as a moral, upright kind of man would have to be left at the door. In order to do the right thing, he was going to have to get used to doing the wrong thing. No shortcuts.

His phone rang.

The sound was sharp in the quiet office, cutting straight through his spiraling thoughts. Roy glanced at the screen.

Michelle.

He answered immediately. "Hey. What's up?"

"I'm sorry to call you at work, hon," she said, her voice breaking. She was crying. Really crying. "But can you come get me? Like, now?"

He was already standing. "Are you alright?"

"No," she said. "My mom came here. To work. She confronted me on the floor, in front of everyone. She called me a slut. She accused me of... of horrible things. I can't even..." She sobbed, breath hitching. "I just need to disappear."

"I'll be right there," Roy said, his voice steady even as something cold and protective locked into place inside him. He reached for his bag, his keys. "I'll text you when I'm out front. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," she whispered. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said automatically, instinct taking over before thought could intervene.

The call ended. Roy locked his computer, barely noticing the screen go dark.

Whatever the wish was doing, whatever he'd misunderstood, could wait.

Right now, Michelle needed him.

And he was already moving.