Very, Very Bad

Roy knew the moment they stepped inside that it wasn't going to go well.

The house was small but tidy, the kind of place where every square foot had been made to count. A narrow living room opened directly off the front door, warm light from a lamp casting a yellow glow over a well-worn couch and a coffee table stacked with mail and folded laundry. The air smelled faintly of something cooked earlier: onions, maybe, and oil. Home. Lived-in. Real.

The young woman squeezed his hand and tugged him forward, trying to project confidence she clearly didn't feel.

"Mom?" she called as they crossed the threshold.

A woman stood in the living room, arms crossed.

She was pretty, Roy thought immediately, even through the exhaustion. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Her face had strong lines from years of worry and responsibility, not age. Her hair was pulled back tight, practical. She was wearing scrubs. Nurse? Healthcare aide? The house was too small for her to be a doctor. Her posture said she'd just come off a long, brutal shift and was in no mood for surprises.

And then her eyes locked on Roy.

They did not soften. They did not blink. Roy felt his stomach drop.

"Mom," Roy's wish-induced girlfriend said, tightening her grip on his hand, "I want you to meet someone very special to me. This is Roy. He's my boyfriend."

The word hung in the air.

Boyfriend.

For half a second, Roy dared to hope that it would be okay, that the wish had smoothed out the edges of this potential conflict. Then the mother spoke.

"No he's not."

The words were flat. Certain. Final.

The younger woman blinked. "Excuse me?"

"He is not," her mother repeated, her voice rising. "Michelle, ss long as you are living in my house, under my roof, you are not dating this old, fat, white sexual predator."

The word hit Roy like a physical blow.

Predator.

It was so intense that he'd almost missed the girl's name. Michelle. Now he knew what to call her. Unfortunately, he also know what her mother thought of him.

Michelle's hand went slack in his, shock making her fingers loosen. Roy opened his mouth. Closed it. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

"I..." he started.

Michelle's mother turned fully on him.

"You think I don't see what this is?" she snapped. "You think I'm stupid, Michelle? You think I don't know what kind of middle-aged man goes after a girl my daughter's age?"

"I'm not..." Roy said quickly, horrified by what was happening. "Ma'am, I would never..."

"Oh, save it," she cut in. "Save it. You really think I haven't seen men like you before? Hanging around young girls, making them feel special, making them feel chosen, because women your own age won't put up with your crap anymore?"

Roy felt heat rush to his face. Shame. Panic. A sick, twisting fear. He wanted to be anywhere but in that room. Anywhere at all.

And yet, standing next to him, holding his hand, and shaking with emotion, was Michelle. Tears had begun to flow down her face. None of this was her fault. She was innocent, having never been given a choice in whether she should be with Roy at all, but still utterly enamoured with him. Each attack on their relationship must have felt terrible to Michelle. For one perverse moment, he regretted not having sex with her the moment he met her, back at the office. That way he might have had a chance of passing the relationship on to another woman, saving both him and Michelle from this onslaught of vitriol.

"That's not what's happening," he said, trying to keep his voice calm, doing his best to defend his wish-induced courtship. Not for himself, but so that Michelle wouldn't feel so terrible. "Michelle is... she's important to me. I care about her."

"Do you?" her mother shot back. "Or do you get off on young girls looking up to you? Feeling grateful for your attention? Is that what this is? Some sort of mid-life crisis? Or is it worse? Are you a groomer, taking a cute young Black girl and trying to turn her into something she's not? Something she'll regret for the rest of her life?"

Roy flinched.

Groomer.

Michelle found her voice. "Mom, stop! You don't know him! Roy's not like that!"

"I know enough," her mother said. "I know a grown-ass man has no business with my teenage daughter."

"I'm not a teenager!" Michelle protested, her face wet with tears.

"You're young enough!" her mother snapped back. "And **** enough! And, now that I see what you've been up to, stupid enough!"

Roy's chest felt tight. Every accusation hit something inside him that was already raw.

Because part of him was afraid that what she was saying was what he was becoming. Afraid that, no matter how kind he tried to be, no matter how careful, this was what the wish would push him to be.

"I swear to you," Roy said, his voice quieter, strained, trying to find words that would calm the storm, "I would never hurt her. I would never take advantage of her. I really do care about her."

Her mother laughed, sharp and humorless.

"Men like you always say that."

She gestured around the room, at the framed photos on the walls. Roy noticed them for the first time. Michelle as a little girl in pigtails. Michelle in a graduation cap. A large Black man with a warm smile, her father, he guessed, standing with his arm around Michelle's mother. A family. History. Love.

"This is my house," her mother said. "This is my daughter. And I'll be damned if I let some old white man come in here and play boyfriend with her."

"I'm not playing," Roy said softly.

"That's even worse," she shot back.

Silence fell heavy.

Michelle's crying had intensified now. Quiet, angry tears had grown into a waterfall of pain and desperation.

"Mom, please," she said through sobs. "You're wrong. You don't understand."

Her mother's face softened for exactly half a second when she looked at her daughter.

Then it hardened again when she looked back at Roy.

"You need to get out of my house," she said. "Now."

The words were a sentence. Roy nodded immediately. Relieved that the attack would be over, that he was being offered a way out. But also humiliated by this impressive and imposing woman, ashamed that he hadn't been able to stand up for the poor girl he was about to abandon.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I truly am sorry."

He turned to Michelle. He'd only just met her, but seeing her so broken down by the experience, crying through the incomprehension of how things could have gone so poorly, twisted something deep in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said again, to her this time, letting go of her hand.

Michelle shook her head, tears streaking her cheeks. "This isn't fair. You're not any of those things."

Roy wished he could fix it. He couldn't. He stepped back toward the door. The cozy little house suddenly felt smaller. Tighter. Like it was pushing him out.

Her mother watched him go, arms still crossed, eyes never leaving him.

Roy opened the door. The night air hit him like freedom and failure all at once. Behind him, Michelle was sobbing. In front of him, the quiet street waited.

Roy stepped outside.

The door closed.

And the answer to Michelle's hopeful question echoed in his head:

How bad can it be?

Bad.

Very, very bad.