Vampires, Hearts and Other Dead Things: Chapters 11–15

A scratchy symphony warbles into the night as she stands and smooths out the tatters of lace cascading from her skirt.

The whole moment is so macabre—me, a girl with a dying dad, dancing with a dead girl, seconds away from getting struck by lightning.

For her, cancer’s a bad thing some people die from, something you can laugh about the same way we always laugh about distant fears, but when cancer creeps in and poisons your life, becoming a corporeal fear and not a distant ghost, laughter gets harder.

“Everyone knows me.” He says it matter-of-factly, with just a trace of vanity.

Nicholas bobs us around with a bounce to his step I can’t quite replicate, but I let myself fall into the movement once more, keeping my focus on the tarnished bronze buttons on his vest so I don’t have to look at his beautiful face and wonder if I’m happy enough for him—if my steps bounce with enough joy.

The drops soak our skin, splattering and exploding on the unyielding stone we dance on, until the downpour becomes so heavy I’m barely breathing.

I smile, and he grins back—probably thinking I’m enamored with the dress.

Gold chandeliers with white orbs add another layer, casting a golden hue on the pristine tablecloths.

I could imagine walking into my home, introducing him to Dad and Mom, and they’d probably both like him—Mom because he’s poised and polished and Dad because I like him.

The walls are a rich emerald, accented with gold crown molding and gold trim rectangles with scalloped edges, giving it those lush details only the truly rich have time and money to care about.

I widen my eyes to convey my sincerity.

He raises a brow, and I smile in return, and there’s some realness in it, because that makes five: I’ve only seen him at night, the weather obeys his whims, he drinks blood, his hands are always cold, and he hates garlic.

Nicholas eyes me with a shrewdness that makes me squirm, and I swear he looks a little pleased, like he would have been disappointed if I hadn’t tried to test him.

I've always joked about death, and Dad laughed with me plenty of times, but now it strikes me as flippant, and I’m caught between continuing to joke or stopping altogether and acknowledging something’s wrong.

“I am stuffed.” I run my hand over my distended belly.

Every detail of the night has been carefully curated for me.

“Almost perfect,” he says, brushing his lank hair from his eyes.

Nicholas takes us down the quieter side streets, his long legs moving at a languid pace I can keep up with easily.

The white facade of my building looms above us.

You let me almost get hit by a train and then left me with some strange woman while you did what? Put on a fancy dress and traipsed all around town?

He sighs, closing the gap between us again, so I can lean against his chest without giving up anything, without making any promises. The gesture is his concession, not mine.

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties

Gold suits you, which bodes well for you.

He takes in the cover of my book through his overtly trendy black-rimmed glasses and shakes his head, reaching and plucking it from my hands without asking, sighing as he flips it back and forth.

When we stop, we’re in a swamp cul-de-sac, a small, rounded offshoot surrounded by dense green foliage.

Out here teems with untouched life—a different kind of vibrancy and beauty.

When we were ten, we holed up in his room and watched the first Jurassic Park movie even though I wasn’t supposed to watch it yet, and he regaled me with random facts like how long a real T. rex’s teeth would be as it chomped into a dude or how a T. rex wouldn’t actually be fast enough to keep up with a Jeep going full speed, as if that made it any less scary.

I watch him in my peripheral vision to gauge if he’s upset, but he’s already smiling slightly, leaning over the bars on the boat, trying to catch a glimpse of the water snake the guide pointed out moments before.

She’s spry as ever in a pink linen dress and a little white shawl, but I catch the crease of worry in her brow as she watches me head back to the poetry section.

I pull the book off the shelf with a little too much gusto, and Nicholas chuckles behind me, because of course he followed me.

I didn’t hear him slide up next to me, but he’s there, staring up at the church with something like reverence on his face.

A single lamppost sits just beneath the tree, lighting the beads around it with an iridescent glow.

I’m not a fantastic runner. My heart beats too fast and my lungs flounder.

He draws out something real inside me—the thrill of adventure and danger, the erratic pulse of longing.