“They do.”
Millie glanced at me. “You know what surprised me?”
“What?”
“How much easier it became once I stopped trying to do everything perfectly.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously wise.”
“I spent years trying to be enough for everyone.” She paused, considering her words carefully. “Eventually, I realized being present mattered more. Being present for Hazel, even when she’s driving me nuts, is my priority in life.”
The girls emerged from the living room covered in glitter. I wasn’t sure how, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Millie buried her face in her hands. “Oh no.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“It absolutely isn’t.”
“It washes off.”
She pointed at her daughter. “That confidence suggests you’ve never encountered craft glitter.”
She had a point.
When they left an hour later, the house was louder, messier, and somehow happier. I stood on the porch, watching them get intothe car. Hazel waved enthusiastically. Billie waved back with equal enthusiasm.
Millie rolled down the window. “I can’t wait for our baking night!”
The words escaped before I could stop them. “Me either!”
Millie pulled out her phone. “What day works for you?”
I stared. Most people promised future plans that never materialized. Millie was already opening her calendar. “Oh.”
She laughed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not really. I had the strange feeling that I’d just made a true friend.
I had always thought immortality would eventually make attachment easier. That if one simply lived long enough, loss would stop arriving so harshly.
It didn’t.
If anything, time only made me more aware of how hazardous loving people truly was. Which was unfortunate, because I had accidentally fallen in love with an entire family. I stared at the ceiling of my casket instead of sleeping like a sensible undead woman and tried very hard not to think about it.
Naturally, this meant I thought about nothing else.
Above me, rain tapped softly against the roof of my cottage. The weather had turned moody again for the week after Mother’s Day. Damp mornings. Silver skies. Wind carrying the scent of wet earth through cracked windows. Perfect sleeping weather. And yet there I was. Awake. Miserable. Thinking about Conrad Lawrence kissing me in his kitchen. Again.
Thinking about the way his hand had rested against my face. Thinking about the way he’d looked at me after. Like I was something precious and valuable. Which was absurd.
I groaned softly and covered my eyes with one arm. “This is why vampires shouldn’t fall for widowers,” I informed the darkness.
The darkness, predictably, offered no useful feedback. My brain, however, went directly back to Conrad. What if Bianca hadn’t interrupted us with her nightmare? Would I have allowed the kiss to go further? God knew I wanted it to go further. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel how good it had felt to have Conrad’s finger inside me.
I groaned again, but my traitorous vagina had already begun to feel tight and warm, pressure building that needed release. Perhaps then I could sleep. After living as long as I had, I certainly wasn’t a prude over self-pleasure. I just hadn’t felt that desire in a long time.
