Page 43 of Blood Lovers

“Hit me up. I’m nothing if not a problem solver.”

“We don’t know each other. So we can’t reminisce.”

“You’re in luck.”

My mood has improved by a thousand percent, so I practically giggle. “Am I?”

“You really are. Because here’s your solution. We make shit up.”

I laugh out loud. “That’s pretty much just… lying.”

“Some call it fiction.”

“So let me make sure I’m understanding you. You would like me, a stranger, to go inside that cabin right there, with you, also a stranger, so we can eat, warm up, play old records, and then create a fictional past so we can pretend to reminisce about it.”

“You totally get me.”

“Well.” I let out a long breath. “This could go one of two ways. One, I fall madly in love with you, we get married, have kids, have grandkids, and sixty years from now, when we tell this story, everyone thinks we’re making it up.”

He unleashes that dimple a third time. “What’s two?”

“I could turn out to be a serial killer—”

He guffaws.

“Why is that funny? You don’t think I’m capable?”

“Statistically speaking, serial killers are not women.”

“Fine. Two, you could turn out to be a serial killer—”

“Much better.” We both laugh. And he points to me. “You’re fun.”

“Ya know, I don’t think a single person has ever called me ‘fun.’”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously.”

“Ya know what I think?”

“Why stop this banter now? We’re getting really good at it. Hit me up. Tell me what you think.”

“I think you’re the girl I was never waiting for.”

I cover my mouth with my hand because I almost spit out the laugh.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. But it’s Syrsee.”

“Syrsee. That’s kinda sexy.”

“Dude, sexy? Your name—I mean, Riot? Come on. That’s a crowd-pleaser.”

“You’re getting confused. It’s not spelled R-I-O-T. It’s R-Y-E-T. My real name is Zecharyet. But no one calls me that.”

“Zek-a-riot. Holy shit, you’re a hot nerd.”