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Three months earlier, I’d realized what a bad example I was setting for Gigi and slowly but surely whittled Paul out of my life. No phone calls. No texts. Blocked on Twitter. Defriended on Facebook. It was the social-media equivalent of an Amish shunning, although technically, he hadn’t “wronged” me in any way. And he hadn’t noticed for nearly three months, which in itself was a pretty good reason to stop sleeping with him.
“I just don’t want to see you hurt, Iris.”
“Geeg, there’s no chance of me being hurt. Those sorts of feelings aren’t involved anymore. Really.”
“So you’re having sex with him because he happens to be there,” she said dryly.
“First of all, that hasn’t happened in months. And second, consider some context, please. The way you’re saying it sounds slutty and wrong. It’s not like I’m jumping some poor unsuspecting UPS guy.”
She snorted. “Yes, UPS occasionally delivers.” When I shot her a bewildered look, she rolled her eyes and added, “If the orgasms were real, you wouldn’t be so tense all the time.”
“That’s not tr—” I stopped when she leveled me with that wry blue gaze. I threw my hands up. “Two out of three, OK? Two out of three of them are real. That’s not that bad. Meat Loaf even sang a song about it.”
She leveled me with the patented, infuriating “I am Gigi, I see all” look.
I groaned. “Look, I don’t have time to devote to dating. I have to work. I have to take care of the house and do my penance at the concession stand to fulfill my obligation to a certain someone’s volleyball booster club. And I have to do my best parenting imitation so social services doesn’t reassign you to some nice missionary family. Case in point, you seem to be eating microwave popcorn for dinner.”
“Corn’s a vegetable,” she protested. “And butter’s dairy, so that’s half of a balanced meal.”
“Well, that explains your C in health and nutrition,” I muttered. “Anyway, the bottom line is that sometimes, I miss Paul. He was good to me, if nothing else. With him, I don’t have to …”
“Make an effort? Expect to be treated like a girlfriend and not a convenient warm body?”
“That’s not fair. I relinquished the title of girlfriend voluntarily. Why am I talking to you about this?” I spluttered. “I actually have something important to talk to you about. Something more important than my sad—”
“Pathetic,” she interjected.
“Love life,” I finished wryly. “You know, searing insight at your age just comes across as snotty, Gladiola Grace.”
“Hey, hey, no using the birth name. That’s a clear violation of the sisterly trust.” She cringed, poking me in the ribs.
“Paul is not here, but someone is in the house, and until I’m sure that it’s safe, I think you need to stay at a friend’s.”
“Well, that was a sudden shift in conversation,” she deadpanned. “What do you mean, you don’t know whether it’s safe? Iris, what’s going on? This cloak-and-dagger drama isn’t you. You are Iris, patron saint of rational behavior.”
“I know, I know. And I’m not trying to be dramatic. All I can say is that it’s necessary.”
“For how long?” Gigi demanded.
“I don’t know.”
She scowled. “You think I have friends whose parents will let me move into their houses indefinitely?”
“Not indefinitely,” I assured her. “Just a week or so.”
I heard a shuffling noise behind me. Cal was ambling through the living room, looking like he was recovering from a three-day bender. “Hangover” was still a pretty good look for him, all rumpled and rough. His hair was mussed, and his fangs were down. Snapping out of my ogling of the undead, I dashed to the window to pull the shades and pulled a packet of donor Type A from the fridge.
I shoved it into his hands while ushering Gigi toward the door. There was no way to get Gigi out without opening the back door and exposing Cal to direct sunlight. But if he lunged for us, I was willing to yank it open.
Cal barely paid any attention to her, instead slumping against the blue-tile breakfast bar and reluctantly slugging back the cold donor blood. Keeping Gigi behind me, I put another bottle into the microwave to warm it.
“What the—what’s going on, Iris? Th-that is not Paul.” Gigi spluttered.
“He followed me home,” I said, deadpan. “Can we keep him?”
Gigi eyed the tousled dark hair and the broad shoulders. She smirked and opened her mouth to speak.
“Don’t finish that thought, whatever it is,” I told her, my finger in her face.
