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“Cuttings, from my garden. Lavender, chamomile, mint. I like making my own herbal teas, sachets, potpourri, that sort of thing. And Gigi gets heat rash sometimes. Lavender baths help.”
His eyes narrowed at me. “You seem to know an awful lot about plants.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, that’s right, I poisoned you. I’m part of a mass antivampire conspiracy. And then, after I tampered with your blood, I snuck back to the scene of the crime, stumbled over your unconscious body, and took you back to my house, all so I could become your domestic servant. I am obviously the greatest criminal mastermind since Ponzi.”
He snorted but didn’t say anything further. I let the kitchen steep in silence for a few beats. Cal didn’t seem to be doing much better than the day before. His hands shook slightly as they gripped the donor blood. His shoulders were slack, as if he had trouble lifting the weight of his head.>I’d started dating Paul Simms a few months after we moved to the Hollow. The assistant coach of the Half-Moon Hollow High football team, Paul was one of those good old-fashioned guys who believed in holding hands and having an actual conversation before engaging in sexual activity. We were exclusive for almost a year. We did all of the things couples on the “happily ever after” track did. I met his parents. I stopped wearing rose oil because it made his nose itch. He stopped cutting his own hair. We exchanged house keys and dresser-drawer space. I knew how he ordered his pancakes at the Coffee Spot. He knew not to touch the freezer chocolate stash, ever. He was a good guy, a keeper, one of those genuinely sweet men a girl dreams of building a life with.
But in the end, we wanted different things. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere but the Hollow, whereas I could see keeping my geographical options open. Paul wanted someone who was going to cheer at his beer-league softball games and really care about the outcome of the UK basketball season. I bought tickets to see a touring production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and he looked like I’d suggested an evening of chain-saw juggling. He wanted a house full of kids, while I was tepid-to-undecided on the issue. And despite the fact that he worked around teenagers all day, he never quite warmed to Gigi. When he talked about our life together, discussion of cohabitation, marriage, and kids was always framed as “after Gigi leaves for college.” There was something wrong about that.
So we parted ways, or at least, that was the plan. We had a cordial, friendly breakup, and we were proud of ourselves for handling it in such a mature fashion. Until a few weeks later, when Paul’s grandmother died, and he came to me for solace. And a month later, on the anniversary of my parents’ accident, he returned the favor for me. We developed a bad habit of turning to each other for comfort when we were sad, lonely, or just plain horny. The next morning, we’d realize what a huge mistake we’d made (again) and not speak for weeks, or we’d give dating another shot, only to break it off (again) a few days later and start the cycle all over again. It was a weird, naked trap that I couldn’t seem to climb out of.
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.
