I love Claude. The thought of leaving him makes me physically ill. And yet… I still have my future to think about. As lovely as this year with him has been, I never intended to be a valentine forever.
Claude and I have overcome so much, but now I’m stuck in precisely the situation I was afraid about from the start: so deeply in love that I’m considering giving up on the future I’ve always wanted for myself. Part of me thinks I could be happy here, passing slow nights in this house by the sea, watching Claude paint and spending an absurd amount of time in bed enjoying one another.
But another part knows that eventually I will grow restless and crave more than this. I want—Ineed—to do something withmyself, to be more than a valentine prized for my looks and my blood. And I know Icanachieve more than that, if only I can bring myself to reach for it.
* * *
I finally muster the courage to bring it up at breakfast one evening, when Claude is in a decent mood and has made me another decadent spread of fluffy ricotta pancakes with lemon curd. I insisted on eating in the dining room today, because although he loves to serve me breakfast in bed, we always end up thoroughly distracted.
“We need to talk about the contract,” I say, looking across the table at him.
His face dims. “Yes. I suppose we do.”
Now that I’ve broached the subject, I find myself tongue-tied. There’s so much I want to say, so much I’mafraidto say. I’m scared of losing him; I need to start school; I don’t know what any of this will mean for us.
“We’re going to have to move,” Claude says, before I can figure out what I want to say.
I blink. “What?”
“Yes… that is to say…” He fidgets, looking rather sheepish. “The house, I believe I once mentioned, actually belongs to Ambrose. And in a turn of events I rather should have anticipated, he did not leave it to me.”
“Oh.” I sit for a moment, processing that. “Well, you hate this house anyway.”
He smiles. “I really do.”
I take a breath. “I… would’ve needed to move, anyway. Because I want to go to college. At UCLA.”
“Right. Studying engineering.”
“Well…” I smile. “I was thinking of majoring in education, actually.”
He beams at me. “Good. Wonderful.” But then his expression creases in thought. “Los Angeles, then? I’ll have to look at what’s on the market there, but I’m sure we can find something.”
I stare at him for a moment, and then break into a small, incredulous smile. “That easy?”
He looks at me like I’ve gone mad. “Well, yes? Of course I’ll be coming with you.”
“I… don’t think I can fulfill the duties of a valentine while I’m in school,” I say, brow furrowed. “All the events, the parties…”
He shrugs, unbothered. “I’ll take as much as you can give, and be happy with it.”
“I’ll be gone a lot, with school and studying,” I say, though I can’t stop smiling. “And my classes will be during the day. Our schedules will be opposite.”
“Ah, however will I fill the hours?” he teases. “It’s a good thing I’ve picked up painting recently, no?” His smile broadens. “And I will cook for you every night.”
There’s a nervous drum in my chest, a buzz of fragile hope beneath my skin. He makes it sound so simple, but can it really be? Is it possible I can have both things I want at once? It’s hard to imagine Claude in some apartment in grimy LA, waiting for me to come home from class. Far from the fairy-tale life we’ve lived together here and all the glitter and decadence of the vampire balls. He thinks he can handle it, but what if he starts to hate it? “I know it’s not a normal arrangement for a valentine…”
Claude only laughs. “Mon chou, when have we ever been normal?”
Epilogue
The moment I step into the apartment, the scent of freshly baked bread and garlic envelop me like a warm hug. I sigh happily as I shrug off my coat, tension from the long day already melting from my shoulders.
I follow the smell to the kitchen. It’s not a long trek—our apartment is pretty small, a single bedroom with a tiny patio out back. I was worried that it wouldn’t be enough for my gorgeous, glamorous vampire boyfriend, but he’s taken to it surprisingly well… as evidenced by the fact that he’s currently waiting in our cramped kitchen, wearing an apron that says “king of the kitchen.”
I grin, leaning against the doorway to watch him stir the bubbling tomato sauce. “Hi, baby.”
“Welcome home,mon chou.” He sets aside the wooden spoon to come kiss me. “How was your day?”
