The music changed to “Angels We Have Heard on High” in Italian, the language of love. We both burned as Andrea Bocelli exalted the angels. He belted out “Gloria in excelsis Deo,” drawing out each syllable, which in turn drew out a long slow sizzle. Pain from God smiting us for taking pleasure, for existing. Something about the pain, the pleasure, reveling in it boldly in front of the Christmas tree, intensified the sensations.
“Do you want me to change the music?” I asked.
“No, I like the way it hurts,” he said, through the fog of pain and pleasure. “I like…no, I love the way you hurt.”
Pulling out and pushing in, a pantomime of our relationship. Yes, no, yes, no. Never a guarantee.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo!” We burned.
Andrea took a breath and the pleasure surged.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo!” We burned longer and harder as the song moved toward the climax.
The magic of always wanting more, the anticipation never over. Asalways, Vlad let me come first, an explosion of sensation that I had been starving for. To feel anything was good, but to feel this was transcendent. I closed my eyes. Maybe it was just a physical reaction. Maybe it was more.
Vlad came with a groan that made me feel more like a woman than if I was wearing the most beautiful dress in the world. I made him cry out and exalted in the thrill of my own power.
“Oh, shit! Vlad, the rug!” Beneath us, the rug was smoldering. The flames were starting to lick at the edge of the nearby couch.
Vlad hopped up. “Do you have a fire extinguisher?” he asked.
I didn’t (don’t tell Mr. Jarvis), but I did have several buckets of lemon water. Heaven had filled buckets with water, lemon, white vinegar, and salt to ward off negative spirits and placed them by the doors.
I grabbed the three buckets of lemon-scented spirit water, or whatever they were, and doused the couch.
Vlad and I stood naked in the destroyed living room, with a sopping-wet couch reminding us of how things always turned out when we were together. This had been a bad idea. Vlad and I were a bad idea. What had I been doing?
I wanted a happily ever after in Vermont. That meant: no blood, no biting, no promiscuity. No Vlad.
If the last three hundred years had taught me anything, it was that a vampire couldn’t have a happily ever after. Staying up all night, thirsty for blood and sex—that was everything a woman shouldn’t be.
“You said I’m not much of a vampire earlier, Vlad. That’s the way I want to keep it.” It was fine for him to be a vampire, but not me.
We sat on the partially burned rug, the smell of burnt fabric in the air, Christmas music still playing, not saying anything for a moment. I could tell he understood what I’d just said. If I didn’t want to be a vampire, I couldn’t be with him.
At this point, Tiffany Amanda Blair’s past was haunting me more than my own, and that was saying something. I’d spent too much time poring over yearbooks, learning who Tiffany had been in high school. That was useful, but I needed to know who she became, not who she was as a teenager.
Curled up in an armchair, I played Google detective.
There were so many Tiffanys. Young ones doing makeup tutorials, professional Tiffanys posing in front of bookcases on LinkedIn. Then there were volleyball Tiffanys and golf Tiffanys, not to mention obituaries for the dead ones. Team Tiffany was larger and more loosely connected than I had imagined, though it was doubtful that any of them knew about the epiphany we were all named for. These Tiffanys knew about Hot Topic and, apparently, golf.
I face-palmed at one entry.
Two weeks ago, local restaurant Mui Thai filed a complaint against blood donation center Plasma4Life, citing that the plasma donation business is scaring customers away.
Good times. The Plasma4Life donation line used to weave right in front of Mui Thai. If you wanted Thai food, you had to walk past theline of people waiting to donate. The plasma crowd was often asking for money or leftovers and generally getting loud.
Kulap, one of the waiters, was always swearing and yelling, “Stop blocking the entrance!” Then Lance would come out and yell at Kulap. Rinse and repeat.
To smooth things over one night, I’d ordered five hundred dollars’ worth of pad thai and spring rolls for the people in line. The article included a picture of a guy crouched on the curb eating from a takeout carton. You could see me in the background handing out spring rolls, blurry and out of focus beneath a streetlight.
Looking at the evidence of that one day preserved forever online filled me with a sense of belonging. It was my version of the Valentine High School yearbook. I wasn’t prom queen, I didn’t have the best smile in my class, but I’d left my mark in my own way.
When I addedValentine Vermontto the search, a few results popped up. I saw Tiffany and Jeff’s engagement announcement and then Jeff’s obituary.
Jeffrey Andrew Powers (1990–2015) is survived by his parents, Melinda and Tom Powers, and his fiancée, Tiffany Amanda Blair. Jeff was born and raised in Valentine and graduated from Valentine High School. He will be remembered as an easygoing and friendly pillar of the community, always willing to offer help when needed. He loved snowboarding and will always have the high score on theStreet Fighter IIgame at Skip’s Pizza Parlor and Arcade. He was set to take over daily operations of the family tree farm and marry his fiancée this upcoming summer. He will be missed. Services will be held on Friday at the Valentine Church at 3 p.m., followed by a reception in the basement.
I stared at the obituary, reading it again. I’d bought Tiffany’s identity in 2015. Apparently, she had skipped town right after Jeff died. I glancedover at the open yearbook lying on the floor where I’d abandoned it the other day. Tiffany Amanda Blair stared back at me, a sweet smile curving her lips. What was this woman hiding?
