A moment later, Mariah handed Vlad a cocktail that he graciously accepted as though it was his due.
Focused on the game, Vlad said, “The Battle of the Bulge,” apparently the answer to a question I hadn’t heard. “Christmas Day 1944. The snow was red with blood.”
He slid his hand under the table and gripped my leg. For a second, I shut my eyes and enjoyed the firm pressure. I let my mind drift away with thoughts of our night in front of the Christmas tree. He could be mine. He was mine if I wanted. Gloria in excelsis Deeeeeoooooo. I leaned closer to him, the air between us heavy as a gathering storm. Desire burned through his palm. He gripped my flesh like he wanted me, wanted to bury himself in me. Heat surged as he kneaded my thigh with intent, but what would become of us? We could never be happy. Together, we would suffer. Nothing but house fires and breakups. That was our pattern.
The room was filled with merry people. None of them burned at the lord’s name. They were the kind of people who enjoyed pancakes and maple syrup, opening presents on Christmas morning. Wore hand-knit scarves. Had simple pleasures.
But tonight I had paid a bill, played cards with the elderly, and now I was playing trivia. I wasn’t going to be crowned queen of the small-town festival or anything, but I was passing. Vlad knew me. He was the only one who could truly know me.
Mariah B. Gary cut through my reverie. “What percentage of men start their shopping on Christmas Eve?”
Vlad held his hands up defensively. “We don’t celebrate.”
Maybehedidn’t.
“One in three men doesn’t do anything until Christmas Eve,” Mariah B. Gary said. Telling on herself, she said, “Gary doesn’t do shit.”
I laughed. Mariah B. Gary and I had something in common.
Vlad nudged me. “We should go. I need something to drink, and I bet you do too.”
I was thirsty, not that I was going to tell him.
“I have to go to the bathroom, will you come?” Jessica grabbed my hand and pulled, looking a little drunk.
“Jessica and I are going to the ladies’,” I told Vlad.
When a stall opened up, Jessica said, “You go first.”
For some reason, as soon as I got in the stall, the bathroom went silent. You could hear a pin drop and my bladder seized. Three hundred years old and here I was, trying so hard to be normal that I couldn’t even make myself pee in front of a girl I was trying to impress. A vampire with a shy bladder—my feelings swirled the drain that I was hovering above. But also, No Fear wasn’t very hydrating.
Jessica went into the stall next to me. Her pants dropped, and she said, “Oh, fuck. You don’t have a tampon, do you?”
“Sorry, no.” I hadn’t had to deal with all the messy, uncomfortable parts of being alive in so long. I didn’t get my period—no cramps and messy pads and tiny overflowing trash cans in public restrooms. “How about wadded-up toilet paper?”
“It’ll have to do.” After she’d flushed, washed her hands, and probably touched up her lipstick, she asked, “You doing okay in there?”
“Yeah, go on ahead. I’ll be right out.”
When the bathroom finally emptied out, I relaxed enough to pee and then exited the stall to find Dr. Rosetti at the sink. It was just the two of us so I sidled up next to her. The bathroom had no mirror, probably to discourage lingering. Either way, there was no evidence of my condition, which was a bummer. It would have been nice if she understood that I wasn’t kidding.
Dr. R washed her hands and said, “Tiffany, I’m impressed. Trivia night.”
“You too, Dr. R,” I teased, and she laughed in a way that made me think I’d hit a nerve. My therapist might not be as much of a socialization expert as she had led me to believe.
As we walked back through the tavern, Mariah B. Gary read the nextquestion. “What is the Epiphany?”
For the first time since Vlad had shocked everyone into silence with his vampire magnetism, the bar was silent. No one recognized the holiday I was named for.
“Google says”—Jessica cleared her throat—“that the Epiphany is the manifestation of a divine or supernatural being, a sudden revelation.”
Were vampires supernatural? Maybe on TV.
“It’s a holiday,” I said in a frustrated tone. “January 6.”
“That’s definitely not a holiday,” Mariah B. Gary said.
I didn’t have any energy to explain. Fitting in was exhausting. I needed something to satiate my thirst and some quiet before my fangs came out.
