“Shotgun,” she called. More seriously, she said, “For real, don’t make me ride in the back.”
“Don’t worry, I only make my roommate ride back there,” I joked.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” she asked.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yep. I would invite you over, and probably Tyrone because his sad butt is going to be sitting at home missing his momma, but I’m working. Getting that overtime pay, baby.”
She turned up the music, singing loudly to “Pink Pony Club.”
Maybe I had a shy bladder and no hidden talent for trivia, but sharing secrets with Tyrone and giving Jessica a ride home filled me with the spirit of Friendsgiving.
A turkey-based holiday held no appeal for me. But now that I knew Tyrone’s “sad butt” was going to be “sitting at home missing his momma,” it was time to bake. In the kitchen, I carefully set out each ingredient for cinnamon rolls. Flour, sugar, brown sugar, yeast, salt, butter, cinnamon, and milk. It was like a baking segment onGood Morning America.
My stomach growled as I mixed the ingredients for the dough, all wet and sticky, making a mess of the wooden spoon and bowl. When I was a young girl back in Romania, my arms would tire. Not today, though. I kneaded until the dough was silky smooth. I placed it in a greased bowl in front of the fireplace to rise.
Becoming Tiffany wasn’t so hard. Really, I’d been studying for this role since I’d moved to LA and started watching TV and movies like it was my job.
Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. I would bake myself alive.
Vlad walked in with a brisk hello and poured a glass of the finest virgin blood into a tumbler. “Would you like one?”
I shook my head. Maybe I couldn’t live off of coconut water, but I didn’t want to be guzzling blood either. I’d been thirsty before.
Vlad took a sip and said, “I’m captain of the SugarBoos.”
“What?”
“The trivia team,” he said, as he gave the fire a good poke.
“Vlad, are you joking?”
“I would never joke about trivia.”
I joined Vlad by the fire. The warmth of the blaze tickled my toes, and the smell of yeasty dough—I was hungry enough to be tempted. The Christmas tree cast a soft glow of happy light over the living room. My robber baron boyfriend’s tree had caught on fire once. Turns out lighting trees with candles is a bad idea—maybe even a worse idea than deep-frying a turkey. Not that I had room to talk.
My thoughts turned back to the last time the two of us had been by the tree. I traced my tongue along the points of my fangs and sucked in. I needed to distract myself.
“I’m going to decorate.” I stood abruptly. “Do you want to help?”
“No, I’d be happy to watch though.”
“Creep.” I flashed a flirty smile. “Heaven,” I yelled up the stairs, “Want to put up the rest of the decorations and string lights?”
“Sure, I can record it.” She appeared on the landing with her phone in hand.
It was always about the million followers with her.
“Can you not record?” I asked. “Can this just be me and you and not everyone on the internet?”
“I guess…” She paused, unsure. “But why wouldn’t I? We’re doing it anyway, and it’s content. Everything’s content.”
“It’s just that I feel like the third wheel sometimes.”
She pocketed the phone and we got to work. Ten minutes later, she was balancing on a railing and stapling a string of lights to the doorframe. “Someone needs to see this.”
“I see it.”
