Page 106 of Only Fangs

I don’t tell them that it’s all good since I borrowed a chunk of money from a demon. Instead I tell them I found an investor and that I’m going to build the app anyway.

“It’s for vampires though,” Garrett says. “Isn’t it. Or shit, did I get the wrong end of the stick again?” It wouldn’t be the first time that Garrett has misheard something, or put two and two together to make five, or even dreamt something which he then convinced himself is actually real.

“No, you’re right,” I tell him and watch him visibly relax that he hasn’t “done a Garrett” this time.

“But you’re not a vampire.” There’s the tiniest hint of a question there, like perhaps he has forgotten that his only brother may in fact be a vampire.

“No,” I say slowly. “But Matt is.”

“Nan still thinks it’s porn,” Kat says.

“It’s not porn, is it?” That’s Garrett again.

“It’s a dating app.”

He points his two index fingers at me like he’s shooting a gun with each hand. “Got it.”

I think I must convince them the world isn’t about to end because after another hour the siblings disperse, all of them have far better things to do with their Thursday evening than spend it with “Mopey Pants” – that’s Merry’s new nickname for me.

Matt and I decide to play some Balatro on the Switch. I won’t go into all the details of the game but it’s basically a type of super-charged poker you play against the computer. It’s highly addictive and I think I’ve played about fifty hours so far this fortnight. It’s definitely helped to take my mind off the things I don’t want to think about.

The doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,’ Matt says, jumping up. I’m guessing from his reaction that it’s Ivan. Otherwise he never offers to answer the door. “Brody,” he shouts a few moments later. “You might want to get your arse out here.”

For fuck’s sake, I was having a really good run in the game. “Who is it?” I call.

“Just get out here,” he replies.

I sigh and put down the controller.

And there she is.

Just standing on my doorstep.

I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

Chapter 55

Ari

Brody looks incredible. He’s wearing the jeans that give him the most perfectly peachy bum and a jumper in the same shade of blue as his eyes. His hair has grown in the last two weeks and is flopping over his left eye in a way that is both rakish and makes me want to reach out to brush it away from his face.

“Ari,” he says. But his voice sounds odd, almost dull. I don’t know what I was expecting when I turned up on his doorstep. Actually that’s a lie. I had a whole scene mapped out in my head involving him lifting me up and swinging me round, of burying myself into the scent of him, of kisses and proclamations of love. This man has made a deal with a demon for me. I thought he might be a little more excited to see me.

“Hey Brody.” It’s almost a question, like I’m waiting for him to make a move, for him to tell me how this is all going to pan out.

“Uh, do you want to come in?” He brushes the hair from his eye as he steps backwards. He’s nervous, that much is clear. But it feels like he’s nervous that he might be about to have a difficult conversation. Nothing about this is what I’d hoped for. I dreamt of a reunion and instead I got… well, whatever this is.

He leads me to his room, but he stops on the threshold. “Little shitbags,” he whispers under his breath. “Sorry,” he says at normal volume. “It’s just that my sisters were round earlier and they…” he trails off as he looks around his room. I don’t know what he’s looking for, everything looks immaculate. Almost too good; I wasn’t expecting him to live in such a pristine space if I’m honest, I’m wondering if this level of cleanliness might be symptomatic of being a teeny bit anally retentive.

“What did they do?” I ask.

“They tidied.” He makes it sound like they did something awful, but I’m just relieved that this isn’t the usual standard I’d be expected to meet if things ever got serious between us. Ha. Look at me getting ahead of myself.

He invites me into the room and then closes the door behind us. I want to reach out and touch him, to pull him close and tell him I’m sorry for everything. Instead we sit awkwardly on the bed, half a metre between us.

“I…” he starts but then trails off. He angles his body so he’s facing me and I mirror him. He looks down at the duvet. “I…”